Tejasvi Saxena is a bilingual poet and writer, thinker and a photography enthusiast from New Delhi, India. His areas of interest include Art, Culture, Nature, Music, Spirituality, Sociology, Books and Writing. His poetry has been published in Muse India, Visual Verse ( Germany / UK ), Duane's PoeTree, Indian Periodical, Dissident Voice ( US ) , Tuck Magazine ( Canada ) and is forthcoming in Spillwords ( Poland ). She She is formless A haphazard figure of disarray A frailty to be reckoned with So elusive to tenderness She’s not dainty like one at Tussauds, To mould as per fancy or shape in an urn She’s fluid that flows through interspersed gamut of roles She wishes to demystify the shrouded enigma of disillusions To declassify the compartmentalization of ideas and biases Gazing at worn out threads of environs So fragmented, tattered and faded She’s a deviant, a non conformist per se Conjectures proffer her as fatal phenomenon She’s rather a wild gush An air of emotiveness, a dust of murkier dawn Who evokes connotations of society and its whims She refuses to be a garnishing condiment For satiating the senses of constructionists Her effulgence couldn’t be diminished It rises in sparks and redeems through embers Whose ash glistens in dark recesses of conscience You inflict her body with bruise or scar She comes out, emanating with floral beatitude That blossoms from eternity of her being Her shadow will envelope for millennia to come Chivalry would dawn upon coiled labyrinths of ears As virtuosity lies in strength To be her, is to be a felicity of delight To not to be wedded by dogmas of prejudiced ideologies The ideas that languish in gaols of rust I look beyond, The primrose path is near her I could envisage her formless figure Clambering the spiral stairs She reaches beyond the realm of beauty and hideousness Of frames and of definitions To my mere gaze. Pristine Vulgarity The pristine vulgarity of life Which flows through each moment In whims of a harlot In angst of an unjust life Through inner eyes of civilization Or, in simplicity of savagery; Camouflaged by sensibilities And too timid for vulnerabilities… The savage man wanders In nakedness of purity Draping chivalry on his fragile frame Exhibiting his truth in its purest sense For,he could be a Buddha or Mohammad per se; Who found their truth within their imperfections Far beyond from realms of sophistry From clannish collections of mortal world Savagery could be immortal Blindfolded to cold gaze of civility For he who is vulgar, can find his truth; As it is pristine vulgarity, that flows through each moment. Simplicity Simplicity, A subliminal shadow That lurks on doors of a man A doer who seeks himself In naïve domains of life. Silence Silence is symphony of bare homes That flourishes in rhythm of longing Where, dust of space piles on clocks On books and pens and drawing curtains On mirror which myths the faces of smiles Of pain, of rapture, of calm, of delight All await to hear a sound A whisper, a talk or laugh resounds An empty chaos Where, absence floats The same one that longs to embrace, The silhouettes of its lost frames Such silence perturbs through lively tenors A whirring of wings Or, crackling leaves Chirping crickets Or, humming bees… Gracious visitors of such homes Who promise to wait for a life A dweller to play a music of soulful vibe. Desolation Of A Door On slope of a rock kept aside I saw desolation in remains of a door The splinters of which told a story Of broken wings and hope of a soul A pastoral man in his olden days Dreamt of owning a dwelling for self In grassy meadows of flowers and ferns In joyous rapture of rambling terrains In dense canopy of pines and cedars And, bubbling symphony of streams and lakes He imagined a roof on his aged head Of earthen potteries and a loaf of bread To keep him alive in thunderous gales And saving himself from homeless tales To call a home, which could be his To trace the fragments of forgotten bliss But stern are the cables of tyrant life The man collected some kind and courage But, rain washed his dreams afloat Dreams descended in cascades of silence And, slowly vain in troughs of grief A perennial agony of losing a Dream When pain wells up with surging waves And life’s glow dims In stilting wick of trodden lanes The scattered dreams and broken potteries Call the door, a hilarious farce A farce that lays in desolation now Desolation which grins on its own remains.
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