To Maple

We felt fountains of darkness flow on our bodies.
A state of challenging coldness,
Not the brain, but the mind got hypothermic.
It was a moment when love was the Only Light,
Every other second, love was that first apple.

Immortality at grasp, words became pawns.
Infinity for few seconds, all our remaining years were compensated.
Intuition was all lucy’fied.

To cafune.
To caress.
To lock.
To still.
To get out.
To live.. we decided.

It was outside the unity of time.
An A minor and an F.
An Alleregretto was overlooked and stayed away from.

It never marched to the unity of place.
This bed could have been the other side, I promised to meet her, last time.

It did not heed to the unity of action
We don’t believe in anything completely, ever.
All lasted, until the second, her hand hovered over my shoulder.
I believed in the ambiguity she was.

Electric impulses started trotting,
It was by the usual route
But, slower.

And what followed was the world’s most beautiful cliche..

This abyss
stripped us of our doubts.
What I couldn’t tell in light,
I stammered through all night.

We were lying.
We weren’t lying.

The curtains and spreads still hold on to that dark night.
They still howl it to us through the winnowing winds.

just barath

To follow the other poems of the series:
To Miss.Autumn
To my fall
To my St.Martins Summer

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To Miss.Autumn

I have always wanted a 3 AM conversation,
A 5 AM Good Night
and A 10 AM Office Check-In.

It happened in the movie that I watched with her favourite coffee,
her second favourite couch
and her memories.

But, then I got into this relationsleep with dreams about strangers!
Did you, for a second think
I would have the pleasure of having
Strangers in my dreams?
It was her, always

Nothing mattered.
To her.
It would have.. But she never told me about that later.

How am I supposed to give her the right surprises
and go ring her doorbell twice, exactly when she needs me?

How can I find out the perfect gift, everytime?

How can I not lose to her when it comes to me showing my romance?

How can I not be the repaired toy?

How can my hyper-metropic eyes talk to hers, when the dumb mouth spoils scenarios everytime?

How can I sing when I hate my own voice? I surely do!

But, she knows things, that people have never heard of.

She knows that I’m the one who is trying to love her!

She knows that Cinema is my Shangri-La

She knows that my voice is that of a goat.

She knows that I have wanted to kiss her behind the neck.

She knows that
I’m not the fancy that poems are made of.
I’m the fancy that makes poems.

She knows that I am never perfect without a heartbreak.

Maybe, she decided that a perfect soul will only be hers to live by..
And that can be the only reason for her to have broken it and look into it
some random day,
by the Decay.
If her heart may
decide to sway
by Memories that lay

-©just barath

The next one-

To my Fall

One, one person

image

“Chai, chai”, the dirty, uninteresting tea vendor was shouting by the Railway Station. But he was interesting to just one person in the entire crowd. One, one person. He checked his purse. Counted the last 2 rupee coin and it summed up to 17 rupees. He looked for the uninteresting tea vendor, who was long gone. Long gone into the crowd filled with many one persons, 17 rupees and black pens.

Little did his supporters realise that 17 rupees and unquenchable dreams are an irremovable part of him and his unique, impractical race.

They tried consoling him with words when only  shoulders and lies can save him. They tried giving him luncheons when only spiral notebooks and Writing softwares can save him and Yes! By law of nature he knows he will consider it stupid in a few days. They tried making him joyous by appreciating every little step he took when only he could see his skill rotting.

He remembers lots of things, even things which he wants to forget. And that gave him Words (Fortunate or Unfortunate, his readers will decide!), and then started a War between his Heart and Mind, a WALK OF SOLITUDE to fucking Neptune.

And still he decided to walk with his 60-year old lean shoes, catching his Branded Low-hip jeans from going down, holding his shoulders high to get hit by every crafted entrances of rooms towards death and also towards his home as he finally bought a cup of coffee from another uninteresting tea vendor with his Ticket Amount. He wanted to write when he reaches home with a pen that he had to shake well in-between 27 words to be precise,,,

-just barath
“©”(This is the funny bone’s work)

the first awk-word letter

image

In love with a Pen.

Yes! I’m actually writing you something. This paper would find a place somewhere in your closet or your drawing table or might be folded into two for saving the edges and kept inside your Journal. I don’t care about where this paper goes. I just am standing here, under this cloud adrift, with fear, not sure if I can send these words, and by words I mean its crux into you. For inside this ‘o’ I have hid my madness and how I exclaim for the mere sight of you, over the title of all the ‘i’ in this letter, my love is standing, surviving the cold of all lonely nights. Every single alphabet that I scribble is for you, and you alone. Just decipher it and wink _____. That is the only moment I can survive without looking at my distorted reflection in your eyes.

I feel so awk-word now. After hitting you with so much out of my confused heart, I am. For I am not the incessant muse kind or the Love-Quotes kind. I am just the Basic-Love thing, with one-off definitions of this feeling. Need I say more! Say “Yes” for I have got so much to tell to you and reimburse for the silence and seconds you have given to me, and also the seconds that I took myself. Bear with me babe, stand with me, walk with me, save me by leaning on my shoulder, feel the heat of my palm by placing yours inside it.

“Words can’t adequately describe love” they said. But words and thoughts about you are all I have.

I can’t see any Albatrosses, skylarks, daffodils, coffee mugs, mistletoes, lobsters or gods that can set my thought on sail. I can only see me! My distorted reflection in your eyes and its image.

It got me into way too many thought-cycles and art-blocks. And proceeding to the next words are getting tough now. This is something I foresaw. Stay with me, if you can. Hope this letter finds you in good health. And I don’t know when this is going to…

Happy Life, anyways…
Only Yours until Oblivion.

-just barath©

The Not so Serious Post!

What am I doing? Why am I not publishing any posts on my blog? I am supposed to write, type and publish. But here I am typing out a reason why I have not posted any work on my blog. I’ve had the resources. A Pen (A Brand New One! Like that Matters a lot ), Empty Sheets, the Borrowed Laptop, my 2G Internet Connection and an Empty Mind. Still, there is something that prevents me from writing.

It’s like all the Rain, its noise on your roof, the drops that fall on you after it hits the window sill, the Hot cup of Coffee, the blurred Sight of your Neem Tree in that hustling Night, the smiley that you just drew on your window pane, the Uncomfortable Office Chair, a Slightly raised writing arrangement, no Mobile phones, no one asking you to go to the shop nearby, the messy room arrangement that helps you from not getting distracted admiring the wall or your Childhood Photo, the Nature’s Alarm that you did not set, a cool pillow for extra comfort when you lean, the sound of clicking the Ball-Point Pen(What do you exactly call that kinda Pen?), someone singing your favorite song from the top of a hill, the glasses that never let you sleep when you lean on your desk, the cool appreciation and advice you got from the people who mean a lot to you, an Award Nomination that you received from your blogging buddy about which you actually know nothing and your heart’s deepest desire which YOU now want to be only a memory could not get me write the first sentence.

For these problems, people might blame their mind for being so messed up with stuff ranging from exams to results to responsibilities, but in my case it was just my Stupid, Immature Heart. It controls my every Sub-Conscious.. Whatever you call it stuff. It’s just enjoying the rest I am giving it and never wants to get back to work even after I tell it “It’s not a Sunday Stupid!”.

Should I Continue Writ

P.s- The last sentence means that I have slept in the midst of this typing process.
Did you smile now (I mean an Angry Smile, at least?) If so kindly comment because, I could consider that my MISSION was just ACCOMPLISHED. The Rest of this post would be posted later Of course You’d have known what will be in it.

Hola!   – ©just barath