Clearing clutter on a sleepless night

Sleepless

A little prayer whispered in the mind’s wakeful corners.
An experiment, flirtatious meditation
with a winter bird’s feather on my tongue.
Incense lit, it’s fumes inhaled
all the way inside, down to my gut.
Vacant eyes tracing sleep’s shadows.
But my mind’s eyes are lit
and its neuron highways buzzing
like the bullet trains in Tokyo.
Every noise amplified
every detail magnified.
It is on these nights
that memories are re-lived,
they are remade,
classified and archived, boxed,
and some trashed.

Twelve Moons

 

Meenakshi
Twelve black moons in your eyes
I wait for them to rise.
Twelve kisses unaccounted,
to sequin your moon-face.
Twelve dreams, nascent
tucked away in twelve corners.
Twelve more lives to be lived,
in twelve planets yet to arrive.
Twelve galaxies to saunter through,
twelve bodies to adorn.
Twelve magicians barefeet
twelve tricks sublime.
Twelve long years to salvation.

Small, Incomplete Departures

Sandakphu
He lights up a cigarette
and offers a generous smile,
A new glint in his very dark eyes,
a new sliver of the moon rises today
not meant for my dark skies.
He doesn’t hold my hands,
but offers a generous mug of coffee
and a very small portion of love,
some advice and small, incomplete departures.
He doesn’t offer me his birds today
nor their colored feathers.
But he offers small, incomplete departures
He doesn’t offer me his songs
But offers telegraphic emails.
What remains is,
notes exchanged in poetry,
life shared in musical notes
and small, incomplete departures.

Mt.IsyLLiS | Mother of Mountains

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Mt. IsyLLiS (Graphite on paper)

I have endlessly wallowed
in strange rivers of pain
that’ll run dry when I want it to.
And today is that day,
for I hear a new song
that birds sing for me.
The sun is out after incessant rains
and birds are sun-bathing,
and they’re all singing the same song.
I am digging a deep hole in the earth,
sowing this seed of suffering and pain.
I’ll water it with my tears.
And what will grow will be
a tree of eternal love and hope.
Birds will build their nests in it,
and they will sing the same song
to their fledglings – of love and hope.
I have become
that very mother of mountains
through which were carved
caves that became homes to creatures of love,
through which flow rivers of hope
that greened all that it touched.
I am that very mother of mountains
and my name is Mt.IsyLLiS.

Skies full of faithful promises

Clutter of thoughts
Artwork by IsyLLiS

I run my fingers
through a clutter of thoughts.
Taste potions of my pain
own it, and breathe a new-found freedom.
We spoke in languages
we did not understand.
Must I write of lost love, and departed lovers
their memories and lingering love
that has floated away
on a lonesome cloud?
Or turn in another direction,
where the Sun is beginning to rise
and the skies are full of faithful promises.

Love, warmth, peace and a happy new year to you all. 

Of men and musicians – why we love them

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For all the good, warm-hearted men 🙂

Their music
sound of a gentle churning
in the deepest part
of the earth.

We love them
for their unkempt sideburns
and cigarette smells.

Their laughter echoing
unfiltered white-noise
to complement warblers’ ruckus
trombone to forest song.

We love them
for the careless ‘unbuttoned-ness’ of shirt,
yet subtly proclaiming gentlemanliness.

Their banter
poetry midst the prose of life
streaks of bright red in monochrome.

We love them
for their coffee-stained teeth
yet an unfettered smile breaking between a moustache and a beard.

Their weathered face
maps of places we want to travel to
but the eyes is where we want to build a home.

We love them
all those times when they
bare their souls and child-like cry.

We love them
even more when
we miss having them in our life.

A perfect piece of music by the great Zbigniew Preisner found me while I was writing this poem. The first eight minutes are so beautiful! – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FP0wQxWifBY

Tiresome Tessellation

The many tragic faces of being
The Many Tragic Faces of Being (c)isyllis 2015-16

This tiresome tessellation of
seasons in me.
How will I decipher,
find the only truth that is there perhaps?
I exist in such wide range of colours,
that even my tetrachromacy fails me
I cannot render an image of myself today,
but a certain surge of power I feel.

Mother of all mountains

A long train journey
through dull cityscapes,
and dry deserts of humanity.
There wasn’t much outside to see,
but within there were landscapes
waiting to be trekked on.
There were mind-scapes
waiting for their contours to be drawn.
So I pulled the shutters down
and set out on a journey within.
As my body moved along the railway tracks,
my pen did on the smooth landscape
of an ivory cartridge paper, 150 GSM.
It all started with a dot,
that became a line,
that soon turned into a swirl,
that transformed into patterns
colliding, mingling, merging,
running across, parallel, converging.
The art-scape became my world
my pen my own private jet
and we explored our private world
until we met the Mother of all Mountains –
from behind her face peaceful
a yellow sun rose.

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