Seasons

At some point, you learn

That words are woven into stories,

Stories into lies,

And lies can make up a life;

That lies can make up a man;

That duplicity is contagious

As bad company corrupts good character.

At some point, you learn

That a coloured face can be a façade

And beneath is a can of worms

Feeding on nicks and cuts,

Picking on fresh, bloodied wounds

That will heal or won’t heal-

Only time can tell.

At some point, you learn

That a smile is just a mask;

That a hollow smile belies

The tempest in the heart –

Of rage, madness, and love,

Choosing different shades of grey

Over blacks and whites.

At some point, you learn

That an enemy multiplies kisses

But a friend’s wounds can be trusted;

That you hurt those you love,

And you’re hurt by those you love,

But you love anyway

Because you were loved first.

Love overcomes,

Looks beyond,

Overlooks the façade, the worms,

And heals.

And that Love is neither grey

Nor black nor white

But is red, scarlet

And turns your scars

As white as the snow

And makes you a new creation.

At some point, you meet Someone

Who sweeps you off your feet,

Promises you eternity,

And leaves a permanent mark on your soul.

Say “yes” and you are changed.

Forever.

Bridget’s Story

I look at your big, round, dark eyes
And sometimes wonder if they could ever reflect
The void inside you,
The battles never won,
And the battles you choose to walk away from.

Your big smile would dupe us,
It could betray the anguish in your heart,
But your silence never lies
And the tears you cry a reticent testimony
To the rage you suppress inside.

The walls between us hear the sound of your silence
And the ambivalence festooned in your mind—
To cry or not to cry, to surrender or fight—
As palpable as the fine hair on your head.

I once, twice, said you are pretty.
You laughed out loud
But what I heard was a hollow sound
Like random beatings of the drum—
Discordant.
For out of the overflow of the heart,
The mouth speaks not only with words
But also with the melody of laughter, or wailing
When you are rejoicing, or weeping.

If only the walls between us could speak,
They would tell of the shadows lurking in your mind,
Of the music playing in your heart,
But they are but that—
Walls.
So, I just look at your eyes,
And listen to your silence
And tears.

A Poem for the Eagle's Star

The rainy afternoon made me remember this poem. I wrote it in April this year and the edited version became part of the 28th edition (May) of the Poet's Picturebook--an ezine of photography, essays, and poems.


What the Rain Brings

The sky is downcast again today. At seven in the morning, a gray presence was looming over the city. There’s news of rain, of a storm actually…a storm in May, in summer. Isn’t it odd? Do you know that I remember you when it rains?

You crossed my mind when I looked at the gray sky today, when I stepped out of my house expecting to be greeted by the summer heat, but instead, there was the gloomy presence of the still air. Then, I caught myself: I have said goodbye, I should stop remembering you when it rains.

June is just within reach. I can already hear its sound—the start of the season of rain. I don’t want to think of you whenever it rains in June, or in July. I have said goodbye.

But, maybe, I need the rain. I need the rain not to remind me of you but to wash away every memory that I still have of you, to wash away even the littlest trace you still have in my mind and in my heart.

Today, I felt fear when I realized that the rain still reminds me of you. And I can’t go on feeling afraid of the rain just because it reminds me of you, because I need the rain, I have been asking for rain in this warm, sticky summer season. And the rain came, and the memories of you came…and I was afraid…but if the rain will wash you away from my being, then I will welcome it even more, even the monsoon season.