Yes, I Could.

I could write a poem for you,

Just to see you blush.

 

I could write a song for you,

Just to find you humming.

 

I could play the guitar for you,

Just to hear you say how out of tune I am.

 

I could pluck flowers for you,

Just to see you in bloom.

 

I could write endless letters to you,

Just for the feeling that you would read them, sometime.

 

I could play a song for you,

Just for the hope that you would listen to it, someday.

 

I could look into your eyes until the world ends,

Just to see you shy away.

 

I could act foolish all day long,

Just to see you notice me, and laugh at me.

 

I could slip a bottle of hard rum down my throat,

Just to gather the courage to talk to you.

 

Yet, I know, I would fail –

Your beauty devours me.

Your presence enchants me.

Your eyelids see me standing afar –

In complete admiration.

Drawing a Sigh

I sigh –
I draw a heavy breath out of my nose.
I close my eyes – unsatisfactorily – for a while, and try to pretend that the book I’m reading makes sense to me.
I sit with my legs crossed with the smoke of damp tobacco around, and watch the rain fall; I can no longer derive any meaning from it; the rain gods have abandoned their favours on me.
I put up a face – void of any expression; quite unwelcoming.
I watch the clouds getting heavier, and darker; they will soon drain out everything they have; like you have drained out my thoughts out of my mind.
I sit, thoughtless.

I walk –
I kick pebbles of the road, seeing if I can carry them with me; they, however, abandon me.
I stumble on a rock, or two, and out of old habit do I recollect myself up.
I watch a bird fly to its nest as the traffic whistles past my ears.
I walk on the path, coming to the realisation that I’ve missed my lane.
All of my paths, I thought, lead to you;
But they have misguided me, like my feelings for you which show me a faint, flickering light; but, beyond which is absolute nothingness.

I sit quiet and unexpressive –
For hours long, I don’t appreciate any form of intervention, be it my own thoughts indulged in desires, or feelings occupied by unexplainable jealousy.
I am, but a mortal being; I feel to realise and acknowledge my existence,
For abandoning my thoughts and feelings will be abandoning myself.
I try to read my letters for a change, but find out that most of them are addressed to you.
I try to write, forcing my mind to seek relief in knowledge, but all I seem to know is my thoughts for you.

The Burning of Poetry

I could write a poem just to see it flamed to ashes in the heat of the burning logs of organised and disorganised wood.

In this, the pattern would hardly matter; no attention to my personal interests and thoughts would be paid.

All that was red around would not be talked about;

Neither would I talk about the sound of the wood cracking, red in the fire.

What the two logs talked about when they burnt together – next to each other – in the blazing and popping fire, would not be talked about.

I would not, in the poem, talk about whom I met in the woods at the dusk when I had, but mere intentions of picking the dry twigs and logs around.

I would just write the poem, just to see it flamed to ashes in the burning fire.

On Blogging, and More

I cannot seem to write. Words do not appear to flow out, but now I have to write this – as this is the only thing to do – for deadlines must be met in EJP.

I had no clear ambitions for my blog. I started back in my 7th-8th- 9th grade when I thought it was cool. Back then, and partly still, the web and the technology fascinated me, enough for me to set up a big desktop with a CRT screen in my room, get a stable data connection which would never go beyond the satisfactorily – back then – capped 56 kb/s (thanks to Reliance’s unlimited plan of Rs 303 per month), and start my first blog on technology, called The Version Next, or something, on Google’s Blogspot, also known as Blogger. It started off well: lots of new experiments, plagiarism, learning that plagiarism is a crime in online journalism, desire to drive more traffic, and more, and more. Soon, I realised that I could do better with other things in my life and The Version Next eventually died.

The Growing Beard started one rainy evening in the monsoon of, I think 2015. I wrote a piece of art – a poem, which I wanted others to read, and which I thought would add lots of soundness to the sequence of events in my life, then rather miserable, now still – except that I realise the misery.

And then, I wrote more poetry, and more, and tried different forms, and learnt new things; so much of it went on The Growing Beard, which gave me a slight perspective on what I want my personal blog to be: a collection of fragments of thoughts that pass my mind in the form of poetry, prose, and travel writing.

I also happen to see blogging, online writing, and travel writing as means of balancing the life financially, following which, The Travel Reader was born. The Travel Reader, as I write on my ‘About‘ page, is mostly around people’s experiences with travelling and reading, and also news on and around the same genres. I would like to see The Travel Reader with a much-increased follower base in the future, as I, along with my little team, actively contribute to making the web a wonderful place for people who follow books and travelling; however, I see that it takes a lot of effort, time, and attention, and I am, only slowly, achieving it.

On War, Defeat, and Killing Oneself

On terms undeclared, we marched to the battlefield
Only to find ourselves greeted by bullets from all directions.
Our fingers clicked the trigger – in vain – until our numbers were miserably reduced.
The few among us hundreds that remained were sent back as messengers decorated with blood, carrying the message of defeat.
The general – the only man left in the camp, a grey man with grey locks in his hair – welcomed the messengers, closed his diary – now completed – and shot himself.