Saturday, March 30, 2013

Of poets

Memory,
can I feed you to my words
like a corpse to a hearth
till you are no more than
ashes and charred bones?

Memory,
can I write you out?
Not on the pages of a book
but off the pages of my mind.
Can I? 

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Sparrows in the Sun

I don't go there anymore.
Where sparrows fly to the sun
and then sing their dusk songs
in beautiful pain sharp voices
as on singed wings they soar.
I don't go there anymore.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

No thank you.

No, no thank you. She said.
No disenchanting light of
conversation for me please.
I'd rather have today,
the brazen blinding brightness
of foolish laughter instead. 
Laughter, light and airy and
tinkling like the bottomless
glass of warm wine in my hand.
I crave indifference, she said.
And I crave company that
I couldn't care less for.
People who matter little to me
or to whom I matter little.
Yes, that's what I crave.
You should be glad, she said,
that I haven't chosen to speak
to you but that we've met today
only by the whim of chance.
For that means, perhaps, I think
of you as a friend after all.
Someone who would ask ,
how have you been?,
and in a moment ruin it all.
All semblance, all pretense.
No, no thank you. She said.
And so I did it, I left her alone
and walked away quietly,
wondering whether she was
being wise or utterly foolish.

Tuesday, March 05, 2013

मकां

इन मकानों में लोग
कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं,
कि इंसानों से ज़्यादा जां 
वो ईटों, पत्थरों में भरते हैं।
इन मकानों में लोग 
कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं।

इन मकानों की खिड़कियाँ 
हमेशा बंद ही हैं रेहेती।
बाहर मौसम तो
कई गुज़रते हैं,
पर इन खिडकियों पर
परदे यादों के, 
बस बे इन्तहां बेहेते हैं। 
इन मकानों में लोग 
कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं। 

दिवारों पर शायद उन्हें 
कल के हसीं लम्हें 
आज भी दिखते हैं।
इसलिये शायद, 
खाली कमरों में गूंज रहे 
अपने ही अलफ़ाज़ों को 
बातें वो अब केहेते हैं।  
भूले से उन दिनों के 
इन मकानों में 
लोग कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं।