Time Again

There is no stopping time

No turning back or

Jumping ahead the needles

There is no stocking

No transferring of it.

It is yours if you

simply relate to it

Else it simply adds

To the wistful moments

We called life

Tick-tock as the clock

Unleashes end in

Every beginning of

This new moment.

To feel time again

Rising from death

Embrace dark space

And time is real again

  • sahar

Flow Of My Poetry

The flow of my poetry is such
It always wonders to the source
Of words and the feelings which
Governs them.

The genesis of a stream of thought
Behind from her smiling eyes wrought
With thundering emotions and
Acceptance of errors.

The midlife begins to describe
The deeper wedges driven into this heart
As poetry ages and matures
A thousand sufferings it endures

My poetry is sublime and eternal
Flowing from a deep valley
Soaring to the mountains
A flood of emotions it entails
The flow of poetry is not much

It stops with the thoughtlessness
And the thoughts about which it had all been
They are born and killed for you every moment.

creator: Sahar.

A Poem for Poems

“If one day,
your thoughts are free
then don’t stop amigo
be all you want to be.

If one day,
all your emotions,stand
in your way then
master them today.

If one day,
your pen bleeds like humans.
know this , your words
they only suffer your deeds.

If one day,
you write too much,
and write all your heart out
as all my days are such

Then, do not let your poetry
lack words or alphabets
for they are only tools
and poets are only fools.”

 

 – Mayank “Sahar” Mishra

The Girl of my Poems 

There is a girl who gives me poems
In the night or early morning
I hear her silent whisper
Calling my soul away from
The night to the lovely dawn

The girl she gives me my poems
She is a distant dream
No phrases can match her
No metaphors or similes
Let her float in the skies
For another eerie night
The girl with the words of my poems
Her magic is violent
A collision of galaxies
Like my thoughts are dust
Her breath is the light in stars
The poet in me is free as
Her touch varies in degrees
The girl like the words of my poems
She left me no rule to follow
Making and unmaking me again
A silent trail of woven words
Like petals strewn on the roads
To the palace where she rests
A path the poet must take always She is the girl of my poems.

Charles Bukowski

I am glad I met him, as one poet who meets another.

For The Foxes

don’t feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.
be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain
who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.
juggling mates
and
attitudes
their
confusion is
constant
and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.
beware of them:

one of their
key words is
“love.”
and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.
don’t feel sorry for me
because I am alone
for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.

they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.

  • Charles Bukowski

Finish It.

You left me too explicit in love
Vulnerable to all its stormy nights
Stuck in a dream, shipwrecked.
But you too are implicit and will be
Wrought beneath my words
Like crushed fragrance of a flower
I will paint you in my poems
And skip the dream for real
Making you the meaning
My words would have died
Leaving behind
An unfinished poem…
….

Leaving behind 

All those stories we made together

All those thoughts shared

I was left with 

An unconditional love and lots of memories.

When Thoughts Betray.

And you will be shocked to know
That the irony is that
It is those moments that are closest to me
Which I have failed to record in my words
Repeatedly betraying me
Like a mirage in a desert
Those experiences which
Are killed as thoughts,
as though murdered
during birth,
by a witless counterpart.
Are actually
my best moments,
and the closest to my heart.
It is like the invasion
of one thought by another,
like demolishing of a world
a whole new culture
and a way of thinking
by a wholly new and
strange way.

Title Doesn’t Matter

A transformation,
or something as small as change,
does not occur ovrnight
hidden behind
is the time
and the feeling of
being different
inside.

So what if I can’t be,
all I want,
in a single lifetime
in my stories and in my poems
my characters shall live long after
I am gone.
They shall relive
through the words of someone
like me !

If I won’t b there to be it all
at least I can see it all
and here I sit,
with a perfect view
blocked
with buildings.
I know you don’t,
but my words believe me.

I have been there, I’ve done it all.
All the pain and desires, I’ve sufferd it all.

Dead eyes give away,
I’m a man without
a perspective.
That’s
the worst kind.
I have grown,
And I am not
anymore me !

But here I am
Synchronised imperfectly
In this perfect harmony
Or so it may seem.
Behind snow capped peak
Is the light
I seek and I am
Not me.

The Poetry of Jeet Thayil

This morning I was browsing some websites to read some good articles, I chanced upon this one. The article introduced me to one amazing English poet from India, Jeet Thayil and many others. His poetry is the truth as plain it can be..

 

this is the link to the article:

 

“If there is such a thing as happiness”

I am posting one of his poems here for a quick peek.:

 

 

In ‘Pushkin Knew Heaven (A Place Where Nothing Happens),’ dawn brings a lightness of being and a feeling approximating contentment. Happiness is when nothing happens.

There’s beauty in stillness:
The first hint of first light
brings me instantly awake.
You stir gently in your sleep,
dig yourself deeper into bed,
my pillow over your head.
The newspaper at the door is cold
from its journey across the city. I
make coffee, as I do each morning,
scan the headlines, sip from the cup,
look out at the quiet street.
There it is, all of it, and it’s nothing
short of a miracle.
If there is such a thing as happiness,
it is this.

– Jeet Thayil

 

The Truth About Popularity. 

“The truth about popularity!

Is it in the falling flashbulbs ?

In the softness and the ambient praises,

In hush-hush, hum-drum, in the rumours. 

Walking amongst a pack of hungry hyenas,

Ssh…ssh… They hear it all. 

Hopeless vanity for lookalikes,

Breaking snap the mirrors. 

They sucked on my energy,

those sharp silhouettes in my rear view. 

Controversial clips of the news,

Surreal tapes and sensual nightmares. 

Sudden explosions disturb my gravity,

Hell, I know the truth about popularity.”
      – Mayank ‘Sahar’ Mishra