A Matter of Perspective

(To Allen, with love)

(un) happy

I'm not unhappy, but not happy either
I'm somewhere in between
If this is bliss, I don't like it
It's too stiflingly static

I'm a social butterfly, a butterfly,
a pretty thing who's loved or that very sin
But I flit here, there, everywhere
And nowhere do I fit in

I have friends, friends and friends
And yet, no friends
Just people who are a means to an end

I see people objectively
Emotionally unattached and distant
It's a strange state of being
Unemotional, yet not unfeeling
Like a doctor cares for a patient
Clinically, but not empathetically

It's a conspicuous emptiness
Unsympathetic yet not hostile

I wish there was genuine hapiness
Behind my ungenuine smile.

The Tree of Dreams

Once upon a wonderous planet
The race of Innocents did live.
The Gods were happy with the folk
And gave them all they had to give.

For every happy wish one made,
A flower blosomed somewhere.
Thus was the earth brilliantly hued-
No tree was ever plain or bare.

For every happy dream one dreamed
A new star appeared that night.
Thus constellations did abound
And bathe the earth in silver light.

The old moon sitting high up there
Among the twinkling dots,
Smiled down upon the Innocents
And blessed their happy lots.

When happy wishes were fulfiled
They engendered happy dreams-
The flowers turned into the stars
That shone like sunny streams.

As long as the Innocents existed,
This remained the planet's state.
But the trees all withered and the stars soon died
For the Innocents succumbed to Hate.

The Mona Lisa

In Musee de Louvre hangs
Da Vinci's greatest work
The Mona Lisa and
Her enigmatic smirk.

Five centuries she's spent
On whitewashed walls
In Royal chambers
And Museum halls.

But imagine, if, though she had once
Been real, she was now replaced
By so much "restoration" paint
That the original work was all effaced?

Festival of Lights

Somewhere along a darkened corridor
Flicker three desolate candle flames.
Ridiculous in their festiveness,
Fairylights twinke away in vain.

Who's way do these candles light
Along the dark, eerie corridors?
Only one person remains tonight
In this empty building with padlocked doors.

The Diya Dance

On a sultry October night
Under the darkened skies
And fickle flickering starlight
Dance four hundred fireflies.

Flutterby

An illustration for my friend Preetha's poem.
To read the poem, go to:
http://therandomworldofmissbiyani.blogspot.com/

(For Preetha, Love Always.)

Mental Snapshot

Vishakhapatnam (Vizag) is built at the point where the Eastern Ghats run right into the sea. The drive down from Vizag to Rishikonda Beach is one of the most picturesque drives you can ever imagine. On your left, all you see is a lush green hill. On your right, the slope drops down, somewhat steeply, to a golden beach. Clear sky and clear water blur into one another at the horizon, blue mirroring blue, till they look like one entity. Even now, I remember it.

(One of my fond memories of our family holiday to Vizag, Sept/Oct 2005.)

Laila

You look so sad my Laila...
Oh so sad! Your eyes
Have gone strangely cold.
The life is gone. It scares me
To see what I behold.

What is the matter my Laila?
Say something... anything will do!
You have gone strangely silent.
The laughter's gone. It hurts me
To hear nothing out of you.

Don't shut yourself up my Laila
Don't shed your tears alone.
Let me in.Don't you know how it sears
My heart to not be able to
Dry away your tears?

(Oh, what good am I if I can't even hold her
As she sheds her tears upon my shoulder?)
I beg you, Laila... put down those keys
Don't drive off like this...don't!... please...
No! Laila... come back!... Laila... please...

Fiction, Tea and Toast

The simple pleasures of a rainy day.
Watching raindrops trickle their way
Down clear panes of glass,
Like liquid rainbows.

I watch as rain ceaselessly falls;
Watch it drip down red brick walls,
Vanishing into the grass
And then... Well who knows?

I nestle deep into the window seat
I lean sideways, a shawl over my feet,
And rest against the window pane.
It cools my fevered skin.

Diffused light filters through.
I read my book. Thoughts of you
Come and go and tease. Again
The pages pull me in.

I’m pampered by the perfect hosts-
Fiction, well-brewed tea and toasts
Buttered golden yellow,
With sugar sprinkled on top,

Pattering rain and sepia pages,
Random memories dating back ages…
My mood is deep and mellow.
And time has come to a stop.