Recollections

Splattered rainbows
Adorn knuckles, with glint of broken starlight
Kissing past veins.
The places where,
The strangers fingers brushed past 
In a crowded hallway
And air smelled as dungeons.

The galaxies my palms
Fidget to cajole,
Pinpoint the shine of moon
The hurried handshake left
With a warmth glowing at its root.

The fingertips 
Hazel and lilace
Prints of colors that never go together,
Left at my shoulder
From the last instance
Some traveller held me;
Unbeknowest 
To my weary frame;
As he struggled for grip.

The handprint
Of a hasty goodbye
Mumbled beneath breath
Itched at times.
Trying hard at times
To remind me of its owner.
A shy passenger 
That had travelled beside me.

Lips curled into a smile
At people
I had no recollection of sharing a moment with
And eyebrows betrayed my trust
At my own body
As they canvassed the crowd of familliar facades.

And the flesh and bone
I wear often upon my soul.
Have memories of people
I don’t remember faces for.

It often 
Strikes me as odd
 As I wonder
Quite often
How many people
Have I looked at all my life
And never actually seen.


 © copyright Akanksha Krishnatre

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On Contrast In Existence.

Blended contrasts
Like those between your lips and eyes
Carried out on the blank canvas
Stretching past galaxies of confusion.
Your steps light
Faint hue of ombre
At dusk casted the blue void.

The pale freckles of gold
Exhaled at moments 
Demons adrift your lungs.
The starrynight 
With its enticing colors
A canvas of emotions
Painted past your windowsill.

Your grace
The narrator of a masterpiece
Madman breathed unto canvas.
Born out of saudade
And merak of celestial moments.

The search for yellow paint
Often ended in heartbreak
And organs 
Painted a faint colour of illness.
Closed doors you held
With keys long digested 
Behind your burning throat.

You read the letter he wrote
“The sadness will never go away”
Your lips trace the truth
Your bones often forget,
Casted in plasters
From the wordings of letter
That bid adieu.

The curls of lips
Those yours.
Send a fervour among lovers.
The one you know about
And the sighs unknown to you.

The painter tastes wine
In to the marrow of its bones.
As its eyes take you in
Drunk at the perfection
So within reach
Weighing dark desires
The replica of its orbs.

Naming your smile
More mystifying than Monalisa 
And eyes as deep
As oceans go.
Brushes fanned in welcome
Of perfection,
Your vinci stands afloat.

Your voice
No more than a bubble box
Adorned in comic scripts
With resolutions of loyality
As that of zeus,
Forgotten sometimes.

Shards of shattered mirrors
Form the entire of organs
Reflecting
The grace of stick figurine
You drown inside.

Intricate patterns
Veins carved into your flesh,
Fingers toiled with hair.
Those the replica
Of the finest china,
The grails your blood had kissed.

The colours a sordid reflection
Of your own ups and downs
Celebrated and touched
At occasions
That only blissful tears ever saw.

The soft sounds
Fading into nothingness
As your tongue
Traced your lips.
No different the way
Sculptor had traced
Patterns my eyes lie upon.

Chattering of teeth
With unfocused eyes
Breathing heavily
Uneasiness seeping into sound.

With likeness to echos
Of the teacup
Slipping slowly through 
Fragile fingers
With a clang to the wooden floor.

Bony knuckles
Clasp unto the marble bust
With an even strength.
Michelangelo reborn
And you his David,
Perfection in every form.

The edges of your ribs,
A blurry vision
Seeping into reality
Illusions created by delusional hands
The prints of a child
Who still dreams of wonder land.

You are a masterpiece
I murmur
As I paint flesh and bone
Worded 
In colors that can speak
But monochrome.

And I will keep bleeding
Your form against pages
Until veins run dry
And ink betrays its course.

For darling
Though a Magnum opus
You are a still a work in progress.

Copyright Akanksha Krishnatre

Aftermath

And the blood leaks down your throat
Down my spine
Onto your clothes
Like the memories
We often hold on to.
And tears curve your heart
And leave distances in veins
Miles of trenches apart.
And the vortex of color

All hazy and twany
Blinded by the shades
Of your echo,
Slides off the spines
Onto my ribcage.
Crackling fire, with dragons in your breath
And gurgle in your throat
Spitting venom with each reply.

