Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Lost !

On her hands, he writes a verse..
always the lost poet
who has told a long story
in broken silence

In his sack,
he carries a brush,
a pencil with blunt tip
and a few sketches
he has stolen from
an unvisited memory lane.

he wrote about paper boats,
fallen maple leaves
and a rainbow that has faded,
colors blended, blurred...

Sometimes, he looks at her
for a long time,
closing his eyes..
he lives in a fear,
that there will never be an escape..
that the poet will forever be lost,
found and unfound...

I found him last evening,
he looked sad...
but he reasoned,
there is nothing to be sad about.
I chose not to say,
happiness can't be reasoned.

And so he lives,
restless and resigned..
at the same time,
a lover and a loner,
broken in halves..
he tries to smoothen the edges
of what is left of the broken...


Monday, August 29, 2011


In the deafening silence
Of a hollow laugh,
Something, somewhere is often missed.
In the hundred lies we live everyday,
And the truth that remains
Naked, battered and cold
In an ego that is too proud
To just wither away, choked.

And so I stand on the edge,
Of a sad smile,
Ready to fall in the bleeding pits of eyes
Where a dream remains
Like a shred of glass.
I am ready to fall
To break into a million pieces,
Not ready to die
Without one final rebellion.

Some people reach a breaking point,
Some wait,
Torturing themselves,
Taking it all
And not once asking,
"when is enough?"

They will be freed,
After the turmoil
Without a trace of lie left behind
To wither slow.

There are rivers,
That revolt,
And die in their youth,
No salty surrender for them.

And so I wait,
To be hit real hard
And stand, unshaken.
To fight back
And fall for once
After the fight is won.
Without ever hearing
The countdowns.

Because I have to wait
Through every day defeats
And meaningless victories
To be shattered
With no pity.

~Ankur Srivastava

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

From Brookefield

He sits at the bus stop
That reads Brookefield,
An urban child with no history
Of its childhood....

Shoulders limp and head thrown back,
He listens to the noise
Of cars and passers-by
That dissolves yesterday's talks.
He flicks a finger, quietly
And turns it "mute".

He walks up to the road
That leads to more such roads.
He holds the road, the grey sky above it
And the city that stretches beyond
Between his fingers
Like a canvas of flowing colors
And moving images
That mean nothing.

He rips it apart.

He spreads a faint-blue canvas
And picks his paint-brush,
A lemon-yellow morning
And eternal sadness
Of many nights
That have not slept.

He paints "waiting"
Of the city-clock
That still ticks
In some forgotten days.

He tosses away the paintbrush,
Without a signature.
He walks away
And carries the canvas along.