On A Day Like This

I have tossed the afternoon sun,

Down from my terrace...

Through the dusty air and city smoke

Somewhere.. i don't care.

I like the evening,

Its grey color and tall shadows..

I like the way it rushes

To its end... in evening trains

And rain-washed streets.

In the little pocket

Of my sweat stained shirt...

Time lies still..

Beating slowly with my heartbeat..

And just as meaningless...

I have peeled the layers of grey

From the aging face of sky

And left an ugly scar

On the naked beauty of moon.

This is my night..

And i own it..

Its every moment

Is held still in my breath

And released with a shy..

The distant Sun conspires..

What do i care?

For the brick red mornings...

The school going kids

And their stolen innocence..

I close my eyes

To the haste on some bus stand

Breakfast news

Crisp white uniforms

And the city clock...

My time sleeps quiet

With my dreams..

And we dream ..

Beyond this tired day.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Silence

In the deep well of thoughts, 

words have dried up somewhere.. 

I can still stack up sentences 

And give you my story.. 

With a pinch of lie 

Some secrets dressed up..

But then i have taken the other way.. 

To scrap away every little line 

From the paper 

And make them stand 

On that riverside 

where i waited for her in my half dreams.. 

I tried to give words,

a voice, a song 

That could light up 

The grim darkness of a lonely 2-bhk. 

Then i discovered 

like the cuckoo in the nest.. 

This world is not mine.. 

neither is this my story.. 

and no, my dreams were too inspired.. 

I have tried too hard, 

Won too easily 

And lost so narrowly 

in love and life.. 

on a blank piece of paper 

i put my signature..

On the bottom

that's how i like it, absolute silence .. 

no prayers, no cries..

no half-lies

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Merchant of Dreams

Photo: courtesy Kirti.

PART 1

It was that time of the day when people came back from offices, tea shops became abuzz with discussions and women rushed back to their kitchens after what had initially started as an afternoon gossip. The hard sun had wilted in its own heat and fallen in the dust which was in the air, on the street and in the silent sobs of one more ordinary day coming to its jinxed end under the scrutiny of large street lamps. In the old park of the neighborhood, last ball of the last cricket match had been bowled; the kids, covered in sweat and mud, though were still debating over something. A group of elderly men was going back to their homes after their evening walk. A young girl on the footsteps of teenage was sitting on an old wooden bench and still blushing about something that happened in school that day. A man, not older than 40 but certainly not too young either, caught their attention. He stood near the entrance of the park, smiling at passers by. There was something ridiculous about him, something that was intriguing and fascinating too... Something other than his dark red jacket with large metallic, golden colored buttons. Something other than his thin and dramatic mustache. It was the serenity in his eyes, the grace with which he held up his hands to greet everyone, the all-knowing smile he flashed.

They waited for him to say something. There was soon a little gathering outside the park. Men and women, young and old, and a few kids looked at him with intrigue. After he was convinced with the size of the audience, he started his speech. His voice was child-like but sounded convincing, "Good evening my beautiful people! I once lived in this very neighborhood when I was a little boy. When the grass of the park was greener and the flowers smelled sweeter, I played here too. You must be curious where I had been all these years.. Why haven't you seen me? In my childhood I was an ordinary boy, like the ones you see everyday on the bus-stops, traffic lights and side-walks. Do you remember their faces? No! And so you have forgotten me too. My name is Salesman. I am here to sell you something."

A man in suit-coat and trousers wanted to turn away and go but he saw that the Salesman was looking straight in his eyes. Instead of going, he asked the Salesman,"What do you want from us?". The Salesman replied with a sigh," I don't want anything. I am here to offer you something. But since my experiences with this world tell me that for something to be worth having, it must cost something to own it so I want to sell you something." A bespectacled young lady in her neatly pressed shirt and trousers interrupted him," Look, we don't want anything and you have no bags or catalogs either...". The Salesman turned back sharply and climbed on a small rock near the park. He raised both his arms and cleared his throat," In the times of insurances and money-back guarantees, all I have to offer you is a dream. A dream that you have lost, a dream that you need. A dream that you have ignored, a dream you have once talked about and cried upon. A dream you can't refuse. Do you want to buy your dream? I am here not for you but for the dream."

To be continued...

...................................................................................................................................
PART 2

An old boy in his twenties sat in the grimmest layer of the darkness and quietly allowed himself to do the unforgivable sin of being weak and cried. Nobody saw him crying but we all knew. He was left stranded in the race of everything. He had been dreaming for a little too long and now he was left in the cold silence of being oh-so-alone with his dreams. He wanted to buy death but he had nothing to buy it with. Life is cheap but death?
He had nothing except a fragile hope in an unvisited corner of his mind. He knew what had to be done. That very day which has been now erased from our memories, he sold the little hope he had and bought a small slice of death.