And your talons for fingers 
Caress my sides
Tracing marks of despair
Inside.
Claws of nails 
Shred you apart.
Yet you stand intact.
Not shedding off 
The flimsy gown of human skin
You claim to wear all around.

And the folds of being human
Seem to hold loose pockets of skin
Dripping down the ragged breath.
The dip of knuckles
With clotted crimson 
Seeping down from your kisses.

Eyes blackened 
And skin ashen,
Crumbling to pieces
Hanging together with gums
Long chewed
And flavourless.

Chipping away at your bones
Snow pellets submerge my tiles
And no distinction
Between the marbles and bones
Could now fathom my eyes.

I sit down
Beside your sunken soul
And my fingers 
Try to search for yours.
As the skin mounted atop
Flutters away.
Dandelions in open air.

The talons have wept red
And eyes give way
To shade of night.
Cheeks
Hollowed out 
Carry the bodies of dead tears
In caskets 
Sunken deep.

And your body
Slowly giving off the odor
Of hopelessness
Slides down
Hitting the marble
With a gruff.

Solemn dexterity
And whisp of apathy
Resounds my voice
And words scruff 
Leave my lips.
Raining down
Upon your battered ears
And matted 
Eyelashes.

Having brewed that denial
With constant rebelion
From truth.
Mixed occasionally 
With false charm 
And decieving smile
Concocting 
The wine
You were working years upon.

Hatred and jealousy 
That appeared as soothing balms
On the greens of your wounds.
Often mistaken
For bites of pure bliss
Now sweetened 
The wine till it scalded your throat ajar.

Maybe besmeared
In your dillusions,
You forgot the phrases
The wise men uttered.
Poison only tastes like poison,
Once you have swallowed it.

Copyright Akanksha Krishnatre

Woman As Ghost As God.

 

I am woman
As ghost as god.
With vericose veins
Running behind her eyes
Travelling her body
Like a gypsy 
In search of a home.

Veins that are coiled 
And entangled.
Not destined to be pulled apart 
Filled with grief, guilt and passion
Burning in her heart.

I am Pandora.
With all her beauty
And gifts she was bestowed upon.
I have curiosity
Dancing upon my fingertips
And an urge to defy 
Those who claim their rights to my body.
I pry open the flesh with nails bare.
Just as the lid slips off the box.
And all thatbis evil is left to flourish.
Beneath a mans’ brow.

And I am the Pandora
Who gives birth to hope
When all seems dead
Even though
I was tricked into it.

I am Eve.
Another of those beautiful maidens
With curves so perfect
And body,
Like that of 
Carved out of pure marble.
First of her kind,
They said.
Guilty of banishment
From the Garden of eden,
The paradise.
They were born after.
The paradise
They sing false hymns about.
Even though
I was tricked into it.

I am a Woman 
As ghost as God
Mentioned so many times in history 
Every time written as 
The beautiful maiden
With a new metaphor for body.
The breasts as tender and firm as marble
And thighs the colour
That of the melting rose.
Hair, like silken threads of heaven.
Binding her soul.

And every time the poet’s
And myths and epics
Wrote about the wars 
Started by the vespertine beauty
Of a careless maiden.
The damsel in distress.
The root of all evil.

Never once mentioning,
Always failing to remind
That the jealousy of man
And pride on their
Beautiful, glorious, fleshy, alive possessions
Threw them into wars
And not mountains and plateaus of flesh
I carry upon my soul.

And because I am a Woman
As ghost as God.
With veins varicose
With grief and guilt and passion in my bones,

I stand 
With graveyards of my soul
And bones as pyres to burn tales 
They fabricate of my wrong doings.
Where I was never to blame.

And I have grief
For the tales and lies 
They brandished before
And I could not speak.

I have guilt
For not standing
As ghost as God
When they changed my body
Into bare naked metaphors
To please their lowly lords 
And shackled my mind
And wit and knowledge
Into chains of evil.
They claim were mine
And I never gave birth to.

I am a Woman 
As ghost as God.
And now I have passion 
To ‘re write stories
To create history 
And retell the tales they told.
With myths at the bottom of jar
And truth finally set free. 

I am not a mere woman.

I am an Idea.
To right the wrongs,
They wrote.
To erase the blame,
They placed.
And to recreate history
They left behind.

Because 
I  am more than flesh.
More than metaphors
That surround my body.

I am woman
As ghost as god.

