You saw it from a distance
I smelled it around
You took a step
I saw it coming towards
Towards,
A bit of you
A lot of me
The sky wore an unusual cloth that day
You saw it dying
I saw a shadow on it
You threw it away
I took it with me.
– Kritika Vashist
In the woods,
I could see green trees,
and feel the embracing wind,
while hearing the music of our footsteps
as we walked together, at the same pace,
holding our hands firmly,
like the leaf holding its branch.
I remember you telling me about spring
under those filtered bright sun-rays
in the sound of silence.
I remember feeling like a butterfly
on the most beautiful flower.
In the woods,
a season passed and autumn came.
I stood under the almost bare tree
when the unfiltered sunlight fringed me.
I remember you loosing the grip, walking fast,
crumbling the fallen leaves, abstractedly.
I remember feeling lost in that noise
on the trail leading me nowhere.
In the woods,
I waited for the spring you told me about,
but it never came.
-Kritika Vashist
After being away for so long, I realized that it requires a lot of dedication and efforts to maintain your blog and write something regularly. Also, during this time I lost track of a few friends here, but I hope the rest (I still see them here) are doing well. So, in case you remember me, here is a hello from my side. 🙂
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
Between the curtains draped
around the jammed window
and the air that fills the empty room, I’ve seen a light travelling
through and within.
I often call it
the love you left
when the windows were open
and the room had your shadow.
– Kritika Vashist
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
Let our glasses clink
and some wine spill
like words that were said
like hearts have bled
Let that sound write
the end, which begins tonight.
– Kritika Vashist
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.
50 Words Story
The dead silence in the room started to fade away with darkness’s long moans. His whispering sounds stirred with my racing heartbeats. His slow steps ordered the moonlight to enter through the cracked window and cleave our shadows. My first time with my ghost unfolded the meaning of beautiful melancholy.
– Kritika Vashist
It was dark again, outside and inside
I reached out for your hand, trembling
like a little girl who is just about to die
and you played your game of hiding
while I could trace your breaths in silence
and you told me you never found me
when I never hid behind specious curtains
I looked in your eyes and counted ways
you pushed me away saying there aren’t any
turning my solace into an impassable maze
and I still cried that I want you, in fear
but you turned away to close the window
shadowing the moonlight that torched my tear
making space for me to shake, guess, break
for your second opinions, but never to make
The walls I painted for you ached with pain
were they paintings or a meaningless stain?
the tired eyes warned of approaching sorrow
and love asked if there was one more day to borrow
my hands frayed from all the letters they wrote to you
shaking and wanting, only if you had written a few
but it was dark again
and you couldn’t see what I had to bear
but it was dark again
I wonder why you never tried to hear
Every time after I left and before I entered in
I realized how you cleaned debris of the truth
but couldn’t understand how some still stuck my skin
every night before I slept, every day before I was awake
you disappeared into the darkness without saying a word
except that I should drop it all, you have no time to take
but it was dark again, darling
between the time my eyes opened and closed
and I could see the truth clear and stark
it was all in the dark and the darkness exposed
and it was dark again
I was stupid enough to instill your love
to forgive you, to love you with tattered hopes
and you were fool enough to think
I am not familiar with how darkness envelopes.
-Kritika Vashist
He waits for her at the ambit of love.
She enters in anticipation.
He latches the door.
She opens herself up.
He kisses hopes.
She keeps aside the uncertainties.
He clutches his fingers into hers.
She slips into him effortlessly.
He brushes his teeth habitually like every night.
She drinks a glass of water before sleep.
He snores lightly deep in his slumber.
She opens her mouth while sleeping.
He makes exotic coffee.
She prefers hot tea.
He roves around house bare-chested singing.
She throws her wet towel on the bed.
He walks with her along the shoreline.
She sits beside him on the moist beach sand.
He dances with another woman in the bar.
She gulps down another glass squeezing her eyes.
He struggles to explain.
She lets the silence speak.
He turns on the fairy lights entangled in wine bottles.
She listens to their silhouettes’ muted conversation.
He writes about her without writing at all.
She starts her poems with him.
He moves with a gradual momentum.
She runs carelessly.
He doesn’t take the trouble to catch up.
She waits hopelessly for him beyond the ambit of love.
-Kritika Vashist
From the Soul to the nib of the Pen 