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

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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