 _Copy right Akanksha Krishnatre_

Boarding the wrong train.

Boarding the wrong train.

Sitting down, facing front
I see squabbling kids moving around
And their mother with her voice,
As hoarse as a broken gramophone
Drones on and on.
She talks of bills to pay,
And relatives to meet.
She mentions someone,
I forget the name next instant.
And No!
She isn’t talking to me.
In her voice, hard with years,
Bossy with struggle,
Angry with fate.
Drabbles upon unaware
Talking to her boys,
Who remain uninterested
And her words die upon empty air.

Rocking back and forth
And back again,
Her hands wrapped around her own knees,
Like ivy wrapped around dandelion seeds.
That will fall apart
The moment she leaves her limbs
To move on their own accord.
So the greasy girl,
With two piglets of hair
Loosely packed in bands,
Hugs her body closer to herself.
Protecting
Shielding
Just like the old and lanky
Crooked gardener,
Looking after his prized petunias.
She looks at me with distrust
From the back of her lashes,
I never knew that observing someone
With all your hate focused
From your irises was plausible.
And I too look again at the girl,
Not with fear or hate
Just curiosity mingled with my breath.

I swipe my gaze,
From passenger to passenger,
And the con artist with eyes blue
Smirks at me.
His hands grasping the threads
I am sure only I cannot see.
For he seems to tug at some strings
Which I do not feel,
Yet I feel a tug,
A pull
At the organ
Beating behind my fleshy breast
Tucked among lungs
Cajoled amidst ribs.
He smirks and plays on and on,
On his instrument
Deceitful like the winter snow,
Cold to feel
And harsh to touch.

The gates of the train are shut,
Closed with a sign mentioned so.
But such signs are found at stores,
But why again,
So many boards claim open or close?
I look out of windows
My breath leaving behind
My marks of life upon the glass.
It is white outside,
Like fallen cotton threads
Binding a Web,
Blinding me
To look beyond the cabin
I currently home.

Wait! What madness.
That I know cannot happen.
So, stop right there,
No. Do not go further,
Someone, stop the train,
Halt!
Pull the chains,
Oh! Please!
Somebody,
Bang! Bang!
The windows won’t buzz.
Knock! Knock!
No one opens the door.

Wait!
Oh Sir, thank you for asking,
Yes I would want to leave.
Oh Sir! Now don’t laugh and walk away.”

And he left too.
Like every last person
That I have stopped and asked,
Demanded,
Cried,
And ordered
To let me out.
And they are staring,
With creepy Cheshire smile,
The boggy full of people
That I am now wary of.

It is closer to midnight now,
And the mother with her boys,
She is still droning on and on
Telling tales of wolves and blood hounds.
And that girl with bleak eyes,
And limbs that are ready to leave her behind,
Is still clutching at her heart,
Ready to pull apart,
Shreds of her soul,
Which I doubt she holds.
I am fearful for my sanity.

Oh! What madness.
What fury!
Stop the train!
Halt the tracks!
Pull the chain!
Blow the whistle,
For the gates to crack.

And the con artist,
He simply smirks
Now passing me the strings,
I strings I said I cannot see.
He passes those threads
Again to me,
And I unaware of the threads,
Not visible,
Cut my fingers
And bleed.

Oh crimson blood
Trickles down my arm,
And I hear a lapping sound.
The boys with the mother
Are upon myself
Like blood hounds
Closing,
Warming up to their prey.

Oh! What madness.
I stand only to be pulled down again,
I look at my reflection
On the mirror hanging
Down by the blackened door,
And a ghastly, pale
Devoid of blood and fuel
Reflects back,
Smiling with no resemblence
To what I know of me.

With hands shaky,
I pull upon my sleeves
And gently touch my chapped lips,
Looking at my reflection
With hollow bags under her eyes.
One hand to my bosom,
Listening to my hammering heart.
And the other in my pockets,
Searching for the door pass.

And when my fingers gently,
Brush against a paper slip.
Finally found,
I look at the ticket
With trepidation,
Oh Lord! I boarded the wrong train.

©krishnatre

Where We Are From, There is No Sun. 

​Where we are from,
there is no sun.
But quotation grey clouds,
the cloak I wear each morning.
Dyed with the colours of my mouth
shut tight with unjust kisses.
And I wear the cloaks
tied with taut strings
around my neck.
It is a conspiracy,
you see,
The don’t want me to speak
For I shout,
Standing off the cliff
Hoping to fill the void
with some kind of some noise,
Noise with colours 
That bleed pages upon pages of tragedies. 

