Monday, November 5, 2012

From your being to mine, we shall live most of our realities in poetry,
Why do you speculate so much about the metaphors; there isn’t any!
For you always complain about corruption and God and lizards,
And sometimes, even about the taste of time in November
when the last leaf of autumn dissolves into the memory of earthworms.
But are there enough excuses or only, the remnants of text is an option.
Can I deceive you by speaking of melodies in travelogues, stories and silence?
‘why use a poor anesthesia for a scoundrel’, an anarchic romance!

Over the porch of age and yearning, life must become a toothless fairy
And you, the soloist of melancholy, suffocated by silly debates or mute arguments
do not blame me! This world enjoys mediocrity too much.
but this discourse was to be a prose, about dreams and butterflies; simplicity,
no visuals, no text, no radio at midnight and one day, silence will become a verse.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

come and travel with me

come and travel with me
while i propose the words to fly
over their back, we reach to the sky
a bit of sky in Kasheer,
a bit of river from my hamlet
composing a silent symphony.
when nights will keep the sun out
the warmth of my syllables will
play with your ink blue fingers.
often you will fall on my head
like the snow, soundless and pregnant
or like the perfect metaphor
of this age of growing
to that age of your memory
and my graying.
no, this is no dream or wish
this is a modest game between two hearts
of things more simplified and rare.
an art of invisible dancing
which always move forward
i will continue this jaunt of fantasy
between the smiles less shown
and stars we often talked about
now come and travel with me….

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

her desert...

it must float like a story
untold, unsorted
or like a memory of a river
rooted and blotted.

of selective theory and
matters of heart or
un-distilled emotions
of victim's soar.

entangled between the odds
a life of smiles and madness
must grow. A mute
symphony of peasants
is a sermon to the hills.
but who will welcome back
the evening, tired and torn
after a day inside the sun.

the wife or the daughter,
who gather tea and breeze
looks for a window
to scale the return of dawn
but these all are metaphors
of a protected memory
of a man from hills
and her desert.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

To you, in sleep

suddenly there was a race
not between time and its memory
but between a heart and its pace
of a canceled ticket to the ghost-town
of mind and reminiscence
then i read a decorated tale of agony
where reflections were vivid.

it was a morning, still i read it like a night
like a new born child's tongue
of his disorganized links and stories
of the precious sound the creature made
yet no one understood the words he say
the ignited world, who compliments often,
is fake or am i simply jealous.
my threads were weak, so can i befriend you
again and again, o heart in siege?

these words resonated from a cave
a cave near the river of a name
a name which is like the river - silent!
with a bond less melancholic
i rowed the boat while you sang a song
this voice is stale like your jewelery box
"tell me, how do you like it?"
of smile which remained my reply.
else i sung along the river, the moonlight
or becoming of a metaphoric rower.

in that room of strangeness
like a shy bride, i entered to eat cheese
in that room of familiarity
where things were in order or invisible
i entered again, now like a tigress
but life remained questionable of
my absence, your presence
records of cigarette leaving the ash
on a soul, invisible, inside your room
that soul was a sole witness
of our words, smiles, heartbeats
i wish i could wear the color
of your smile; i wanted a horse in
that shady lane, beside those animating vendors
who knew nothing of our brave tales, emotions
and i wanted an old man too, mediating
who would from a distance smile at
my hand in yours, my footstep behind yours
who would say in his absentmindedness
that we are made in heaven
but this is not a love story... or is it?
blame to my unrequited heart or head
or is it the unrequited poetry...
maybe ours is a story of life, a pristine one
a little subtle and more comical
of simple people in dissonant juxtaposed narration
of a bond which now stands beyond words
or too simple to be named, understood or refrain.
but i now i predict a futurity, a sure tense
and of a future where i shall
pray for a safe world there
near that cave, near that river.
and god who knows one language
of all poetry but no fabrication.
of prayer as silent as my past
to keep you safe and protect the truth
and the present tense, where i hold a book
of Fanon who will teach me about
a dark night and a black struggle but
i insist on carrying your words, your poems
of alfaaz, of blunt innocence, of my pause
and their sellers, of harkening and
of snow flakes, of first love and Neruda.
of my senselessness and of your sweetness
of this day and many like this
god bless the soul i meet often in dreams.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

I hate the fact that religion, caste and other such systems still hold the strength to divide us. I wish I was born in ignorance to such realities but these practices are the ugly side of a beautiful damsel called - SOCIETY. This cursed damsel attracts a lot of attention of the mass.

