TEJASVI SAXENA - POEMS

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 ).

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                                                      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.