anil gupta's blog

gaanth thodi dheeli si baandhi to hoti
hawaon ki marji se
kisee bujurg darji se
silkar kisee sukoon ki chaadar
apney anchaal mei us par,
koi awara si kavita paali to hoti
gaanth thodi dheeli si baandhi to hoti

moon weathers
quietly
the splashes of the darkness

don’t ever assume
the frustrated waves will ever break the
boundaries of glistening ball
with which winds played yesterday, till yesterday
but may have lost their way now

moon still shines
over every seedling
of love and compassion,
can it help if seeds that sought
refuge under asymmetric meanings
methods
means
are not spawned
can it, really?

leaves fallen
pink sky
purple eyes
swollen are the gates
reprimands flew
like flames from funeral pyre
strange smell
but then thats how
every touch when entered
in a double entry book of records
becomes an IOU

full (REd) moon
( has it fallen from the sky)
clouded window
rays refracted
waking alone
cup of coffee in office
slowly sipped
why did i let it cool a bit
what happened to the taste for
sizzling hot brew
may be the burns are still intact
may be the blisters betray
the trust, the cool
ice cubes had,
in my ability to hold the glass quietly
in hand for long
but that is all over
fingers are numb
lips quiver a lot
brew is not boiling
and the
ripples in the lake have reached
the
other end

shades of truth are not easy to paint
looking for alibi for assault
in the same breath
in which search for peace is mounted
is not being truthful

bahut saarey toofano se gujar ke aaj aaya hun

kisee shikayato ke pahado se chhalang laga
kar aaj aahat hua hun

lekin bhaganey se shikayetey door nahin hoti kabhi
kisee ke jhhooth ya sach ke bhram se
kisee tarajoo ka insaaf taya nahin hota
jo bhi ho
jaisa bhi ho
mitney ki lagan se hi
baadal baras paata hai
barso
mito
ghul jao
sama jao
kisee bhi shikayat se door
kisee laanchan se door
bas ho jao
purnata ki aahuti

swollen silence
the walk through the maze
of prudence
threats
have not worked yet
but remind me of all
those moments
which were
as if
crafted without the potters wheel
who had moved the wheel
who had pounded the clay
could i alone bake the pots
in which you drank
your heartful?

keep an eye
on me
who knows when do i slip away
from the sane zone into
insanity
what you call normal world

I ploughed the land
Opened the furrow
Seeds were happy
Though exposed to sun
They sprouted
A flower was happy at the
Comfort of pulverised soil
But then I stopped ploughing
And flower became unhappy
Searched for other Gardeners
Who ploughed that land
But none could make the flower ever happy again
Complaints became louder
Why did not I plough again
How do I answer
It was not that
Soft soil would not be nice to
Sow new seeds
But there were too many weeds
Allowed to grow
By the winds and the light
I could not remove them all
I could not plough again
But the flower is in protest still
And my plough has rusted
Is that the source of entire agony?

will this be the end
now
of such a long ordeal?

i have gone through it
hoping that pages will be turned

new careful concern will emerge
leaves on the edge of the road will
now rot slowly
manured beds will let weeds grow
because i will not till
them
will not sow seeds of flowers
that were lying with me
i have thrown them in the lake,
not too far
from the place where i had heard
resolution of devotion and
commitment to the cause
once

this made the paving of the path worthwhile
now, i just want to walk away
i am tired
and i can’t resist/refuse/revoke fatigue
of failure