Category Archives: Poetry

The Past As Dirty Secrets

People say get over it, never realizing that time is a broken, winding street, and the soul, a hemline that catches, snags and stains with every step.

Conquer it, they say as if the past is a monster, a trap, not a blanket of known thorns, an old jacket that just fits too tight in the same way a corset does.

Let it go they say, like the past is so many skeletons in the closet, not a framework of hard-worn bones holding you together.

And they shame you for having a past as if you arrived into life, fully realised & perfect, not consequences of what happened and realisations of what you have.

They make the past a dirty secret.

But secrets don’t make for good living companions. So I turn mine into blogposts, poetry and performance into a portfolio. And thus my resume becomes life.

Google holds my history. I pimp out my secrets for survival, looking for omens in autocorrect, because all I have inside of me is whispers & echoing sounds.

And if I empty it all out, maybe some day, the silence will ring true. At the end of that broken street, torn hemlines won’t matter anymore because in the vacuum, nobody is naked.

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Pockets Of Courage

Inside my pockets, I keep pieces of courage, to reach for when I need them.

See, life has become an unpredictable horizon strewn with landmines called memories. An accidental sighting and unfortunate coincidences. We’re so connected, we’re entrenched seamless and a chance encounter, becomes an obituary. Memory, that unreliable narrator always takes you down in the worst way possible.
Courage answers to many names.

Now confidence is a good, solid coat to wear. It’s rainproof and tempered over the years. I had to put my baggage down when I pulled on the sleeves of my coat of confidence. It serves well in new battles and it doesn’t snag on bumps. But memory is a rusty blade tipped in acid. It leaves holes where it touches my confidence coat. The horrors past left seeds of themselves inside me and they rise up in response, in goosebumps under my skin. I lost my baggage but I couldn’t cut out all the poisoned parts of me.

So I keep shots of breath within easy reach. Chewing gum, lip balm, an old worn hanky. Remember to chew, remember to moisturize, remember to breathe. Swallow every fear, dam every allergy.

But women’s clothing has so few pockets. So I find other ways to hoard courage.

I paint over the skidmarks that betrayal left behind, in ink and tattoos. A penned star between the webs of my fingers. So when I walk through somewhere that calls out old memory-monsters, the inked star whispers a reminder of everything that came after. Ink stands sentry keeping new demons from allying with the old.

Bravado carries my stage fright up here and fidgets it into paper planes. And when I run short, inside a pocket, a little piece of magic, a lucky pebble kissed with hope.

Sometimes I can make a truce with memory and it lets me take pieces to call my own. A silver chain, a birthday gift, a memory to remember love, kindness and laughter. Nostalgia can also bear courage’s name.

All my nooks and crevices, my clothes, mind and dimples are packed with hoarded pieces of courage, fortifying and protecting me. I manage my pockets of courage carefully.

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POCKETS OF COURAGE Inside my pockets, I keep pieces of courage, to reach for when I need them. See, life has become an unpredictable horizon strewn with landmines called memories. An accidental sighting and unfortunate coincidences. We’re so connected, we’re entrenched seamless and a chance encounter, becomes an obituary. Memory, that unreliable narrator always takes you down in the worst way possible. Courage answers to many names. Now confidence is a good, solid coat to wear. It’s rainproof and tempered over the years. I had to put my baggage down when I pulled on the sleeves of my coat of confidence. It serves well in new battles and it doesn’t snag on bumps. But memory is a rusty blade tipped in acid. It leaves holes where it touches my confidence coat. The horrors past left seeds of themselves inside me and they rise up in response, in goosebumps under my skin. I lost my baggage but I couldn’t cut out all the poisoned parts of me. So I keep shots of breath within easy reach. Chewing gum, lip balm, an old worn hanky. Remember to chew, remember to moisturize, remember to breathe. Swallow every fear, dam every allergy. But women’s clothing has so few pockets. So I find other ways to hoard courage. I paint over the skidmarks that betrayal left behind, in ink and tattoos. A penned star between the webs of my fingers. So when I walk through somewhere that calls out old memory-monsters, the inked star whispers a reminder of everything that came after. Ink stands sentry keeping new demons from allying with the old. Bravado carries my stage fright up here and fidgets it into paper planes. And when I run short, inside a pocket, a little piece of magic, a lucky pebble kissed with hope. Sometimes I can make a truce with memory and it lets me take pieces to call my own. A silver chain, a birthday gift, a memory to remember love, kindness and laughter. Nostalgia can also bear courage’s name. All my nooks and crevices, my clothes, mind and dimples are packed with hoarded pieces of courage, fortifying and protecting me. I manage my pockets of courage carefully. 🎶: JULY PEOPLE – @ground.control.toons #theideasmithy #IWear #SareeStyle