For I scream
In Hope 
That one solemn day
My words will echo back to people.
Make them believe
that even though
Where we are from,
There is no sun,
yet some people
are hoping to light a bulb.

I wear the cloak
of the colour that shines in dead eyes.
People, You see
no longer see.
They have hollow sockets
Where eternity was once captured.
And Irises hazel, Brown, tawny and grey.
have no emotions.
But the ups and downs 
of denial and death.

War is a game
like monopoly.
And I am still craving for the words to end it.
I don’t want to win
Because victory seldom means Peace
and House never means home.
And where we are from,
there is no sun.

Yet I stand
in persuit of lost cities.
That once we’re carved on maps,
with quills that hoped for a future.
Where there was a break among clouds
and filtered ochre sunlight caressed my brows.
Cities, lost like baby teeth
leaving behind in hope
for a better foundation
But in truth,
left behind the bleeding gums of Humanity.

And maybe when I say,
that I put blame.
I am not seeking innocence
for my own tainted soul.
Because the legacy gifted upon our tongue
tastes bitter like blood
and It has been years since
I was born
And I can still taste the iron
driving nails in my mouth.
Reminding me
of my traditions, cultures and heritage,
which I no longer wish to follow.
For often when you fall into the sea,
It is not pearls that you seek,
but survival.

And decades we have tasted metal.
It is time,
that the broken dandelion seeds
are searched for again.
And an orchard made of despair,
With Ivy molded upon it of hope.

Because I still dream
that when I tell
the leaders of tomorrow 
there would be lights seeping through
milky white clouds.

And the teacup that shattered long ago,
would have come back once for all,
and universe would contract to give place,
to those that never fit in. 
Searching for identity,
among frozen photographs pasted upon walls.
Those with dignity held high
when questioned 
and gender specified
Because male and female defines nothing
But genitalia.

In that time
there would be shelter for,
those that stand unaware and breathing poison.
And death holding their palms
would be saved.
And there would be light in eyes 
and hope in smiles, 
no different from a newborns.

I am still standing on the cliff,
Talking to the void.
Please
Don’t call me crazy.
For where we are from,
there is no sun.

And I will tell stories
of darkness, of despair,
when light will finally be lighted
and fire burnt in every home.
Because House never means home
and victory seldom means peace.

I would teach them,
the children of light ,
that this generation
crushed and cursed 
with a hope still
gave birth to beauties
in the womb of beast.
Because where we were from,
there was no sun.
But,
there is light
 today.
©krishnatre

My first leibster award.

​My first ever leibster award.

Leibster is a german word meaning pleasant, precious or valuable. I feel honoured to get nominated for this award by Himanshu Sisodia. He has got an amazing blog with beautiful Sunday scenic shots and not to forget true to word reviews. Her go check out his blog at inspirehigh 

My thanks to my blogger friends who have always encouraged me to write and express what I always thought of. Thank a lot to you people for being there. You all are simply amazing. I had never thought I would get this sort of response and truth be told, I feel honoured.

So here goes the rules for the Liebster Award:

  • Acknowledge the blog/s who nominated you and display the award
  • Answer the eleven question that the blogger gives you
  • List 11 random facts about yourself
  • Nominate up to eleven other blogs that you think are deserving of this award (with less than 200 followers)
  • Let the bloggers know you have nominated them
  • Give them 11 questions to answer

Here are the eleven questions Himanshu Sir had for me: 

What is your Favorite Food and Why?

My favourite food is anything that is home cooked. These two years of living in a hostel has given me a new found appreciation of home food and its luxuries.

Who motivates you to write?

Often when introverts look around they realise that the world is full of people trying to give their two cent advice on anything beneath the sun. And amidst this chaos of chatter with no content, artists often find ways to explore ways to express, be it dancing, singing, painting, theatre or writing. Just the realisation that there are not enough people around to listen then papers lend you power to speak to millions, maybe that is what drives me to write. 

Tell us the Craziest thing that you ever did?

The craziest thing that I have done, it is hard to decide to say which one. Does shouting UFO UFO with two friends at night on a road with just a handful of people count as crazy. 
Well once I also had a lengthy discussion with a wrong number on three o clock in the morning as to who supplies underwears to mowgli in the jungle and why does melody taste so chocolaty. The former was asked by him the later by me. It was a funny day. 

