A silent dictum

My poem on  Maitreya Statue of Buddha -33 metre shown ,symbol of peace facing Pakistan in Nubra Valley in Indo -Pak border , Ladakh.


Amidst the lofty snow clad peaks

Guarding all his beloved cliques,

Below the canopy of splendorous sky

Saving valley from age old wry,

Resides Maithreya in the hope of peace

Wishing odium across the border shall soon cease.


 Either side of border line

Had pretty much the same destine,

Still they probed every crossing soul

Except breeze and cloud that abide no rule.

Petty human showed each other hatred face

Forgetting all belonged to same human race.


His hands gestured symbol of calm

Inviting embrace across, free from qualm.

 Authorizing drift of every tranquil cloud

 So no mother has to cry over her child’s shroud.

He reined the alluring valley

Hoping peace for every human in the alley .



The poem was initially published in  @jullaeofficial  and the pic credit goes to them


tHE wAit


Hey….. Where are you? she whispered

The plush bed and her wine wet lips waited for his caresse .

She hushed the world around,

And played  music that could drown them into the depths of night.

The white sheet and her long locks

Swayed to the strokes of the stealthy wind.

The lights were  dimmed ,

She  slithered  and shut her eyes hoping his hands to clasp her tight.

Hey where are you?  Her whispers turned to clammers

Still there was no trace of him

Time went by and finally the knock was heard

It was not him… But mommy dearest call for wake.

Sleep ditched her last night too

As she kept waiting for him to  come.

She savoured memories of no qualm-

nights of childhood days,

and wished some day she could mend her ways with her long lost love.




#pic credit to owner


Different Hues

Down the boulevards, beyond the abstract

There is a deep blue tainted wall of reality

Every girl gets hung out there to be gauged by the clique,

The onlookers came along and computed their traits

The colour, the geometry, all were quantified.

Some were picked not knowing its hankering,

To be stitched on to a montage.


Many left, and the wall was almost empty.

Leaving the remnants to wonder what went wrong,

Is it the beauty? Or is it their worth?

Impelling irony to join the beholders.


The alteration is needed in notion of folk

That all worth depictions is not dyed in pink,

But some are made of all different hues.




Header credit :To the rightful owner

Perfect Better Halves

via Daily Prompt: Detonate


The mighty Phoebus galloped along the edges of the mountain

Tracing the silhouette stark of his valorous army

Deployed him on a sturdy pinnacle.

His golden cloak fluttered in ablaze behind.


His shimmering sword slayed every eye that lifted to raise a question

Ensuring every eye lid fluttered in concurred.

Every pawn around had a stealthy shadow that traced their path

To guard the loyalty of every being towards his reign.

He encircled terrain all day armoured as hawk,

Until he ebbed away for his alluring queen.


She alighted into arena in her silver glow with

Pitch black royal cape embellished with topaz beads.

They smudged into one another, Colouring in each other’s hues that detonate,

Giving away to one another, yet being distinct about ones identity

In a total moment of submission, owning each other

They kissed goodbye in the prepossessing twilight.

Lord made his way for the beauteous lady regnant to her fullest self,

Until the role reversal transpire in the dawn.

They were the perfect better halves ever to be known.

Unraveling Poetry


My last two posts coincidentally have been poems. (Let me tell you I am not an expert on poems or sonnets or technicalities but just someone who enjoy reading and writing it).

I have a set of friends who always give feedback on my write-ups  and I was surprised at the reaction of most of them when  I referred  a poem for their opinion.

They are like “I’m not into poems”, “poem is not my cup of tea”.

They were so reluctant to indulge in poems. It’s like some extravaganza.

 I was taken aback at their apprehension about this genre, “But how can you miss out on this unique worldly pleasure” was my doubt.

It leads me to think why poems or sonnets or that form of writing is different and not every ones cup of tea.This post is you can say, a kind of soliloquy connected to it.

Poems are a kind of weed…its intoxicating .The unknown pleasure of savoring each word in it, the joy of unraveling each layer of hidden thoughts in every line needs to be experienced and can’t be explained. When you hear the lines of Lord Byron  like:

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes .

You can do nothing but fall in the trance of that beauty.

Poems are like sarcasm …if you don’t get the crux behind, it seems to be unappealing and can be even annoying. You just need to have that interest to pick the nuances and deciphering the clues and metaphors which writer has left silently behind. (In short one should have that Sherlock home’s instinct). You just cannot miss a beat.

 In Sylvia Plath poem Metaphor where she states “I’m a riddle in nine syllables” which she follows by seemingly unrelated metaphors  to elephant, a ponderous house, and loaf’s big with its yeasty rising actually refers to her stages of pregnancy.

and when she ends it like:

I’ve eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there’s no getting off.

It actually makes you ponder what her state of mind is, was she indicating about this irrevocable journey of hers as a new beginning or her indecisiveness to stepping into motherhood. That ambiguity actually gives reader the space to participate and get involved in the creative process of writer through ones imagination.

 Poems have potential to hold volumes in few simple lines. Truly it reiterates the fact brevity is the soul of wit. The three lines by Robert Frost below manages to express a complicated doctrine.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Freedom of interpretation: The most attractive as well as the tricky dimension about poem is the degree of freedom of interpretations.

The unknown uff! or wow! That spurts when you read  a line impregnated with meaning and soul is truly a pleasure. Leaving with few such lines of William Shakespeare in Sonnet 116 which left me in awe.

 Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments. Love is not love 

Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove. 

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 

It is the star to every wand’ring bark, 

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. 

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 

Within his bending sickle’s compass come; 

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error and upon me prov’d, 

I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

Breakup over a coffee

The coffee brewed as their souls smoldered .

The rain drops beyond the window eavesdropped and passed by as they were fed with nothing but silence.

Duo sat across the table trying to read each other and holding volumes to divvy,

But all the clogged emotions ended,

in his sigh and in her aborted tears.


They reminisced as they were in a moment together after long

how their preferences bifurcated ….

He choose to chase the moon for her, but failed to reckon the glow of her eyes.

While She trailed behind yearning for his silent holds in moon lit night.

As the turmoils of reality snipped her fairy tale

She felt like the detached kite,

disowned by the string which she believed to belong.

Nor being a part of the sky which she presumed to own.


None wished to wrong the other,

But they couldn’t see their love being throttled and  decided to free it .

“So this is it” he said as they parted on a coffee.

And the “please stay” he wrote with spilled drops gleamed as they walked away

The incest of Gulmohar

Morning streak swept past ,

The lanes ahead embellished with her adorns

had a secret tale to unfold .

Trail of the night prior, they behold.

Night before, hummer breeze rose like a valorous knight

Kneeled past her seeking sanction to woo,

To which she rustled her leaves like laughs of gentle tease.

As though she was more than pleased.

The woods around jolted at their display of affection.

The flurry was like the hush of tattlers,

Who witnessed a new piece of news to trade .

The clouds pulled the veil and dimmed the light

She danced along and shied, to bait.

Every time he tried to whisper or whisks her hair

She glided past letting the breeze past abreast.

Dodging all attempts to clench

And putting his efforts in vain.

She showed tantrums like implausible

muffled and flirted with the raindrops ,

They played along and swayed along.

Unaware of charade, envied wind hustled them so hard

Till every drop of rain slid away.

The mellow hummers set the perfect undertone

For all the emotions and passion to swirl along.

Finally he made a passionate whirl to the waltz,

Ruffled her and swept her off the buds.

As she lay on lane beneath with undisclosed love

The whole wild wood tattled about the incest of gulmohar.

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