Waking up for Coffee!

Retiring, with eyes shut, yet images streaming past;

The eyes open yet again;

Sleep has still not invaded

The empire of incessant thoughts...

So many, that the mind is pregnant with fatigue;

Made to think that it requires rest,

Sleep does sense some victory then;

When the eyes are shut;

This time though, with some more fatigue.

A new day thus dawns;

Having purged the thoughts in yesterday’s bin.

Sunlight beckons in all its morning glory,

Commencing the day with a new story...

The mild chillness of Chennai’s January breeze

Hangs In the morning air;

The sun’s heat, just right,

What next time? Must I say?

A steaming hot cup of filter coffee!

The drugged drink gets one’s energy racing:

Providing uninterrupted zeal for the new day.

A sip of filter coffee, off, the stainless steel saucer;

Can beat no beverage indeed!

With the stomach making some hungry growls,

Coupled with the smell of fresh mint emanating from the toothpaste,

Coffee flows down the oesophagus,

Settling in the layers of the stomach,

The taste of coffee thus lingers in the tongue;

Giving a heady high!

All is lost then; just coffee and me in our entirety,

A beautiful concoction thus ensues...

A new day begins...!

Mirror perfect!

Detests excessive love and always being in contact... Picking up the phone to send a text or make a
phone call only when she ‘really’ felt like it. Not a soul could influence her, except her own. Brimming
with idiosyncrasies; with absolutely ‘zero’ rationale. Wanting to be immersed in the river of solitude
for ages, yet welcoming fellow rivulets, albeit only for some time. Nonetheless, SOLITUDE seems to
be the winner by far. An indulgence or two is going to do no harm she thought, and did take a dip:
what she discovered in turn was a mirror, a mirror-so perfect, that it reflects and radiates her exact
same self. Shockingly amused: that's the state of mind. Insanity in a different format altogether. A
mad warmth of Presence beaming through the mirror. Cosiness ensues. With the mild heat touching
the skin; reeling within from thereon. A sense of elation then. This was a dip of a kind she thought. A
busy one, with the person almost far, not reachable always. She'd search his wall frivolously, and
sulk in vain. To beat the despair, she buries herself in books, most of the times, in endless stretches
of thoughts. Lo and behold, there's a sudden descent of realization: Isn't she actually encountering a
quaint sameness? Damn! Wasn't she doing the same thing? Call on or call for only her own benefit?
Why then would she need to sulk if it was a mirror perfect that she had chanced upon? Solitude is
the silent winner, she says to herself: Soothing, undeceitful, non-expectant.

BURY THEM ALL

Familiar cool breeze
Of perfumed emotions
Of TOUCH, a scintillating aphrodisiac
Squirming, in the pangs of metaphysical love.
Bury them all in the abysmal depths of TIME
For they are just racy emotions
Damn them, they are gone!
They don't last long.
Lure they sure do,
Alluring too:
Traversing past those fine mounds
Love's song they sing in resounding glory
Leading to the zenith of feminity
Yet, they come with a disclaimer:
Tagged, with jagged ends.
The disclaimer states:
Exploration guaranteed,
Nay! Never go back claiming love after that
Ain't a betrayal or any freaking thing,
It's just the way this TOUCH chooses to work!
It's a bodily thing, so just BURY
Does rake one's FURY,
Yet it's worth the burial,
For life has to still move on,
Tread past the memories of TOUCH
Yet, how come the smell still chooses to linger?
The harbinger of change it is,
Haunting, tantalizing!
Associative madness...!!

An afternoon:-

Warmth of the January sun and its cool afternoon breeze,

Leading to a safe haven of pleasure

Just in the right measure

Sans a rigorous usher

Mutual adulation, adoration

A certain innocuous indulgence

A feel of the ‘real’, peeling off the virtual wall...

An unostentatious sensory feast

That is to say the least

Putting a rest to some beastly passion

Love, with pure compassion...

Oodles of creativity,

Doled out with some mundane this and that,

Latently blending with the afternoon warmth,

Fullness leading to some bareness

With just the watch, silently keeping time!

Up so close, with the sound of breath

Smell of some familiar watery perfume

Permeating around the bareness,

Ensued by some gentle smiles of acknowledgement

And careless whispers of merriment...

Writers, wordsmiths in their own right

Accepting one another without a blight

An uninhibited zone of comforting PEACE...

But hey, do the WORDS get transmitted too in the process?

Oh yeah, bequeath it does some racy, passionate knowledge,

Etched in the mind it shall remain ALWAYS!

A call that mattered:

Mixed and muddled from every end
Seemingly unaware of an end
Fend for the self I have to
Dealing with battles within
Glamorous choices laid out right outside
Could even turn out to be quicksand...!
How was I to know?

Sometimes, just a phone call could be magical
Changing destiny, most of all, soothing, relieving....
A sigh of relief...
Setting an unusually free breath of air
Like how old skin sheds and paves way for the novel...

In the tranquil chillness of the January night
For my ‘serendipitous’ page I write
With a relaxed sense of a certain victorious feel
Letting out bottled-up emotions hit the ceiling
Doing me a poetic, therapeutic healing...!

20 times 2!

Hey 40, the new 20!

What a charm that you attract

A certain protracted sense of sexiness!

Let you do the denizens of the 20’s go begging for “age-defiance”!

An air of confidence that is around the 40’s...

A composed and cheerful disposition that is all pervasive...

Sends the 20’s out with a shudder with a dropping-jaw!

How awe-inspiring 40 you are,

A rare, serendipitous unit of 10 that you are!

Writers-galore!

Wordsmiths, stalwarts, masters of the pen,

A gathering of sorts, with an awe-inspiring élan

An enriching weekend, without a hesitation

Transport it did, to a mode of meditation!

A meditation: on words and books.

Encompassed by writers

So many, that I could smell the perfume of their ink

I was but an inkling, pinching myself to digest that there is an entire fraternity...

I walked out with a sigh, hoping not to be a blot in the writing-map.

Familiar we are all with the behaviour of a film-star

Off movies, they are a different clan

 What is it like to see a writer, up close?

Oh yeah, loads of dosage of silent, latent, untold passing on of wisdom.

To watch them hold a pen,

To watch them hold a microphone to speak,

Do writers need to be good speakers too?

I gaped at them all with awe.

What they write and quote are their style statements

They do not need any embellishment,

Neither do they really care for any!

Pure immaculate, was the colour of poetry,

Poetry dressed in white kurtha and pyjama

Gulzar sir, must I say more?

Some chose to term a book as product

Market, sales, numbers were the buzz-words,

That it shot up my indignation!

Another session I shall not attend I thought

Thank God, some sense prevailed

That some musings on a literary novel ensued...

A mode of philosophy by the constant traveller,

Took me heavenwards with its admirers sitting by my side

Here’s my favourite writer’s, favourite writer speaking!

Could things have gotten any better?!

This is what happens when you are surrounded by writers,

A great deal of inspiration, supplied in abundance!

A wholesome way of heralding the New Year,

Pumped up with all the necessary fuel

Well-fed I am, through a Lit-Fest that was!