Tag Archives: writing


I time travelled
I moment moved
Through freezing fog
Through stilled air

Where dreams blend with reality
Where souls battle in serenity
In the deep of the night
In the depth of despair

I crossed the seven hills
I crossed the seven seas
Where lost souls hover endlessly
Where cursed souls wail in peril

I saw where the earth
And the heaven unite
There my journey begins

I write to die

I write to die,

To die after pouring life on the paper,

To let the creation be alive

And float, stay or fly

It’s a process of consumption

Emotion, resurrection, consummation

But I get reborn, anew, lighter

It’s a compulsive murder

Killing of the wrath or exuberant joy

A constant tussle between the heart and the pen

The pen pulling out the words like mining something

It’s a fight and my being looks forward to this struggle

To get churned, and after it flows entirely

I feel dead, neutral as if

That poem never belonged to me

I forget the words

And read it like a narrator reciting someone else’s words

I belong till its birth

And cut off the umbilical just after it

The baby gets raised in other nests

Other hearts

And I enjoy to die

And my epitaph says

And she kept dying happily everafter

A World Without Poetry

A world without poetry,
The concrete hammering of mails
The infusion of programmed chores
A day, yet another day shedding it’s leaf
In parched, scheduled coldness.

Collective tangling of prosaic voices
Barbecue in the summer heat,
Disjointed company of drunk folks
Stinking of the corporate fumes.

Shattered raindrops, where do I hide you
In the luscious spread of weekend delicacies?
The shrieking yells of perfumed bodies,
The flashy make-up of the powdered night
Hides you like submissive dirt.

The deep chasm of naked arms bleed
My unwritten lines buried under
The daily litany of unanswered applications,
Unsolicited proposals, boxed and sealed
Never caring for a reply, a nod, an assaurance.

A world without poetry dies and lives
Every day, crafty, stoic, plastered,
Waking in hopes of a startling twist
Of a delicate, lyrical opulence.


Blank pages
Beautiful empty leaves
Unmarked by inky splotches
Devoid of alphabet salmagundis
and strikethroughs

Smooth and pure
Unsullied by dark moods
Clean and chaste
Untouched by sins of haste
A pristine, intemerate sheet
revealing no evidence
of the writhing lust above it.

To be etched, marked, blackened
scarred and crumpled
wiped upon and spat.

Blood and salty drops dry up
on its face
leaving it looking
like an admission of guilt
Immature squiggles border the slanting letters
revealing a mad mind
that wallows in adamantine riddles.

A soiled sheet
A chaparral
containing reminders, leftovers
of an imperfect division of thoughts
quotients thrust into neat boxes
Edges trimmed out of habit
And ends thrown onto a paper
Lying around

Some births are never beautiful.

( – Reena Prasad )


Zen Saturday: Raining Hard

I wake in the middle of the day
We talk but cut me short
I change my clothes

We watch television
As we talk
I feel hungry
I walk down the stairs

I fry an egg and four pieces of sausages
I eat
I’m full

I sit in front of the computer
I set the time
I compute for the bill
Tenants are leaving on Wednesday

We can’t avoid conflicts of interest
I’m done with computation
You’re in the kitchen
Speaking while washing your hands

I write my prose or poem
As you eat with my sibling
An hour later, You finish eating

I am alone again in front of the computer
It is raining hard
As I write my Zen
The rain becomes light
I save my work
Now, I am done