We Try To Capture Time

We try to capture time
in vases, in glasses and bottles of wine
but it dries;
in prose scattered across words,
in notes and dimes,
but it flies.

We try to capture time,
in the ice cubes that melt
at the first touch of your palm,
in the sugar inside the
cheese cakes when we dine,
but it all ends up emptied
again and again.

We still try to capture time
in games of charades and
questions we’d never ask anyone,
in one word texts
nobody really understands;
in fears we try to drown
by denying the world made
by our very hands.

We try to capture time.

On Days Like These

On days like these when the sand in the hourglass seems to be sliding faster than usual reminding you of how much of what remains to be done, let it not dishearten you, I tell myself, let is remind you of how far we’ve come.

There are days like these when turning pages seem the hardest most of all, when time flashes by as the to-dos of the expected life remain uncrossed,

On days overwhelmed by the possibilities the eyes can gaze through but afraid of the probabilities that play along,

When fear of the known chokes more, filling every vacant space,

On days like these,

Let us be.

Be with the wind as it erodes the flesh away,
flow with the river as it does since time immemorial,

Standing like a spectator between all of it.

On days like these,

Counting each second with hopes to slow it all down.

On days like these.

The Moment I fell in Love with Poetry

I couldn’t tell
the exact moment.

Maybe it was in 7th grade
when I memorized poems
for home work
so the teacher would not
be mad at me,
or maybe when I tried to
impress her for
3 extra grades.

Maybe it was the time
when two words I wrote
rhymed, and I became
a certified poet in my childish mind.

Maybe it was in 12th grade
when my crush wouldn’t look my way,
so I’d write about it everyday.
I didn’t know I’d really
laugh about it someday.

Cliche, I know.

Maybe it was the first time
I performed in front of strangers
about an animal and the man,
my throat ran dry
every time I had to greet someone.

Maybe it was when
we put up poetry evenings
in our college lawn
shaking but sure,
I decided to perform, a second time.

Maybe it was under the
moon lit February,
the day Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye
filled the air with echoes
of the arrival of love.

Maybe it was
taking a poetry class,
those meek yet subtle
lines that tied all of us together,
spilling truths we’d never tell
anyone alive.

Maybe it was that day
when I received a call for
a paid performance,
but it rained and rained on the
performance day,
not just once but twice.
And yet the soaking rain
made me grateful than sad.

Maybe it was all of those times
I’d divide a portion of my salary
to buy more poetry books,
uncovering secrets of human life
in lines.

Maybe it was in those days
when I couldn’t speak,
unable to devise an utterable word,
but still could write,
miles and miles.

I couldn’t tell
the exact moment.

I couldn’t.


This World Poetry Day, I tried reflecting back on when and where I fell in love with poetry. I couldn’t. I couldn’t. Like the veins of our bodies that run through each of our cells, I couldn’t find a place or a time when poetry was not there, sometimes in foreground, sometimes in background. 

Connection That Never Was

Funny isn’t it,
how some lines
drawn upon
people’s faces
smeared on their clothes,
stretched over their palms
draw them together,
the warmth of their voices
and the coolness of their existence
together at the exact moment
shake up the present.

And some other instance
the same lines
draw them
far away,
leaving the connection
that never was
in tatters.