What is your Favorite Movie and Genre?

My favourite movie would be Inception with Leonardo DiCaprio, directed by Christopher Nolan. The Genre I prefer is Action, Adventure and fantasy. Not to forget Sci-fic.

What is your Favorite Destination to Travel and why?

I love traveling and I have been lucky enough to travel a bit, see a few places and if someone expects me to choose a specific place out of all those then it is just not possible. How does one choose between the flaxen jeweled spanning desert and the white foams like cajoling blankets of the endless ocean. 


What made you start Blogging?


An innate desire to write, to express, to know people who do not know my story and won’t be biased. People who would know me for my writings. Writing to me is passion and blogging helps me take my passion to new levels. 
 

What is your Favorite Cartoon Show or Cartoon Movie?

My favourite cartoon show is Tom and Jerry and Courage the cowardly dog.

Do you believe in Destiny?


I have no inkling of an idea if destiny exists. All I know is that everything happens for a reason. The steps we take give us consequences and we are never left out from the result of our actions. Everything has a beginning and an end and maybe both of them are undetermined depending solely on us. Maybe it is destiny maybe it is not. I guess I will never know.

What are the things you like and don’t like about yourself?

What I like about me is my determination to do what I feel is right amidst any sort of situation. And what I don’t like about me is that I procrastinate till the last moment to do things that are long due.

Which form of Blogging (Micro-blogging, Video Blogging or the Classic Original) you
 think is best?

Different blogging is great for different kinds of people. For me Classic Original blogging works best. It gives me the way in which I like to express my words. 

Do you think that turning your Hobby into your Profession is a Good Idea?

Turning Hobbies into profession is a great idea till the moment the hobby has enough potential to keep you going. For me my hobby is writing and performing written pieces and no I don’t want it as a profession. I want my profession to be in the field as a civil servant. So it is an amazing idea, just not the one for me.

Eleven Bloggers I think are deserving of this award.

  1. आनंद कवठेकर for mrugjalblog
  2. Kimaya Ingale for NOTHEONEYOUKNEW
  3. Afzal moola for afzalmoola
  4. Rishavdeep  for 999rsb
  5. Carolyn Glackin for lovenotesfromyourstruly
  6. Ali Qureshi for maequreshi
  7. Anusha choudhary for notablackandwhitelife
  8. Malakhai Jones for windowsbymalakhaijones
  9. Honing your reality for honingyourreality
  10. Vaibhaw Verma for vaibhaw1694
  11. Poisen Yvy for poisonousyvy

Eleven random facts about me.

  1. I am the youngest one in my family.
  2. I aspire to be a civil servant. 
  3.  I can fluently speak three languages and write in two.
  4.  I am not much into resteraunt foods. They are great and all but home food is what I would rather have.
  5. I hate swearing. The cute little F words just make me cringe. I have got no idea as to why.
  6.  I like to perform poetry as per in a performance poetry ( aka poetry slam) but I also love the traditional written works.
  7. I am good at sports and am athletic. I like soccer (Football) and kabbadi. Still could not understand cricket.
  8. I live in a lodge with two roommates. Both are a bunch of sunshine (clad in clouds of mischief).
  9. I have watched TV. Series like F.R.I.E.N.D.S, The originals, Doctor Who, Sherlock, Mentalist and yada yada yada.
  10. I love reading books and can read any genre except romance and young adult ( stay away from them). My favourite book is 100 years of solitude by Gabriel Graçia Marqhuez.
  11. I am 16 years old and intolerably lazy.

Eleven questions for my awesome nominees.
1) What is your favourite book and why?
2) What pushes you to pick the pen each day?
3) What are your hobbies like?
4) What do aspire to become someday?
5) Did any character of a book or a movie move you in some way? Who was it?
6) Favourite Genre?
7) What does writing mean to you?
8) Life to honour or honour to life?
9) Did you ever do something crazy?
10) What sort of world would you want to see?
11) Traditional Writings or something different?

And there you go, I did my part. Thank you again Himanshu for this award.

Yours truly 

Akanksha Krishnatre

P.S I did an amazing happy dance after getting nominated. The dance consisted of me flapping around like a headless chicken from one furniture to another.