Writing

Writing/Poetry/Parts of Scripts

Writing to me is processed memory. Fictional, non-fictional, what comes out of the memory, it doesn’t matter.

‘Dreams are more real than reality itself, they are closer to the self’. I couldn’t agree more with Gao Xingjian.

May 2012

Of You in Gray-Scale

Have you ever thought
of my dreams of you,
why are they
always,
always glowing
in gray-scale?
The contrasts are sharper,
our shadows much darker,
than they ever
seemed
when we were
together,
exchanging memories.
And then if time
is but memory,
then that makes
you a memory,
and that makes
you mine,
my timeless
memory.
Glowing
In your
scales of gray.

April 2012

What Ends

What is an ending
without
that sweet sorrow
I carry
in your name
A part of you
inside me,
settled within,
I wish you
the whiff
of that sweet deep sorrow,
without which
I don’t exist
nor do you

March 2012

Your Empty Cup

At the end of every thought
of you
is an empty cup
waiting to be filled
with whatever you
think
is the right way
to tell me
that
at the end of every thought
of you
is me.

What Must Be Done with a Beating Heart

You must keep
your heart
that beats for

lovers gone by
in an old
purse
of pleasant familiarity
so you can
empty it
on a sidewalk
on a rainy day
and feel
like you gifted
the world
a memory
that is alive
in a dead
container.

January – April 2011

If I Could

If I could join two dots,
I would,
for a walking dot is
a line itself;
I’d draw it
across the universe,
dab it in the sea
dip it in a rainbow
color it snow,
then
in a single rhyme,
I’d bring it
back to you.

What She Said

Its late tonight,
where did you go?
I’ve been waiting,
You have something
to show
as the bed creaks
and the sky leaks,
the snow reeks
of you
not
being
here.

What They Do to Her Head

There were puddles of grey whispers all around

as she walked down the street,home; having dwelled

in an evening of pregnant gossip,

only random strangers seemed lovable to her.

I Took You Home

I took your memories on the plane back with me, eating salted nuts, watching people, dreaming of another time, thinking I had left you floating midair with the clouds. Bittersweet-I came back to an empty city and found you waiting in my pocket like the last I peanut I had saved for the drive home.

When I Look at our Exes and Whys

Sometimes on rainy days
like these
I look at my exes
and your exes
and their exes

until they merge

into a single line of
algebraic symbols
little points of assumed fancy
and I realize
they look the same
I find myself wishing
I could just be
with them all.

When I Knew Who They Were

I looked outside
and saw my friends
blue eyed frosted cynics
inviting me in.
As they laughed and shook
their foreign heads
I asked,
Is the moment
more important
or the person?
Glass doors
they seemed opaque
but strangely
filtered some light in,
tiny streams
of yellow murky brown,
through the snow
of people
who belonged here

And Today I Shall Celebrate

And today I shall celebrate
Of love of longing of a reddish hue
Of a pulsating self that throbs

When I know you

Hooted winks that rest on those curves
And returning to an empty floor
Of a parched mouth longing for rum
And of dismay because it is eight
And the streets are dark and the men are drunk

And you can’t be because you’re alone

And today I shall celebrate
Of smoke from those nostrils
And of tubes of the plastic coconut honey paste
That keeps these curls just as you know them

Tight wild and lost.

And today I shall celebrate
Because this bottle is over
But my words are not
Nor the love the longing or the reddish hue
Of things that were old but now seem new

And today I shall celebrate

Because it has been long due.

One thought on “Writing

  1. neha,
    this is my first time ever at thewaywardcloud……i am truly amazed! though i could claim to “know you’ (because of our classes together) but…. do i really know you? does anyone? can anyone ever???
    i feel lucky to have been led to this place.
    more power, nay, words and strokes to you !!!

    Like

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