End of part 2.

.......................................................................................................................................
PART 1 continued...

The crowd looked bemused. A man whose eyes looked as dull as the muddy waters of a drying local river asked the Salesman,"What is the price of my dream? How can I buy it? And how do I know that you aren't fooling me?"
The Salesman, now looking like a monk dressed as clown, closed his eyes and spoke out,"You have to trust me here because I have been in your shoes. I have sold my dreams to buy me tired days and sad evenings like this. I have bought them back when I could, to light up my nights. You have to pay a dear price too." He thought for a second and then paused  so as to hold the secret, the price.
The crowd, tired of this game now and reluctant after guessing what the price might be, asked in a hush, "What's the price anyway?" The salesman, now looking like a boy who has just got a new gift, said,"The price is hefty as it should be. You have to give something you have held so close to your heart for all your life. You have to give me your greatest fear....

The crowd dissolved, knowing too well that he was trying to  trick them. There had to be some conspiracy in it. It was late too and dinner had to be made, works had to be done. What a waste of their precious time?

But a man stood there, thinking. The same man whose eyes looked as dull as the muddy waters of a drying local river. He asked silently, "How does it work? You are talking as if there is some.....". The Salesman smiled and completed his question,"..... as if there is some MAGIC? " The man nodded his head,"Yes, how do I trust you?" The Salesman said,"There is a Magic. You have been seeing magic all you life but you have never believed it. You have dismissed it as a trick. You have been wrong. You can trust me... For one, the shine in your eyes is back...

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Loner 2

 

He was tired

Of unending days of gray.

Smoke-spitting evenings,

And dark silence of nights.

He had once read

A pretty love poem

In a sad, sulking twilight

To lit up its face with a kiss.

He had watched ever since,

The afterglow of his love

Dimming with every stroke of time

He had remained silent,

Trying not to cry.

He was told,

There are things more important

Than love and love poems.

And the sorrow of this twilight.

So he wished every night,

For tomorrow to be a new day.

With pastel hued mornings

And glittering afternoons.

A beginning often marks an end,

The whispering dreams

Of these dear dark nights,

Had to be muted.

So he did,

Silently sucking the life

Out of a burning love

And letting out the tarnished warmth

In little clouds of smoke.

He looked back, for the last time...

As far as he could

And saw nothing.

When they all waved,

With misty eyes,

He knew it was time.

He picked his bag, confused, and left...

The sadness of the end

The joy of a beginning...

He could not feel it

And tried not to pretend..

He was, as always,

A lonely man.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Eraser-dust

Twinkling stars shined and faded,
And in the moon kissed winter night,
I tried to leave you a note,
All I could manage was "eraser dust"

I looked at the white steam
Rising and fading, from the coffee mug.
The end is near,
The ritual of looking back and saying "goodbye"
Can I skip it?

I promised
"A letter when we part our ways,
I will write to you."
And you had asked,
Your voice soaked in love,
"A poem?"

"Where is the poem?"
A poem for a friend
Who has refused to listen,
To my eyes that hide
Pain in anger.
And a poet who has tried
So hard to remain silent.
That he has forgotten the words.

"You are my poem."
I had said,
I have written you slowly,
By playing stupid tricks to make you smile.
By pretending to be angry
To make you cry.
By being not me,
But better, better than I could ever be.
By trying so hard every time,
For the perfect words.
That you think
I had faked it all along.

You are my poem,
The only brilliant masterpiece
Of a writer of junks, drafts and trash.

My poem has fallen apart,
Word by word,
It has erased itself
And my pain has lingered
In the eraser dust.

"Where is the poem?"
A poem that would make you turn back
And wave at me...
Your eyes that look stranger each day,
Your smile that I keep searching.
And a poem that's missing.
And memories like eraser-dust.

Sometimes, it all seems
Like a dream that ended so soon.
Like none of it happened.
Like you were really a poem
That someone erased.
Took the words from me
and left me a paper
With eraser-dust.

Living In A Dream..

What would it be like..

To live in a dream?

To walk barefoot

Among shadows

From citrus morning

To smoky dusk...

And to dissolve

At the turn of a day.

No looking back,

No good byes.

To just be

The carefree song

Of a gypsy night.

A browning journal

With no "To do list"

Or "Places you must see".

Just a few scribblings..

Found and lost

Along the way.

What would it be like

To wait on the horizon

In an illusion

A dear lie...

Forever.