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Nila Soru

Nila soru.
Food eaten under the moon.
Food shared with the moon.
Nila soru. Food blessed by the moon,
watching over you,
as the white morsel holds perfectly together,
moving from plate to mouth,
or better yet, from feeding hand to yours.

Nila soru
lining the edge of the plate
in little moons,
drawn from the big mother moon
with spots of curry, flecks of chutney
But the perfect mini moon will be yours
One…two…three

Nila soru sounds nothing like
ICE-CREAM
But it looks like it
Creamy curds, white rice
Ice-cream even has the same name
Vanilla. Venn nila.
The silvery moon
When it’s that delicious cold, you don’t care it’s not sweet.

Nila soru melts in your mouth
in a cold, tickly, giggly fit
And gurgles in laughter as the tang
hits the back of your throat
But other hands are reaching already
So you play with elbows, wrestle with fingers
Over the large plate,
As you race to catch that next
mouthful of laughter

Nila soru stilled by stern eyes
halting you mid skid
Mid wrestle, mid giggle,
reminding you to chew
but it’s so soft, how can you?
The feeding hand melts into yours
Another mouthful smiles up from your palm

Nila soru as you look up
see a bite taken out of the moon
You stop, worried, mid mouthful
and it goes down the wrong way
and you cough
When you look up again,
the moon is laughing back
So you pout and resolve to eat the moon again

Nila soru, goodnight.

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‘Nila soru’ is a phrase that adults use in rhymes, stories & play while feeding young children, especially on moonlit nights. This poem is an ode to the nostalgia, food & family that carry us through these difficult times with hope.


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NILA SORU (Moon Food) Nila soru. Food eaten under the moon. Food shared with the moon. Nila soru. Food blessed by the moon, watching over you, as the white morsel holds perfectly together, moving from plate to mouth, or better yet, from feeding hand to yours. Nila soru lining the edge of the plate in little moons, drawn from the big mother moon with spots of curry, flecks of chutney But the perfect mini moon will be yours One…two…three Nila soru sounds nothing like ICE-CREAM But it looks like it Creamy curds, white rice Ice-cream even has the same name Vanilla. Venn nila. The silvery moon When it's that delicious cold, you don't care it's not sweet. Nila soru melts in your mouth in a cold, tickly, giggly fit And gurgles in laughter as the tang hits the back of your throat But other hands are reaching already So you play with elbows, wrestle with fingers Over the large plate, As you race to catch that next mouthful of laughter Nila soru stilled by stern eyes halting you mid skid Mid wrestle, mid giggle, reminding you to chew but it's so soft, how can you? The feeding hand melts into yours Another mouthful smiles up from your palm Nila soru as you look up see a bite taken out of the moon You stop, worried, mid mouthful and it goes down the wrong way and you cough When you look up again, the moon is laughing back So you pout and resolve to eat the moon again Nila soru, goodnight. ———————————————————————– ‘Nila soru’ is a phrase that adults use in rhymes, stories & play while feeding young children, especially on moonlit nights. This poem is an ode to the nostalgia, food & family that carry us through these difficult times with hope. ———————————————————————- 🎶: CHAND TAARE: Yes Boss OST #theideasmithy

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Patchwork Relationship

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For all of you homesick for the sickness of love, hating yourself for thinking of your exes and wondering if healing will ever happen. It won’t. It can still be beautiful.
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When my heart is an emotional wasteland
I find you standing at the brink
Your back to your own poisonous past

We exchange a cigarette, a story or two
I tell you about him, how on restless nights
I write his name in silver grey swirls of nostalgia

You take a long drag and hand me your cigarette
We time travel through unexamined memories, expired emotion
We take our dates to the universe of pain
Nostalgia is best navigated when you’re playing tour guide

The next time, I become the girls you never said goodbye to
filling in backstories you never completed
for those Happy Endings that came with no explanations
You pick them out of the debris of your mind and you fit them onto my story
I slash the t’s and I dot the i’s with my tears until sleep blacks us both out

You try to scrub out kisses with your toothbrush
I fuel paper planes with angry emotion
And since neither one works,
We become prosthetic people in each other’s amputee lives
We play no games
Except Minesweeper
Your mistakes help blow my memories away

I think of loving relationships
I think of love-hate relationships
Darling, you and I are not as romantic as that
But lust and disgust live in the same neighborhood
And the street corner where they meet
is where you and I park.

