TEJASVI SAXENA - POEMS
Tejasvi Saxena is a poet, writer and photography enthusiast from New Delhi, India. His interests are Arts, Culture, Nature, Music, Spirituality, Books, Writing and Food.
His works have been published in Muse India, Visual Verse, Duane's PoeTree, Indian Periodical, Dissident Voice Journal ,Tuck Magazine, Spillwords, Scarlet Leaf Review, Random Poem Tree, Peeking Cat Poetry, Phenomenal Literature, The Avocet Review and Thumbprint Magazine.
A Man’s Query
“What is my conception of a woman’s existence?
Am I transitioning through tempest of times?
Or, gazing at her plight;
Quagmired in swamps of mankind?
The joie de vivre of womanhood dims
In her shattering world
When, I prick her injured body
To slip again into the cracks of a womb
Or, to immolate her fragile shadow;
On pyre of her blazing individuality
The sign of her claims
Gleams in the ochre dust of her validated sanctity
If she grows, at all!
Be thrown in a disfigured form
In a filthy nook of a forgetful city
How would I think of her?
If even, Dharma once lost her
Staking her identity
On a sprawling board of treachery,
Rolled out by pawns of history
Why would I admire her?
When she was shot at;
For prowess of her audacity
She better not scream in howls of her conscience
Or, her entrails will be wrenched
To bleed profusely under garbs of smirking modernity
Her masters would barter her
In trading markets of shifting loyalties
And one who bids the highest,
Will subject her prophecies
Enchained by cords; she sighs
To view her tarnished figure in a mirror
Reflecting blemishes of her bleak posterity
Hung my head in shame
In a contemptuous vulnerability.”
Requiem To Peace
"To seek you is an eternal wait
As drawing streams from dreary desert
Like dredging humanity from dried seabed
Of dead consciences, reeking of death
To find you, is as empty;
As promises you make in a hollow space
That lost your presence long back
From Nehruvian epoch of Socialism
Till dynamics of Hindutva today,
You seem to have been glancing
In a wistful muse
Peeping from behind Chinar trees
From gleam of Nut-brown eyes
To , shimmering Dal lakes
From scented whiff of Kahwas ,
To rows of wooden Shikaaras,
From young Firans to lanky Achkans
Who sought a streak of bright Sun;
To blind eyes and crevices of wombs
Which crack with every sound of gun,
Not once, you winced or shrieked aloud
At wailing mothers, mourning on dead
And, gaunt faces of senile fathers;
Whose lives are dim lit
Plummeting in receding rays of sunset
You lit up the hopeless hopes
Of half widows and half mothers
Who find their accomplishments
In quest of their spouses and sons
You seem to fancy the angst of youths
Who try to grab your tentacle hooks
In unidentified cesspools of blood
In pieces of flesh, in mutilated bodies
Of toddlers, in gouged eyes of civilians and soldiers
Agonised Kashmiriyat knows you though;
You march in a Caravan of diplomats
Whose words are sugary entanglements
That bind your fleeting silhouette
To elude in a blink of a swindler's eye. "
( First published in Dissident Voice Journal )
“Have you been enraptured by tranquillity of White?
While gazing at its profundity
dipped in colourlessness?
Have you imagined its aura undefined?
Its transcendental virtuosity of nothingness?
Its all embracing complementarity
As putting kohl of lustre in inanimate eyes?
You may shuffle some rumpled postcards to figure its chronicles and garbs
that peek from old cupboards of memories lost...
Or, find it in muted tones of egg shells
In waned textures of peeling dampness too!
You may struck with its perennial gleam
While wandering in epochs of imperialism
It lingers on colonnades of August mansions
It sighs on abstractions
On proposals of peace lost on modernised minds
And blushes gently on foolishness
On fools of contemporary times
Who paint regality with strokes
That drip the gaudy colours
Colours of complexities
Entangling human's mind."
( First published in Random Poem Tree )
I am The Shadow
“I am the shadow of my past life
A lush of bursting veins in my decadent body
Whose mucky soot flows through black and white vessels of antiquarian Samaritans
I am the enormity of ocean
Swelling up every moment to its brim
With froth of some buoyant and unfulfilled desires of that past life
My beads of rusted sweat struggle their way to reach the Valley of Death
Where, my dead soul is flipping its shattered wings;
And swinging their carnal desires on flame of despondence
My lapsed existence calmly ebbs in farthest stretches of dystopian waves
That touch the venomous fringes of this unjust world
The splinters of my Crestfallen shadow;
Shed its fragments as some pruned autumn leaves
Yet, I stand beyond the clamour of this squabbling world
In an eternal hope of that first streak of dawn!"