Death

Death

My chilly plant withers away.

In this cold, she shivers away -

with disdain look at her father,

for I forgot to sprinkle some water.

She used to love me a lot -

a gift I never shove a thought.

And now it's too late to repent,

for she is falling down a descent.

She's gone.

Alone in this dark night,

I miss her stark sight.

Now, I feel dis-enchanted

never take a gift for granted.

Identity

The soul of George Floyd

is not at a peace yet.

Like a tornado, it's a void:
it's not just a protest.

This void viralling the world,
swaying all of us mentally,
leaves a question yet unfurled -

what exactly is an identity ? 

To use this viral void,
to distill nature of identity,

we fill it with three traits:
an eye, a brain, and a heart.

An eye of child with wonder:
looking at dog and humans alike.

A brain with sheer scientific saber:

grappling with facts, trials, and testing.

A heart of a profound philosopher:

feeling deep expanse of epistemology.

This void, first, goes to ants
to gape at a distance

and finds a smooth trail -
identity looks fuzzy.
As it peeks closer,
each ant is palpable 

an ant is the ant -

identity is distinctive.

Over a scale of years,
worker ants die within one to three
and queen ant lives upto thirty -
identity could be short or long lived.
Queen ants outlive workers,
thanks to their gene expression
which repairs DNA damage -
identity stays with (genetic) power.

Then the void goes to grass to find

few communal or solitary bunches,
flourishing in Sun or hidden in soil  -

identity stays with those who are exposed.

Then the void goes to air to find
air molecules shaking the bridges away,
or spreading the scent of your beloved -

identity is mapping of an entity to another.

Aliens don't exist unless they map on us.

When something maps on us, it has identity.

If something has identity, it is an identity.
This identity is singular, special, venerable.

Identities of entities are same, when entities are same.

Ascribing one's identity to another is as illogical as
ascribing shape of clouds to horses and humans.
Mistaking one with another is as stupid as
mistaking a fire in burner with nulcear explosion.

May Floyd's soul rest in peace,
and this void teaches a lesson
to identify everyone uniquely,
to believe that humanity is
a necklace of billion pearls
all threaded through this void:
unique yet sharing a common soul,
to retrieve emotions without words,
and share this message for entirety!

% The void is going to be my marker (of heart-brain-eyes) to philosophically-scientifically-emotionally answer the question of identity. Not using any nice poetic element in this poem is signifying how less passionate and inhuman I was while writing this poem. Poetry is stupid act to me unless my heart ache and beat when I write. It didn't here. Originally, I had thought of writing the poem on Identity but after the incident I thought that I can merge it with a topical issue. It turns out that NO - I can't do that and sensationalise a truthful act such a poetry with social topics I'm not deeply (to the extent that nothing means more to me at the time of writing than what I am writing) passionate about. 

When I was writing this poem, my plan was to finish it by 5 PM to get back to my research. If you start thinking about time when doing something supposedly truthful, then it is as false as 1=2. 

The other side of window

Gleaming star

through the window, 

there comes a

reminder of past -

a past we never witnessed

and the past we all caress.  

The one we never witnessed

is ablaze and morbid.

Burning gases, explosions,

galactic events, black holes,

and things swirling around.

Galaxies forming, ageing,
traveling, merging, and dying. 

Life and death were in unity.

After million years, we evolved -

moved, conquered, and thought.

We thought, spoke, and debated -

ideas of life and death were created.

We shaped meanings for life -

study well, get job, and find a wife.

A universe was bred to give life a worth -

we embraced and abused our mother Earth.

We even made-up cycles of life and death-

soul, God, to not be afraid of holding our breath.

That star teases you

and tells you all this.

It says to you to accept

unity of life and death.

You reject it outright.

But you won't stop

glancing fondly over it.

You look at it

to see another past-

a past that's true

within realms of life

yet parochial since 

all it has is life.

This past, we all caress,

is wistful and recurring.

Big dreams, hard efforts,

buses, taxis, trains, flights 

to go somewhere you belong.

These journeys set you fleeting,

maturing, finishing, and repeating.

All journeys share a common thing: a window.

A window, beside you, made of glass

which you didn't open to listen to star.

You saw something else in that star -

your dreams, greed, and your scar.

You fancied success while touring in cars-

you abused trees, animals, and flowers.

O Lord! Now you want to travel galaxies-

find and start living with alien species.

Some of you might travel across space-

age slower, become star, and an advanced race.

Now you as a star

tease us.

You ask us 

to sit beside window.