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PATCHWORK RELATIONSHIP ———————————————————————————– For all of you homesick for the sickness of love, hating yourself for thinking of your exes and wondering if healing will ever happen. It won't. It can still be beautiful. ———————————————————————————– When my heart is an emotional wasteland I find you standing at the brink Your back to your own poisonous past We exchange a cigarette, a story or two I tell you about him, how on restless nights I write his name in silver grey swirls of nostalgia You take a long drag and hand me your cigarette We time travel through unexamined memories, expired emotion We take our dates to the universe of pain Nostalgia is best navigated when you're playing tour guide The next time, I become the girls you never said goodbye to filling in backstories you never completed for those Happy Endings that came with no explanations You pick them out of the debris of your mind and you fit them onto my story I slash the t’s and I dot the i’s with my tears until sleep blacks us both out You try to scrub out kisses with your toothbrush I fuel paper planes with angry emotion And since neither one works, We become prosthetic people in each other’s amputee lives We play no games Except Minesweeper Your mistakes help blow my memories away I think of loving relationships I think of love-hate relationships Darling, you and I are not as romantic as that But lust and disgust live in the same neighborhood And the street corner where they meet is where you and I park. 📸: @mumbaipaused 🎶: I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR LOVE (BUT I WON'T DO THAT) – Meatloaf #theideasmithy #love #lovepoem #lovepoetry #lovesex #lovelife #darklove #lovers #loving #healing #movingon #mumbai #worlikoliwada #worlivillage #cityphotography #cityscape #citywatch #city

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Music Lessons With Lolita

Trigger Warning: Child S3xual Abuse

Eena, I sang for an hour today
I like it when they clap
I like it when they tell me I sing well
He says I have a silvery voice
I’m like silver, I am silver
I like silver
I hate singing

Eena, I read Lolita today 
That pervert
But he loved her
But she was only thirteen
But he loved her
Maybe it’s even harder to love than to be loved

Eena, I got the sharps right
The notes too but that’s never hard
I missed a chord
He gave me a kiss and said it’s fine
My fingers hurt
Something else does too

Eena, my arms go all the way
round the guitar now
I’m a big girl now
There’s a Beatles song that goes
While my guitar gently weeps

Eena, J said her sister
took lessons from him too
J said she stopped going
That bastard
Eena, he did the same thing to her
That bastard
Don’t swear, child
Eena, he did it to others
Shh, the world can hear your thoughts
Bastard
Fa la la la la la la

Eena, the neighbours are considering guitar lessons 
Their daughter will soon be ten
It doesn’t matter
The silver songbird is silent
There is peace without music
But tell her, tell her, I told my mum
If someone had told us…
I didn’t finish. She was already dialing.

Eena, I saw him at the doctor’s today
And I nearly didn’t recognise him
He looked so sad and frail
Like a deflated balloon
after a child’s birthday party
Who loves the streamers when the party is done?
Who remembers a balloon after its air is gone? 
Eena, he was so sad

Eena, I’m reading a book
About dwarves & dragons & trolls & giants
It says pity stayed his hand,
pity may have saved his life
I am 21, Eena
and my biggest heartbreak
is a boy six months my senior
Not a 40 year old man who was my teacher

Eena, they call it CSA now
And we are not victims, they say,
we’re survivors
But Eena, I was never a victim
and I’m no more a survivor 
than any person who reads a murder mystery
and gets to the end, is
With or without tears

This story did not kill me, Eena
I turned the page
when it was time to move on
Books saved me or maybe pity did
Goodbye Eena and thank you
Go remind another child
she can be her own hero too.
Me Too but you know, hashtag YouToo.

