Perfect

(Before I pen, I never know what I am going to write. I have no idea of how happy, sad, real or ironic is the write going to be.

Deciding between a poem and a story. Story wins)

So, there was this perfect day. On a perfect day, perfect things happen. Like: the sky is clear, the winds nice and slow, the house and car keys are right in front of you and friends bump into you at a super market. And also, you are not shot in your head. That never happens on a perfect day, unless you want to get rid of your life.

This is about a perfect day of an imperfect person. A man who was old, had a white head, who wore brown clothes and had a swollen face. He ate mosquitoes and lived on the streets. Obviously, his perfect world did not have a car, house, supermarket or friends.

Morning : A bus stopped by the street he lived on. A little girl with a little smile got off it, alone. She went to the imperfect man and asked him his name. The imperfect man, mumbled something imperfect from his swollen face. The girl gave him a bun to eat and left.

Noon: A bus stopped by the street he lived on. A woman of 30 got off it, alone. She passed by the imperfect man as though he did not exist.

Evening: A bus stopped by the street he lived on. A girl of 17 got off it, alone. She looked down upon the imperfect man and gave him some money. She walked away speedily. This was the last bus coming to that street .

Night: A calm breeze flew into the imperfect man's hour and brought him sleep.

Shringi

29 July, 2011

Compared to the fields, the towns are nothing

Compared to streets, houses are nothing

Rings in all ten fingers.

This place has become a temple where I emote. Since I am emoting, they must be my own expressions.

In a piece of glass, I see reflections of a woman and burning candles. I breathe the smell of it, and wait for another darkness.

There is a tiny hole in a very cemented wall, out of which music is escaping. The real world will soon witness a storm of coming beats. From this hole, then I will peep.

Whenever I think of meeting new shades, why does it have to rain? Whenever in the rain I begin to find, why does it have to bring and take back all colors with it? 

After words of sorrow and battle. After actions indicating conclusion. He in his overcoat left, he ran away such that nobody could follow. Nobody but music.

When I was young, my visitors wore coats. Now that I am older, many of my visitors are bald. (Whenever I wear a coat, I always stay at home)

Black and brown owls are in plenty in my garden. Few nights me and the black ones stare at each other; few nights the brown ones and me look at the moon.

If at all I fall in love, promise me, you will fall in love too. That love will not be of rains, words or of trees, that love would be a little less real.

Green cat, Orange rain

I have a story to tell

of a green cat in orange rain

tell you,

why she runs away

The rain is falling hard

and its color is orange

she needs a shelter, like you and me

maybe, she wants to catch a shade

She is not running away

She is a dreamer

Before the orange rain stops to fall

She wants to see the flavor it gives to the Irises of Arles.

The cat is lost
It never rains orange
maybe, she is in the fields
maybe, she did run away

Shringi

July 22, 2011

Painting : Irises by Vincent van Gogh - 1889

Sad crow

The crow

: she carries a song of distress to me

While I sing, she croaks.

I will leave her alone.

This persistent croaking will break the sky into tears

In someone's sorrow, I will be drenched

her tears mixed with the sky's will fall down my cheeks

I wont know how to continue to sing

This night is luminous

I can see her many friends sleep next to mine

The rivers have closed their doors

The hills have drawn their curtains

I am left alone, in this white night

with a sad crow

who will break the sky down

I should leave her alone.

Shringi

July 20, 2011

The crow might just be croaking happily, who knows

The sky might just open up with colors. Who knows.

Moon in Flames III (series)

Tomorrow: sun falling on a dust clad road

Yesterday: heavy gray clouds making a distant sound

Today: the rains

I have come too far ahead

to remember how it felt, the movement of days

I remember vaguely how I looked at the sky on a winter night

how in the moon, I found flames.

Shringi

July 14, 2011