Mother, tell me something –
a painful truth about death,
In your sleep, will you hear my death's lullaby?
for if I had asked you this question in day light
I would absolutely get a slap tight.
But what if I die today,
will death question me about the God
I followed or misled?
and what if I have nothing to reply
no religion to swallow, no guiding light
and prudently, If I confess -
my mother is my religion (hahaha)
and she taught me right. (hehehe)
Will that settle my score in heaven?
Or should I wake you up, tonight?
because this word confuses me - Religion
because this world confuses me - Blindness
And I have a fear, dictionary says it’s nightmare
- the crying of god in burning temples
and in dilapidated halls of prayers
and in bombed churches of a bleeding cross
and chiefly in heart of mankind.
I think I now know what I have to say
- Death is my god, he is a cursed religion.
alike one mirror reflects another
Death would reflect death.
And this would be the end of the end
The greed would be over, the crime would be over
The injustice , the torments would be over
the scale between two men or lovers
or regions would be over.
This might end up in homicide.
A pleasant , devilish homicide in poetry.
Man, innocence, good things etc and etc
But this will kill everything
Devil, guilt, bad things etc and etc
Thought etc would die four times
But this would be enough, enough to stop
Since god knew of no happy ending
he invented it for innocent-little-naive child
And the old devil will raise a toast from hell
for his desirous beloved DEATH to reconcile.

©  Nidhi Sharma

Saturday, July 7, 2012


Do we realize each moment of our growth? Yes or maybe No!
Yes, because we keep a record of our age, because we celebrate the idea of life in tiny measures, because we count the things changed - in us, around us. We would frequent the mature habits but in the pattern of immaturity and would often miss the past. From a poet's world, I do notice the little things that would affect the so called phenomenon of life - living as a human. No, because we work not as poets or painters in real life but as salesman. As reality give us no time to wander in the direction of our pristine choices and we would drag ourselves to unkempt, unnecessary ways to survive. Or maybe we live in the times of too many distractions. And we, as a generation are great masters of amnesia.
I started writing when I was 18. I was in love then and it was the time to learn how to write. My hold over the language and grammar were pathetic and it still is. I like mistakes; I like my ignorance for the rules which are requisite to express a language not emotions. I like simple manipulations. I knew nothing about poetry and today when I quote Ghalib, I smell the forgery. But why am I pouring this in you; you have always been the silent blog. But then, I also like these delusional posts to no one. Like a lost letter which brings a new story of another world. Each time I write over you, I wish you could revert. There is always a meaningless pleasure in dreams or fantasies. A dream where my audience is my blog, my critic is my blog and my beloved receiver is my blog. But our conversation is a silent affair. And seriously, life till date has taught me enough lessons on silence.
  These poems which I update today were written in Delhi. A city worth abusing, a city worth observing, a city one must ignore and a city which makes me stronger. I must stop now or continue on another day.

To you, 
My blog for being with me or maybe to me,
for being with you since 2007.

On May 20th, 2012 

Have you ever killed a story?
ah! why am I even asking it 

we often kill a few, knowingly we do
inside us, outside us.

we, the engrossed murderers of our own stories
suffocating the words, I reached my epitome
frozen memories were turning into stones
inside me, outside me.

what will I write to you, beloved!
when I see nothing beyond my ignorance
all the light and the enlightened
all the charms and the unrequited
etcetera, etcetera they all march
towards my eyes and heart
they lament about the world
they admire the objects around
what will I write to you, stranger!
when I see nothing beyond your ignorance

thus I kill my story tonight
for my meaningless audience
for my silence and their applause
and for my unspoken words

©  Nidhi Sharma

On June 23rd, 2012

one day we wake up, 
we shake the insomniac heart
and let the mundane mind sleep
we put up an old song
a reminder of mistakes and denial

a sweep from the lands of memories
ah! we humans are disquiet lovers.
we, the one with choice of blood
to mercy , to kill
in silence, music has voids to fill
but were we not talking about an old song?
the song which is now the face,
the body and the soul of numb time
the heart shakes me again
"why do you babbler again and again"!
these games, only a poet can play
"mrs robinson" , "iss mod se jaate hain"
my music has nothing else to say.

©  Nidhi Sharma

On June 28th, 2012

i am old and grey tonight
or i speak like one
but this is not what i wish-
to write, to express or to deliver.
life is about colors

white for my really old mother
red for my unborn child.
of not all but for love
i see it as a color which alters,
not like the Chameleon
it wishes to survive, why blame the poor!
but like an absolute nonsense
if that word still exists, honey
the only color that remains which
with madness not age
i see , clear and bright
is of love; love that is ageless yet old
tired yet bold
and like an extinct breed
hibernates in our memories.
i must think of art now.
the art of canvas or translation or love, again.
or maybe should i borrow the soul of Taj Mahal
the mass and mediocre symbol of love.
i must never visit you Agra for that love!
it is hideous
darling-dead-gone-labourers of faceless history
i must forget the name of the contractor
was it Shah Jahan?
oh! i am old tonight.
come sit by my side
lets wage a war of words
on that love which people sms
every night.