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MUSIC LESSONS WITH LOLITA TW: CSA Eena, I sang for an hour today I like it when they clap I like it when they tell me I sing well He says I have a silvery voice I’m like silver, I am silver I like silver I hate singing Eena, I read Lolita today  That pervert But he loved her But she was only thirteen But he loved her Maybe it's even harder to love than to be loved Eena, I got the sharps right The notes too but that’s never hard I missed a chord He gave me a kiss and said it’s fine My fingers hurt Something else does too Eena, my arms go all the way round the guitar now I’m a big girl now There’s a Beatles song that goes While my guitar gently weeps Eena, J said her sister took lessons from him too J said she stopped going That bastard Eena, he did the same thing to her That bastard Don’t swear, child Eena, he did it to others Shh, the world can hear your thoughts Bastard Fa la la la la la la Eena, the neighbours are considering guitar lessons  Their daughter will soon be ten It doesn’t matter The silver songbird is silent There is peace without music But tell her, tell her, I told my mum If someone had told us… I didn’t finish. She was already dialing. Eena, I saw him at the doctor’s today And I nearly didn’t recognise him He looked so sad and frail Like a deflated balloon after a child's birthday party Who loves the streamers when the party is done? Who remembers a balloon after its air is gone?  Eena, he was so sad Eena, I'm reading a book About dwarves & dragons & trolls & giants It says pity stayed his hand, pity may have saved his life I am 21, Eena and my biggest heartbreak is a boy six months my senior Not a 40 year old man who was my teacher Eena, they call it CSA now And we are not victims, they say, we're survivors But Eena, I was never a victim and I'm no more a survivor  than any person who reads a murder mystery and gets to the end, is With or without tears This story did not kill me, Eena I turned the page when it was time to move on Books saved me or maybe pity did Goodbye Eena and thank you Go remind another child she can be her own hero too. Me Too but you know, hashtag YouToo. 🎶: LUKA: Suzanne Vega #theideasmithy

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Whirling Dervish

Reading Elif Shafak makes me feel like I’m frequenting a world that is not mine and it makes me miss my real place. It makes me look at people and situations I’ve dismissed, with fresh light. And it makes me wonder why I’m chasing the ones I am.

I feel listened to, between the stories of an unwed mother, a talentless poet, a tattooed nihilist, a Sufi mystic and a bored housewife. These are the people I have been, will be, the selves I am.

While life goes on endlessly barrelling forward, I skid, screeching brakes, pause, stop, slow down to correct that thought and say, no it does not go on endlessly. It stops. It crashes. It fades.

I pick out a description of a smoky cafe with a pretentious name, a meeting with an authority figure interrupted by a wandering dervish. And I choose it over the conversation about price points at the neighbouring table of the coffeeshop I’m at. I carry it with me as I navigate booking a cab on an app, ordering dessert on another, swiping my train card. At least the last feels closer to the world I have in my head than the other things my eyes and ears feed me.

There is love outside the paan-spattered Bollywood posters and wannabe posers I pass. There is joy beyond the neon lights and darkness past the black humour being traded for attention at open mics.

Can I still seek God where religion interferes with architecture, where faith determines politics? I must. How else can I breathe? Even as my words dance around the easily angered, the quick to violence, I realise this churning, this silent yearning, this is after all, my whirling.
I look away from my book. The image takes a few seconds to fade away. The mood, long after. The whirling, I hope never. Then I remember, nothing is endless. 

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WHIRLING DERVISH Reading Elif Shafak makes me feel like I'm frequenting a world that is not mine and it makes me miss my real place. It makes me look at people and situations I've dismissed, with fresh light. And it makes me wonder why I'm chasing the ones I am. I feel listened to, between the stories of an unwed mother, a talentless poet, a tattooed nihilist, a Sufi mystic and a bored housewife. These are the people I have been, will be, the selves I am. While life goes on endlessly barrelling forward, I skid, screeching brakes, pause, stop, slow down to correct that thought and say, no it does not go on endlessly. It stops. It crashes. It fades. . I pick out a description of a smoky cafe with a pretentious name, a meeting with an authority figure interrupted by a wandering dervish. And I choose it over the conversation about price points at the neighbouring table of the coffeeshop I'm at. I carry it with me as I navigate booking a cab on an app, ordering dessert on another, swiping my train card. At least the last feels closer to the world I have in my head than the other things my eyes and ears feed me. There is love outside the paan-spattered Bollywood posters and wannabe posers I pass. There is joy beyond the neon lights and darkness past the black humour being traded for attention at open mics. Can I still seek God where religion interferes with architecture, where faith determines politics? I must. How else can I breathe? Even as my words dance around the easily angered, the quick to violence, I realise this churning, this silent yearning, this is after all, my whirling. I look away from my book. The image takes a few seconds to fade away. The mood, long after. The whirling, I hope never. Then I remember, nothing is endless. 📸: @hairstories11 🎶: BULLA KI JAANA MAIN KAUN – Rabbi Shergill #theideasmithy #bibliosmithy #dervish #whirlingdervish #elifshafak #thebastardofistanbul #thefortyrulesoflove #books #bookreader #booksofinstagram #booklover #booklovers #bibliophiles #bibliophile #sufi #sufism #spirituality #spiritualjourney #spiritualawakening #spirit

