An Evening In The Summer

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Don’t draw the window curtains back
the sun outside hasn’t left the sky yet
Don’t use the letter to blow a wind around
the words haven’t worn out by you yet.

The bed sheet is free from the anxious creases
the pillow cover has covered it all in greases
It’s not the floor it’s your feet that are flaming
the roof is never asked, the walls say they are burning.

How long will you hold the umbrella?
the febrile wind knows it ways to reach
It’s an evening in the summer of nihilism
don’t open the door of your balcony
moon is yet to kiss the sky without skepticism .

-Kritika Vashist

 

The Routine

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Color of the sky changes
from blue to grey to black
the wind that had resting
like a hope in some corner of the room
finally blows and swipes off the grime.
I had reached home late tonight
I did it all again, like everyday
I tried to ask the routine
and wondered if that is
how it is supposed to be
I walked a bit slow,
waited to catch another train
I passed a smile to the woman
who seemed to be doing
all again, like everyday
Her stiffness in expression
told that she had learned the routine
unlike me, she was prepared.
A few drops that earlier fall lightly on me
are now dripping down fast without spaces
I hear their sound,
I wonder if they are trying to hush the wind
I notice the wind pushing them
but each raindrop together
makes the dust to settle down, and now
I have this sight in my eyes, not the dust
But it doesn’t rain everyday.

-Kritika Vashist

If I Could I Would

If for once I could loose the grip 

and the night here stays  

a night,

whose moonlit sky you control

I would be able to believe that 

if not the moon, 

the night has surely accepted me. 

– Kritika Vashist 

Got to know that April is the National Poetry Month, to celebrate poetry, and some have decided to write a poem each day. Although I think it’s unfair to writing when you push it, but I also feel that I can take this up for today at least. Share yours too. You may wish to tag me.

PS. Lately, I have been thinking about my blogger friends here. I don’t know why my Reader doesn’t show up posts by people I want to read, but I miss you guys.

I Wish You Had Bought The Train Ticket

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Sometimes I wish
that you hadn’t had to buy the plane tickets
to go back to the city
that will make you run throughout the day
and will give you some peace only at night
that still might not be enough for you.

I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because that way you would have got more time
to recall each moment that you lived while you were here,
how you disentangled all your worries
without even speaking about them;
how that night you didn’t have to hold a pillow to sleep;
how you didn’t have to put an alarm to go to work;
how each hour you spent seemed to scamper;
and how when we sat under the sky late evening,
you could just brought few pieces of your stories,
(maybe you could have completed those in the train,
and I am sure that with your poetic soul,
you would have inked the pages you haven’t spoken to for long)
I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because while unfolding the letters
I had written to you few hours before you had to leave,
you would have known that
I picked those pieces of your stories,
to save them up for the time
when nobody would be in a hurry
to reach the airport, or anywhere.

I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because when you look through the window
while the trees and clouds pass each second,
you realize that the sun is still there
moving with you;
and while you leave everything behind,
you carry poetry and songs
written only in your head
about how the distance could never make you love someone less,
and a few questions about yourself –
questions whose answers lie in not knowing.

Now that you have boarded the plane
to fly back to the city that awaits you, but never misses you;
soon you will find yourself as
another lonely soul among the crowd;
however, the waves at night
would definitely listen to you;
and while the wet sand
offer some comfort to you,
I wish you find the answer to
how we always try to save time,
but end up having so little,
that it just slips with the thought of having some more,
and then maybe
book the plane tickets to return before winter arrives.

– Kritika Vashist

Every Night When I Am Bewitched By You

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Every night when I sit to write
a word or two to tell you
about this loneliness I despise
I end up turning the pages
one by one of our memories
as I cry
as I cry
and when my eyes get tired
and I finally to go sleep
I hold you closer than
my own heartbeats
and I see you there with me
in my dream
in my dream
lying next to me
running hands through my hair
singing me a lullaby that
you’re always here
you’re always here

-Kritika Vashist

Away From Home

 

Sitting miles away from your home
while it rains outside
you trace down the raindrops
slipping slowly with the time
as you begin to trace back
the roads leading to your home…

The music of the rain rhythms
with the words in her voice
playing inside your head
The petrichor takes you back
to trees, the blue sky and makes
you miss the fragrance of your home
The breeze passing through you
softly strokes memories, once again
And then in your loneliness
you wish if the warmth of that hug
was there to embrace you…

A few days back was my blog’s 3rd anniversary. I wish WP had informed me in time, nonetheless here is the poem.
Happy blog anniversary to me! 🙂
Thank you all for sticking around, reading and encouraging me.

Love and Hugs!
Kritika Vashist

The Sky That Was

The sky that was blue yesterday
is now strewed with the color of blood
and the God above is stifling
in the smoke from the bombs
and ashes from the fire
burning outside his visible residence
burning inside untainted souls
sabotaged by those in oblivion
while the noise of the guns
echoing with the silent prayers
is deafening the God above the sky that was…

The validity and worth of every space
that a human and his shadow occupies
is in the asseveration of the verses
those reprobates would never perceive
and while all those humans in peril
search for another sky
the one that is fair and brighter,
the silence of the peace and
the tumult of violence
tell that the heaven is not far
but the hell is here, where
no one will again witness the sky that was…

Bewailing the loss when the eyes would
look at a piece of the starry sky
stars would turn into countless tiny graves
and we won’t be looking either
at the God or the past
but the future that moves no further
than the sky that was…

– Kritika Vashist