We reject it ouright.

But we won't stop

glancing fondly over you.

We look at you,

to see a past-

a past that's true

in realms of spacetime

not parochial since

it's beyond life.

We were all stars,

morbid and ablaze.

We got life

and we traveled space.

We became stars

and we shall always remain.

Tangled

Aimlessly walking, treading pointlessly.

Randomised turns, roads returned.

Loops formed, garbled loops.

I know the junctions I met you.

We explored, walked Paris.

You laughed, jested along.

I agreed, disagreed along.

I know the junctions I kissed you.

What's special in those junctions?

Is life a story of junctions?

Do junctions tell you something?

(Junctions put label on relationships:

every anniversary is a milestone,

not every moment is a milestone).

Some moments die after taking birth,

some places are empty for you,

each memory is a star in stardust,

each junction is a point in space.

Can you create stardust from stars?

Can you create space from points?

You can't and you don't bother.

Roads were tangled and will remain.

We were tangled and will remain.

We created junctions when we met.

We cherish junctions till our death.


---
The view I have is that of strong memories which keep coming back to our mind and how our infinite sea of subjective experiences is nothing but a set of few junction points that we cherish again and again. Roads and lives are tangled but only junctions give them some meaning and direction. Junction sort of simplify the tangledness. 

Words and puzzles

Moon is the rock
in which I find her
talking to me
through an echo.

Clouds of oblivion,
come, stay, and go.

Dog barks at me
as if I am a ghost.

Driver honks at me
when I walk in middle
of this road.

A force is pulling me,
too mild, but I feel
that it can lift me off.

Moon, clouds, dog, driver, force
is a short story like those
pieces of puzzles.
They can never connect
unless you know their contexts.

Even if you know contexts,
they are mine not yours.

They can be yours if you trust me.
Find me, talk to me,
ignore dogs, ignore drivers.
Lift up, sail through clouds,
come to me, come to me.

--
A very linear way of explaining what I mean by each logo-centric word in a disjointed subjective context. Then, one can connect those subjective pieces to form a meaning. But even then, those meanings might not be understood completely due to subjective differences between reader and writer. The last attempt of writer is to summarise the story by making the reader as writer and writer as the beloved in his story. 

Meditation and Spring

Each and every attempt
to pedal this tinted bike
feels like an attempt
to drive through florid airstrike.

Each airstrike has an old thought,
buried deep down inside brain,
and it randomly emerges out
while cycling in this springy rain.

Each rain blooms these flowers
of neurons falling down on tree.
The wind spreads hues from flowers
and brain toils for another spree.

Each spree focuses on fresh breath
going in and out of the nose.
The goal is to paint brief death
to flowers, when the air flows.

Each flow repeats the cycle
of cycling, wind, and breath.
The whole idea is to be idle,
to not fail is to grant death.

Each death is an entry to a world:
where hues and tints fills the space,
they are present but not unfurled,
each sec is an idle spring of solace.

Sans ideas, Sans emotions, Sans desires

Sans ideas, Sans emotions, Sans desires 

Ideas thrive us, 

Emotions drive us, 

Desires connive us.

Can you imagine a world 

without them? 

Ideas fix our hearts, 

Emotions fuel our hearts, 

Desires fool our hearts. 

Imagine a world  

without them. 

A world where:  

you don’t let other ideas 

sway your creativity; 

you don’t let your emotions 

set your destiny; 

you don’t let your desires 

steer your psyche. 

To create a world 

without them, 

you should: 

Forgo your memory, 

to shun other ideas; 

Evade the transiency, 

to shun your emotions; 

Know your biology 

to shun your desires.

A world without them 

is a world of: 

an erased history   

and memory of its specie,  

an everlasting permanency 

of state which certainly  

puts uncertainty on duality 

of your mind and body. 

If you accept duality, 

you should use mind  

to control your body. 

If you reject duality, 

then you should bind 

this unity with everybody  

around you. 

The first proposition,  

of controlling your body  

has to do with externality, 

i.e. desires imprinted by  

things around you 

which is logically  

equal to  

the second proposition. 

This whole quest for 

everlasting permanency  

finally boils down to  

bringing a unity. 

A unity between your  

mind-body unity 

and the externality. 

It seems there is only 

one way to bring this unity 

which is to: 

forgo the literal sense of “I”, 

sky is you, you are sky, 

fly is you, you are fly, 

There is no you, 

There is no “I” 

There is no fly 

There is no sky 

Everything is,  

simply, 

a unity.