Sometimes Springs are late,
but cursed are those who return from Autumn’s gate!!
Author: Vansika Pareek
I hail from the land of ‘artistic and cultural traditions’; Jaipur (Rajasthan, India) and have a deep affection for creativity. This justifies my craving to introspect personalities as every individual is a different art. Presently, I am pursuing B.Tech in Computer Science from NIT Hamirpur( Himachal Pradesh, India). Realization is sudden and ever. At 19, I felt people inside me long to speak from an introvert persona and hence my love for poetry. With every single piece, I try to give voice to their raging thoughts and innocent apprehension of Shakespeare’s theater.
Diary Unveiled
Realising my childhood dreams, I entered the park with Harper Lee on one hand and the diary in other, unburdening smiles and sorrows on the sharp spikes of wooden fences. I sometimes feel that I am running years ahead of my age, big numbers stir me more than the small ones. Though benches were empty, I chose to become the better half and kept the book in between, relaxing and letting the sun settle in me. My city felt warm and kept me engaged more than Harper Lee could. After flipping a few pages, I tried to initiate conversation with the man, in his late seventies, all white and grey, quiet and calm like how the ocean rests after tides recede. “Hello”, I said to which he replied the same, once again silence filled the air. Suddenly he stood up and started walking, burdening the wooden stick with all his desires. He was stooping, struggling to lift his foot, apologizing to the aftermaths of his romantic years. I felt life through him. He left and all I had was the park to graze over. I saw reflections; I saw myself crawling on soft grass, playing blind man’s buff, holding hands of my husband and surrendering for a wooden stick. The inevitable truth hit me hard. I am growing; loosing and gaining. One day everything would fade away, the beauty and scars, the faults and stars, ambition and passion, regret and relations; little by little I slipped on
the ephemeral beauty of life
and permanence of death.
Violin strings
All I could see was the netted beam scouring your face
when the banyan tree unburdened its shadow on our cold bodies,
bend a little and fill the spaces those sun has left
before my hair undo the beautiful happening,
dry twigs have held me all over, unpin them but one at a time,
because every place you touch would smile in a different rhyme,
till then let me count the honey bees,
the ones that have seen my approval
whilst you were looking at the flowers and I was looking at you,
there are many who pass by the meadows
but those who trip and entangle are just a few.
Another chance
May be if we both could have burnt a little more,
there would have been a ‘us’,
I know flames hurt, but isn’t light the start?
I know water eases, but isn’t darkness the end?
Not Okay
I am a writer, butterflies wreath my fingertips with garlands of words because words, words are all I live for plucking vowels even in a black hole, the breathlessness I felt when a word swiftly poped up the screen because that day my hair were tickled without much a mess and I need not chase the horizon; my lover stood their for me to exploit its wires that embrace so many meanings; Aah; but this day the prompt grazed plain without kissing my lips, this day I took sand as sand and not suffcating moments caged in a wrist, this day I could not dug deep because this day I am not okay,
the untitled reasons are demons taller than my god, my pen refuses to scour ink on the naked paper, I feel the winds harder, breaths lighter, darkness deeper, light fainter, from paper boats to torn pieces spilled on the floor, from seconds to hours lost in the white walls, from sun to moon surrendering for the clouds, I am losing something, little by little, I am weeping the pain, the swimmer’s efforts are all in vain until the tide recedes for the sky to be perfect and okay.
Fears
The slightest whisper of a man nearby has lunged me to my bed covers; the very sensation of someone seizing my breasts has latched those millions of voices on my spine that speak from bruises of a rape; this night my room is all lit and my senses lookout for footsteps; all I need to do is walk like a man.
P.S. No feminism intended.
Tonight
Tonight, let’s forget my daughter’s plight and your mother’s aching breasts, let’s shadow their fame for this night and let’s speak of privileges of a penis because I see it succumbed under my name flooding your quiet hall, the silent streets, the naked headlines, and the defeated breeze but as I tried to look between your legs, I discovered what is between mine; Victory.
Unheard tales
Open me like a bottle of champagne, flying cork; the repurcussion of my emotions, let’s dissolve this passionate wait to kiss every curve of yours on which I graze as you slowly let me pour into your depths, my brown gaze through your body is their pain, after sipping every bit of me from your naked body do they realise the aftermaths of their lust and my love, my crazy drops still fringe on your shy skin.
LGBT
To make love we don’t need love;
but a lid to fit in a jar.
Midnight thoughts
When the crisp night was sinking into my vision
and I just latched memories to ruminate on;
on the hinges of the other night, I saw my limbs,
Aah!! yours are so much like me,
neither I know your name nor the cradle of your lullabies
yet you owe me reflections;
exact dimensions and the processes of living,
it’s not that I hate your color, it’s just I like mine more.
I don’t understand what is the fuss all about,
when my white is easier to stain than your black
and in the end, we both are going to be reduced to
ashes.
.
Brooding Secrets 