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Architect

We are shaping the span between us, paving roads to each other with ideas, extending word ladders and conversation bridges.

We are co-creators, selecting the best parts from I, me, you, yours to design a new us. We pick lines from stories as diverse as Interstellar and Gravity, sculpting reason and attraction into pillars of truth. We embellish with fragments of our broken past dreams, hoping the other will see art in our pain the way we do.

I bring in my best tools – My smile wiped clean of the dregs of my past and dipped into a fresh coat of all these new emotions that you inspire in me. So here I go setting out to be the architect for our future, building us into castles & cathedrals, space stations & satellite towers, when you turn around and say
You just want some SPACE.

You slide into an alleyway of guilt that I didn’t even know existed in this world of ours – God knows I didn’t put it there. I follow you and I find walls where I expected a skylight or a ventilation shaft. I realise there’s a door only when I hear it slam.

SLAM. SLAM. SLAM.

As you close off, compartmentalise,
seal away, cordon off parts of your life
where I’m not allowed anymore.

SLAM. Because that’s what doors sound like to you. To me a door exists to let us walk through walls.But these walls are wet with your tears and they crumble at my touch. I look for a conversation thread to help us out of this abyss. I find myself trapped inside a dead-end with no sign of you, imprisoned inside the crushing echoes of your accusations and cut on ropes called promises that we made to each other

I make it back to the threshold where we first waved hi. There you are smiling hello at me, like we did not just create something together that choked and died. I can’t build what you keep destroying, I say. You tell me it’s not supposed to take so much work. Honey, even a sandcastle takes getting your hands dirty

I saw us as a city of the future, full of colour & bustle & culture. But you, my friend, think of love as Stonehenge, smiling at unfinished stones, walking around in our ruins, turning our architecture into history.

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ARCHITECT We are shaping the span between us, paving roads to each other with ideas, extending word ladders and conversation bridges. We are co-creators, selecting the best parts from I, me, you, yours to design a new us. We pick lines from stories as diverse as Interstellar and Gravity, sculpting reason and attraction into pillars of truth. We embellish with fragments of our broken past dreams, hoping the other will see art in our pain the way we do. I bring in my best tools – My smile wiped clean of the dregs of my past and dipped into a fresh coat of all these new emotions that you inspire in me. So here I go setting out to be the architect for our future, building us into castles & cathedrals, space stations & satellite towers, when you turn around and say You just want some SPACE. You slide into an alleyway of guilt that I didn’t even know existed in this world of ours – God knows I didn’t put it there. I follow you and I find walls where I expected a skylight or a ventilation shaft. I realise there’s a door only when I hear it slam. SLAM. SLAM. SLAM. As you close off, compartmentalise, seal away, cordon off parts of your life where I’m not allowed anymore. SLAM. Because that’s what doors sound like to you. To me a door exists to let us walk through walls.But these walls are wet with your tears and they crumble at my touch. I look for a conversation thread to help us out of this abyss. I find myself trapped inside a dead-end with no sign of you, imprisoned inside the crushing echoes of your accusations and cut on ropes called promises that we made to each other I make it back to the threshold where we first waved hi. There you are smiling hello at me, like we did not just create something together that choked and died. I can't build what you keep destroying, I say. You tell me it's not supposed to take so much work. Honey, even a sandcastle takes getting your hands dirty I saw us as a city of the future, full of colour, bustle & culture. But you, my friend, think of love as Stonehenge, smiling at unfinished stones, walking around in our ruins, turning our architecture into history. 🎶: BREAK ME, SHAKE ME – Savage Garden #theideasmithy #cottagecore

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Change Of Weather

We’re running out of things to say to each other. It seems as if you don’t like me very much anymore.

