The Wall

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing,
There is a field.  I'll meet you there.
(RUMI)

I pass by these walls, the walls of Layla
 And I kiss this wall and that wall
It’s not Love of the houses that has taken my heart
But of the One who dwells in those houses 
(Qays ibn al-Mulawwah)

sawariya was an illusion and you are a distant dream

Beyond this BOOK of FACES, there is a WALL
Behind this WALL of delusional socializing, there are REAL FACES
These UN-photoshopped faces are either ugly or handsome.
Whatever the adjective be, they are themselves behind this WALL
The face that expresses freely, speech which stammers easily;
Where dumb blonde fools only the dumb eyes
And it is only behind this wall, my beloved!
That no expression remains frozen for a display pic
The profile picture remains single unless a face lift is done
For the thin lines of time and age over the human face
Will never be referred as wrinkled phase
Out beyond these walls of illusion and internet
There is a field; I’ll meet you there.

Beyond this networking, my city lives with its chaos
Keeps itself haphazardly philosophical and dynamic
Unmasked, burning and running behind something that shines.
There are stories of art and architecture in my city, untold and unheard
But no button to share appear past this wall’s screen
For few men still greet you with smiles which are not face-booked
Chaiwalla at the chaupar, unknown to this world behind the great wall
Is uploaded in an album – “flavors out of mall”; the irony is unseen beloved!
Children playing beneath this wall have outgrown from the uniforms of innocence
Women appear more sensible and less empowered behind this windowless wall
And for an artist, he himself becomes a subject of his own canvas within this hall
Teachers-pupils play hide and seek while education seems busy updating its fall
And “mail the assignment” sounds familiar to “save the paper” over the wall

None of the emoticons can imitate my heart here
Nor will it be measured by like or dislikes of this wall
For my grudges and fears become real when
I read your chat with other nymphets on this naked wall
We shall promise to be each other’s and forever on a chat box
And when I ask you to hold my hand, you oblige the wall.
The status of one’s heart can never be constant
So is the amusement of “being single” or “committed” marked over a wall
Have we forgotten that the wounds of Manjun are eternal prizes?
And even words fail to compliment the glory of his Layla
Or are we accustomed by the wall between the two hearts?
The pleasure of a concealed beloved is poetic not profound
Still o silent beloved you remain unreal beyond these walls

© Nidhi Sharma

Make me a poet, tonight !

O mother, do you realise that
I have never been a lover of isolation
Nor am I a good cook.
In fear of the nameless silence
I strike the utensils and sleep no more.
Do you remember that noise?
When I was hopelessly preparing tea
And the entire kitchen appeared to disregard me.

Don’t keep me away
For as long as I say
That I can manage to stay
Though the world has enough inventions
To keep my emotions at bay
But nothing can be as treasured
As you mother, even if i don’t say!

The night is the blackest of all
The rain is a reminder of my great fall
Solitude would sit often besides me
It practices a lullaby at the edge of my pencil
And we would sing a song of separation until
The fairy tales, the lullaby and my blank verses
Appear abstract; often incomplete and full of curses

Maa, you must know
I need a presence of god in my life
Neither because I need fear to make him exist
Nor because he is the object of worship
But because I believe in love
Because I see an imperfect god in you
And because your presence makes sense
Whereas god is just a beautiful idea

Come back soon
As perfect as you went away
And i will dance with Shahid*, tonight
For he once whispered to me
My mother is my poem.
And it’s forever the mind which understands
That those Rooms are never finished
Where a poet muses about his heart.

Shahid* - Agha Shahid Ali

© Nidhi Sharma

play the music
comes the melancholy
for such are
the melodramatic moment
of umpteen memories.

the world of veil
the world of vile
for such are
the enigmatic pleasure
of god and guile.

the faithful servant
the hostile belief
for such are
the disregarded reasons
of a world with fair irony.

dry is the ink
blank is the paper
for such are
the traumatic phase
of being an aimless writer.

i might stop
i might continue
for such are
the optimistic persuasion
of a voiceless solitude.

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Man and Woman Contemplating the Moon, a painting by Casper D. Friedrich.

LOVE IS THE MOST ELUSIVE STATE OF HUMAN HEART... 

One fine day...

(un) known

(un) wished

(un) lived

(un) named

(un) truthful

(un) baffled

becomes...

(un) loved 

suddenly...

(un) finished

and...

(un) done.

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taste of blood

song of banshee

locker of mistakes

finale of memory

culture of chaos

dreams of fallacy

remains of Sita

kiss of lunacy

aah ! the human

ooh ! the ideal

i am death's poetry

and that's an ending.

* don't remember whats the source of this picture.

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amnesia benefits past
i f
history is absent.

memories stain present
i f
past is a disgrace.

ignorance helps future
i f
the world is a graveyard.

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unkempt choices

This night has no sleep for me

And the bank of my dreams appears empty,

So I turn to a white paper

The blank page refuses my ink,

So I look for words to be read.

The syllables carry frenzied look for me,

So I fill the colors for my canvas.

The brushes become brittle in my hand.

So I switch to a new television box.

The visual dances are alien for me.

So I lit a cigarette and play my guitar.

The strings shiver and shrill at me.

So I look at the moon and admire the stars

This darkness invades my endeavor again.

And thus I allow the mirror to reflect my scars.

which echoes the chaos of unkempt choices
again and again.

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LoVe

Once upon a time, a sensible heart was sick. The heart did everything to recover but all efforts , medicines , prays were futile. Even the God and his friends were confused of the malady from which heart was suffering. The heart became a poet then. At last, God consulted his greatest strength and foe - Satan. Satan examined the heart and found a little part of it missing. The whole domain of the creator was now engaged and ordered to find the missing part of the heart.         
      The wind chased the melody. The water stirred the stillness. The earth incited the roads. The fire ignited the slumber and the void ( according to Japanese philosophy of 5 elements) got filled. It was the missing part of heart which was now a part of void.
        The Satan accused the void of stealing the part of heart. The void has unaware of the whole case. It was always hollow to grasp the essence of presence and thus had no explanation of what the missing part of heart was doing at its abode. God could do nothing but punish the void for the uncommitted sin.The helpless void after trails and arguments, agreed to bear the punishment only if the missing part of the heart becomes a part of void and was never to return to the place of it origin. Satan convinced god to accept the stated condition and since then the heart is sick and the void suffers.
That missing part of genuine heart which the void keeps as a token of punishment is LOVE.

* This is fiction. God, the heart, the void and Satan are metaphors.

TONIGHT

Do not wait for the beloved’s sight,
He will walk a different path tonight.
The arrival of expected will last but at eternity
Whose kohl will mourn of its blackness, tonight?

The air hums a hollow tune under moonlight
The street of heers awakes in crimson’s delight
Is it the funeral of hope or the heena fading away?
Or stained memories of the unknown, tonight?

Under the spell of uncertainty, silence silent with fright,
Since the senile truth was fueling Satan’s might.
They unlock the darkest morning sky in her eyes,
And she forgets the meaning of love, tonight.

May we kill the beloved tonight?
Before they take him away from our sight.
Or at the altar of insanity as the whirling dervishes
Burn the ego and fill all the voids, tonight?

For the agent of our faiths is not an ordinary man
As he creates enough maze of moaning and clinging
Yet the beloved waits across the river of separation
And the poetry seeks of its union with him, tonight.