And be forgiven.

To slip away unnoticed

Behind the clouds...

No more promises

And all wishes resigned.

(c)Ankur Srivastava

From The Streets of Bihar

From The Streets of Bihar

The streets of Bihar
Are the face of an abstract painting,
Sad.
The colors of history,
It seems,
Someone has washed away.
Or scrapped with fingernails.

A river has changed its color,
And the sky here is not blue
Anymore.
Tired sky and forgotten rivers.

The morning still basks
In an orange glow
Of a lazy suburban Sun
That fades
In the echoes of night,
Muffled screams.
The day is lost
Pretending deaf.

Fantasy poetry of
Unseen revolutions
Have often knocked
The doors of destiny,
In sweaty envelopes,
To be rewritten in blood…

But eyes have failed
To tell impoverished, meager heroes
From shameless, naked demons.
Reality, sadly,
Is a little gray,
Half lie.

I have often seen
A volcano
Walking on the streets,
Threatening to erupt
On evenings of nothingness.
Somehow,
It never does,
As the radio continues
To ramble shamelessly.

Streets of Bihar still believe
In prayers
With eyes closed.
And dream
Ignorant of a fear
That sits all night
By the bedside.

Streets of Bihar
Have lost their feet
In the race.
They are forgotten leaves
Of autumn.

They are the eyes
Of a frightened child
Who is learning to
Drag his feet
To unwelcome tomorrows.
They just stare.
Mute,
Like the volcano
That has remained quiet.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Timeless Love

Timeless Love

I am quiet.
My mouth is filled
With her warm breath,
And a storm
Of passion.

She whispers in my ears,
A fantasy
Never heard before...
"Love"!

Love?
Indeed...
I smile foolishly.
She covers my eyes
With her lashes.
I dream.

Her voice fills
The air around me.
Like the scent
Of her breath.
She says
"Promise."

My heart beats
Are faint and slow.
My world sways
In the gentle breeze
With thousands of butterflies
Of unseen colors.

I promise
To hold her close.
And she is weightless
In my arms,
In my love.

Once,
I slept with her
Under an undressed moon.

Her promise,
"Always or never?"

I wake up,
Every single morning,
In her olive eyes,
An eternal lover.

Timeless.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Rain Poem

It rained yesterday,

After an unending wait

Of summers

Stretched so long.

And I sat

By the window,

To sketch

Each falling drop

The way the earth smiled

Teased by the rains.

Lines that I could read

In the long summer nights

When we sat by our windows

And prayed for rains again.

This evening,

I read the Rain poem,

But the words had been
Washed away,

The lines had turned

Brown again.

There is no poetry in rain,
These days. 

Poems are not written...

On little green twigs

That grow in my garden and die

So soon.

About naked children

Running in streets

With joy

Soon to be lost.

Or about maple leaves floating

In pools of muddy water

On broken roads.

There is a woman

On the roadside.

Her skin, brown,

And hair,streaked with dust;

Her eyes are deep

Pits of emptiness.

Her lips are dry

Parched with thirst.

Her husband doesn't speak

These days.

He did smile when it had rained

For a moment,

And then cried

For some nights,

Turned quiet forever.

She sighs and looks

Towards the empty paddy fields.

The roof of her home

Leaks in the rains.

But she cares not.

If only the paddy grows

This year.

Or else?

There is no poetry in rain,

These days.

The woman told me,

"The rains were too little".

It will rain again

I smiled...

"Too late, may be!"

She sighed.

Poems are not written

Sitting by the window

Every time rain tickles

The sad face of earth.

Poems now lies silent,

And brown

Like the earth

After the rain has flirted

And gone back.

When the children

Try  to sleep,

Hungry.

And their eyes are wet

And shallow

Faces brown
Like pools of muddy water

On broken roads.

Poetry tosses and turns

In bed at nights.

It's verses

Are wet with sweat

Mixed with blood.

And lips are sealed

Forever.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Words!

To mend that imperfect line,

I look for words again,

A lost poet tries hard,

To dip his love in sea of pain.


If words ever mattered,

I would have found a way,

You walk over the tottered pages,

Where my afraid dreams lay.


My heart beats in stern silence,

I care not for the blessed rhyme,

I have lost my song,

In the noise of indifferent time.


I still love for the sake of love,

And love talks in broken sighs,

Have you noticed the blood,

In my two smiling eyes.


Desperate to lose it all,

I walk to the edge of dark,

I have hoped long to heal,

My wounds remain open and stark.


To mend that imperfct line,

I look for words again,

Why write a poem for you,

Words are destined to go in vain.

(c)Ankur Shrivastava