©  Nidhi Sharma

On July 5th, 2012

season of tea, memories of rain
far from this desert of exile
a beloved city awaits for my train
did we talk about a funny story 
how the paper-boat celebrates the rain

from the world of invisibility, i hear
my child in Gaza calling me insane
yet the children in Taliban afloat
their stories on boats, when it rains.
Wash this fallacy, wash the blood stain
wash the incompetent ruins,
wash the flimsy bane
plant few seeds, when it rains,
of hope and freedom
of things we believe in
save my last child, Gaia;
the mother and the children of rain
Ofcourse! i miss you 'Agha', tonight
and every night, for what remains
as the rain decides to
runs down the slopes of Zabarwan
i shall write and people would stare
i shall shout and people would care
i shall rain and let everyone rain
and the voids of sin will be full
for who has seen sun and pain
shall celebrate a different rain
let the monsoon begin!

©  Nidhi Sharma

Friday, June 15, 2012

i write less. i don't want to write but when the urge to write exceeds the urge not to write. i write but i write less, unfinished stories and poems that's what i write. 'the end' is a difficult part of writing. if u have unfinished stories, u become a poor person.

.............O! my lover and my beloved
Of samosa and perishable longing
I have kept your promises
Inside the depth of zero-poetry
For every bitter truth marries a sweet lie
suffocating a tribe of lovers that will briefly die.................

Thursday, April 19, 2012

as the night begins after 11
i am back to where i belong
obscure lanes,
shady lamps,
blue haze settles
and then i see my 'poems'

the devil dance
the priest locks the temple
i hear the mourning of a little girl.
where are angels tonight?
in bounded books
or hallucinating a simple poem.

i think of exile, every so often
they celebrate it as homecoming
and then they feast on my words
every so often
words can be pretentious
and promises forsaken

i hear the bell
time stops, no more counting
no more poetry beyond this point
i pack my soul
Satan delivers me to hell
and all i miss is solitude.

Monday, February 27, 2012

Inside a little girl’s heart
Were bigger beasts of Lethe 1
and unreached.

For each composed – ‘born as an angel’
Resonated as ‘the devil in disguise
To his silences,
to her whispers.

Time took her lessons
As age gifted her the presents
Word, reword, 
lost words.

As a maiden mother of Life
this Irony wore the best of cloak
From Nietzsche, 
toward him.

Like walking with a void
With self, in loss,
to Kashmir 2
Are we strangers ‘Kashmir’?

A bond beyond speech and silence
Is that the scar of longing?
(…Ye Dagh-e-Arzu Hai?)3

To that single drop of faith
In all the extended tragedies
She commits a sin
now and then

A little less mind, 
a little more thinking
Incomplete yet abstract
We, the complete poetry.

1.Lethe in Greek mythology a river in Hades; the souls of the dead had to drink from it, which made them forget all they had done and suffered when they were alive.

2.Kashmir is the home of Agha Shahid Ali.

3.A line from Allama Iqbal's Chand.

Monday, February 20, 2012

woman in a metro

picture by BOGOTRON

“Stand clear off the closing door”

I am deaf. No. Earphoned.

Machine-woman, say it once more.

A little malnutrition girl.

A fat giant lady.

A naked. No. Half – covered teen.

A group of menopauses.

Words in. No. Words out.

One drops, five newly count.

This is WOMEN only!!

Did you not hear it pervert?

Yes. No. Wow!!

“Stand clear off the closing door”

A warning. No. A shameless sign.

Government wears a condom

I see. No. We see.

Then rapes the audience.

Voters please drink tea. No.

Vote. But tea? Fundamental right. Tea?

Rape. No. Get raped. No. Only vote.

Are you sane? No. Then drink tea and vote.

A women. No. A chick

Speaks about right and then wrong.

Gets tangled. No. Was born deformed?

Half-read, Unaware. Foolish yet special.

So gentlemen

“Stand clear off the closing door”

Reserve a bogie for ladies

Because men were born shameless

No. Polemic. Who cares?

Women have become overbold

Reserved. Raped. Yet empowered.

absurd scribble makes more noise.

And her silence is a lost tongue.

Still. Yes. In the crowd of strangers

Virtuous. Vicious. Yet beautiful.

Is a woman.

As I stand clear of this closing door

I see too much to blame. Yes.

I count too less to acclaim. No.

This has been a daily game. Yes or No?

Curse the unfortunate

And challenge the same.

But everyday like a victorious Athena

The metro. No. A mineral vein.

A masculine. No. A true feminine.

Makes this city grow. Yes. Live. No. Breath.

Yes or No?

But like a separated. No.

Like a working class heroin. Yes

It lives with an uncertain ending

for each blank verse she compose

and the door she wishes to be close.


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Poet Of Minutes** by Nidhi Sharma is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at