Sunday, November 27, 2011

The Girl Who Burnt Bridges

When the world was still round,
And mornings smoothly slipped into evenings,
A really lost little girl
That she couldn’t do with rickety bridges.
So she burnt them all.
And burnt some more, as she grew up.

“That’s not the right thing to do.
 The world is a really lonely place,” she was told.

She said that she could
Deal with bouts of loneliness,
But couldn’t bear
The nervous drone of a life
That moved on weak, rusting hinges.

“It’s good to have people there for oneself.
It’s good to keep alive
The possibility of mending bridges,” she was told.

But the girl,
Slightly crazy as she was,
Thought the whole concept of future
Utterly misplaced;
The obsession with permanence,

Now what do you do with people like her?
How do you reason with them?
These people,
Who would live either on soaring peaks
Or in abysmal valleys,
But nowhere in between.
People who want to make
Each day
A matter of life and death.

©Rasagya Kabra, November 17, 2011

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Molten Days

“I feel like a dark house,” he said.
“A dark house,
With a small window
That overlooks a narrow lane.”

“The window bestows me
With a small square of sunshine
That melts my days
And turns them into the air I breathe.”

A smiling stranger walking down the lane,
The fluttering loose end
Of a woman’s bright sari,
Catch my eye
And I tell myself,
‘You can see real things.
You are not dead,
Not just yet.’”


©Rasagya Kabra, November 20, 2011

Monday, November 7, 2011

Teardrop on Grey Rock

The memory knows this place
From your telling,
Before the eyes can even
Submit their version.

I walk along the sea
That sparkles too bright,
In the sun too hot
For bare arms.

A small tear drop
Falls on a grim grey rock,
And forms a dark liquid line
Demarcating the path
Between my longing
And your rationalizing.

© Rasagya Kabra, November 7, 2011