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.

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?

seriously!

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

Growth

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