Category Archives: It is written

Parting is such sweet sorrow

It really is…….  Hidden somewhere in the bittersweet twang of forsaking the familiar and comforting, is a hint of pungent hope, mixed with the uncanny aftertaste of curiosity. It is difficult to catch – this apprehension that comes with leaving … Continue reading

Posted in ananth, beauty, Bombay, City, community, I Quote, I want to ride my bicycle, It is written, kaha gaye woh din, nasha, nostalgia, picture abhi baaki hain mere dost, the apocalyptic real, traffic, vignettes | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

‘I’ll tell you all the news

the ocean froths In the empty ghada a Shrill whisper rises  Like piss in the stream  The fawda picks away at the clod Darknesses converge  Upon the decaying carcasses  The dead stink  Louder than blasphemies  In the sacred chamber  And time,  … Continue reading

Posted in #poemaday, Atyachar, community, Could be verse, Gothamisation, hmmm, I want to ride my bicycle, It is written, middle class mithya, night, One Bad Day, picture abhi baaki hain mere dost, poetry, why? | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Protected: aranya

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Posted in #poemaday, aranya, City, forest, hmmm, It is written, Lou, nature, night, Prosepoetry | Tagged

for Cohen

melancholy is a colour. it sings through the cracks opening in the river of your broken baritone. like light high on dreams the cliffs are empty, the sea froths like an angry dog, the window is open, and the lipstick-smeared … Continue reading

Posted in Could be verse, It is written, kaha gaye woh din, Music, night, Ustad | Leave a comment

portrait

There’s something about him – the way he conducted himself. No. Conducted is the wrong word. His demeanour is a stage without a curtain. really. There is no membrane. Nothing that complicates his serious play with the system. (haha. system … Continue reading

Posted in #poemaday, ananth, angryfix, Atyachar, community, Could be verse, It is written, One Bad Day, the apocalyptic real, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

ethnography

we are mirrors. water. grass. The tip that grazes an ecstatic breeze is the root. and the fortress lies in its foundations. every speck of the vision is an explosion of our own shadows. we nod cinematically; in hypnotic roam … Continue reading

Posted in #poemaday, angryfix, community, Could be verse, epiphany, I Quote, I want to ride my bicycle, It is written, middle class mithya, poetry, the apocalyptic real, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

I’m deeply attracted to those people who respond to a metaphor on its own terms. knead it with their minds. turn it into a flower. and pass it back to me, as if they were wielding a knife. those people … Continue reading

Posted in #poemaday, beauty, Could be verse, epiphany, It is written, Lou, Music, nasha, night, nostalgia, poetry, Ustad | Tagged , , | Leave a comment