You hate my car, my home, my gadgets, my life – everything that makes me successful. You want us to go back to a simpler life, for me to work harder for lesser. But I have for centuries and millennia and time eternal. Now it’s time for pleasure. It’s called progress. You see green, it was never my favourite colour. I like steel and grey a lot better.

So you turn moody. It’s just like you to want to ruin my day. Starve me by burning it all up. You know, nobody likes someone who’s always raining on their parade. And yet I try, with I love yous and other peacekeeping tactics. Earth Hour. World Environment Day. Special days. Everyday used to be special. Do you remember?
I do.

Summer days where you’d wrestle me to the ground and we’d make hard, mango-scented love. Winter nights kissing me lightly awake, keeping me up talking poetry. Endless evenings standing still on the beach so still, like God stopped breathing and look, that sliver of blood moon, the tip of his big toenail as he says Peace Out.

How bold we were, how brave to play these toxic games of evolution and success, pain and pleasure. We were baiting danger at leisure. We managed to keep love, quite at bay.

Let us try to believe that even when the eyes are cold, the visions behind them are not. We are, after all, the casualties of Life’s war against itself. But you are still angry, your moodswings have given me a cold. I’ve cried all I want to, for you. And you’ve exploded far more than you can afford. But we my love, have never learnt to speak. My poetry, I see, won’t touch you any more. It’s too late to salvage what we had.

So we’ll go back to talking about the weather and you can blame it all on me again. And some day perhaps, long after I’m gone, another lover, another child, standing with you under a different sun, another season, will find lined across your body, the stretch marks of our life together and wonder whether they were not your first love.

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CHANGE OF WEATHER We’re running out of things to say to each other. It seems as if you don’t like me very much anymore. You hate my car, my home, my gadgets, my life – everything that makes me successful. You want us to go back to a simpler life, for me to work harder for lesser. But I have for centuries and millennia and time eternal. Now it’s time for pleasure. It's called progress. You see green, it was never my favourite colour. I like steel and grey a lot better. So you turn moody. It’s just like you to want to ruin my day. Starve me by burning it all up. You know, nobody likes someone who’s always raining on their parade. And yet I try, with I love yous and other peacekeeping tactics. Earth Hour. World Environment Day. Special days. Everyday used to be special. Do you remember? I do. Summer days where you'd wrestle me to the ground and we'd make hard, mango-scented love. Winter nights kissing me lightly awake, keeping me up talking poetry. Endless evenings standing still on the beach so still, like God stopped breathing and look, that sliver of blood moon, the tip of his big toenail as he says Peace Out. How bold we were, how brave to play these toxic games of evolution and success, pain and pleasure. We were baiting danger at leisure. We managed to keep love, quite at bay. Let us try to believe that even when the eyes are cold, the visions behind them are not. We are, after all, the casualties of Life’s war against itself. But you are still angry, your moodswings have given me a cold. I've cried all I want to, for you. And you've exploded far more than you can afford. But we my love, have never learnt to speak. My poetry, I see, won’t touch you any more. It's too late to salvage what we had. So we’ll go back to talking about the weather and you can blame it all on me again. And some day perhaps, long after I’m gone, another lover, another child, standing with you under a different sun, another season, will find lined across your body, the stretch marks of our life together and wonder whether they were not your first love. ——————————————– I wrote this for an event about climate change, a few years ago. #theideasmithy

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Holding Hands

You’re uncomfortable in silences
In sighs
In whispers
In conversations
In wide open spaces and people
So you find your solace in moving

And you tell me,
Make it quick, this love thing
Or you-and-I just might stick
Hug me like it doesn’t matter 
that it’s not a kiss instead
And I do

Together, we learn
to use charm as our tools
Insight as currency
Armed with both,
we storm the marketplace
Sellers looking for love, peace and wisdom

We craft airbrushed relationships
And plastic sentiments
Indestructible and neon ranged
Our love and laughter chip and flake
On each other
And we bleed byte-sized poetry.

Bartering words
Duelling with sentiments
We are warrior poets
Traders of such dramas
With love however,
We will have no dealings

Packing trophy experiences
Boarding passes in hand, we wait
Hoping that the call that comes for me
Will be yours too
No strings attached
No expectations, no commitments
No messes, no fusses

But there’s nothing in our contracts
that says we can’t hold hands.

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

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