Abstract

Brown eyes,
I never before noticed
How enticing they were
Or how literature always cheated,
Writing eulogies upon hazel,
The mahogany tawny
Or the resplendent blue. 
Repeating, reminding 
How brown was boring,
Plain as bark,
Monotonous.

But Brown eyes,
Your brown eyes.
I realized 
They were anything but boring.

They were
The aroma of soil after first rain,
The fallen leaves
Painting the pavements 
In mosaic of memories.
The colour of arms
After a long day at beach.
The weight of wet sand,
Coursing, sliding with tide.
The shade of my hair,
When the rays hit just right.

I noticed, they were
The aroma of chocolate,
Dipped in syrup.
The warmth of hot coffee
On a cold winter morning.
The moist cake,
I recently feasted upon.

I realized, they were
The sound of busy mornings.
The hustle of streets,
With people on way.
The shade my laughter sounded
On cheesy pick up lines,
Yours.
It was the same colour
As the walls of my rooms.
With Windows seeing past horizon.

I saw, they were
The strokes of uncertainty.
Old toys on the mantlepiece,
And older books of the library.
It was in the smell
Of pancakes that grandmother made.
And the last bite I fought over.
The stalk of the tree
I decorated every winter
And the wrappers
I wrapped and unwrapped
Over the family table.

I sensed, them in
The afternoon lunches with father, 
And those long walks
Alone by the deserted highway.
Sometimes
When the clouds grew dark
It peeked behind
Those rationed curtains
Of the old homes.

It was not a simple color anymore,
It was comfort in pain,
The frozen smile in worry.
A solace
Salvation when mayhem insured.
It was a safe haven.

And literature 
Poetries
Never truly did justice,
Claiming
Claiming the colour
Of your orbs to be unremarkable.
But I realized,
Falling deep in that void,
That those chocolate dipped colours
Dancing in your sunlit laughter
Were anything but boring.

A. Krishnatre.

To the one reading 

Dear stranger,
You and I 
We do not belong
In a ‘we’.
I do not know
What your favourite colours
Look like.
I have never seen 
The shades your eyes shine
When the sunlight
Hits it just right.
I do not know
The smell of your favourite coffee
In a peachy morning blue.
I do not know
Whether you like chocolates
Or prefer pies.
I am devoid
Of all such knowledge 
These details
Of your life.

Yet stranger
I know that some nights
When the clock tick 3
You simply toss and turn
Unable to sleep.
Some nights
You simply stare
Out into the void
Unaware of self
Conscious intertwined with abyss.
And those nights
You do not yearn for someone
You do not need warm hugs
For the fire of your heart
Keeps you warm.
You know yourself
In the purest form.

I know
That some days are bright
sunshine tucked in your pockets
And stars in your eyes.
Those days you dress up
In your favourite clothes
Looking your best possible self.
And I know stranger
That some days
Giving a smile
Lending laughter
Is too much of a trouble.
Life is like dandelion seeds
Fragile and hard to grasp.

I know your regrets
Those unsaid words,
That still claw down your throat.

I know that life is not fair
It never is.
I know it hurt
When they went away
Maybe ,
Maybe they could have stayed.
I know at days
You curse fate
And at days yourself,
Hoping you could
Have made them stay

In weary nights
When you look at yourself
And start finding faults
And then sleep through the night
Welcomed by wet pillows.
I know you,
And I want to remind you
That you are beautiful.

I know that your heart,
Holds the biggest chandeliars
That beauty has to offer.
With firefly lights
Flickering and frolicking
Lit a thousand lights.

Stranger
I know your smile,
The way your lips curl
And teeths peek out.
The way you scrunch your nose
Crinkles reach your eyes.

Somedays
You enter the coffee shop
Sitting by the table
You sip that black delight
Or earlgrey ( your choice).
I know you find comfort
In watching people passing by.

I know how you jump
Seeing ballons go up
And how rides
Always make you sweat.
You love that cheesy over romantic movies
That you have denied each day.

I know you have cried
A thousand tears
Shown a few
Treasured the rest.
I know all that.
I know you hide your scars
But darling 
They make you strong.

And I am sorry
I could not tell you sooner
That stranger,
I have known it all along
And I want to remind you 
That through all days 
Good or bad
There are people
Who find you beautiful,
That know you
People who care.
So Stranger,
Darling
Take care.
©krishnatre

All things dark are heavy.

The senseless musings,
That just intermix and intertwine
From one platonic fact to another.
The time when sanity
Cracks a slap across the cheek
And still the difference,
Between alive and dead is fogged
In simple tales of delusion. 
The time when the night itself
Cannot decide between dusk or dawn,
And with the sombre confusion
The people are supposed
simply to breathe along.

The time when a muse less
Staring competition with the wall
Seems more sane than life.
The time when all the elixirs
And ambrosial drops of solutions
Gladly knock at your door,
Only for you to forget them
Another moment, another day.
The time when you one by one
Peel of your layers to your bare skin,
Afraid not of what is to come
But welcoming the dreary breathy silence.

The time when life is a tale
That has no ties with you
And is simply a movie to which
You are an avid audience.
The time when strangers
Fall in love with your words
And your words fall prey to love.

I won’t go elucidating how breathtaking
How magnificent 
How amusing 
The time of the night is 
When you bare your soul to life
And life bares its truth to you.
The time when the chime
Of each bell
The toll of every clock
Fades slowly, simply into nothingness.

The time when time is still
Like frozen with the raven blanket
Adorning the once blue top,
And stars like the ignored holes
Of day to day conflicts
From where light is seeping through.
The time when you just want
It to be like this forever
In the arms of Morpheus
Listening to your breaths
Like an understanding of the most vivid poetry,
That is time.

Ah! How beautiful
How enchanting 
Elusive yet Breathtaking.
The time when life and death
Collapse lovingly in an embrace
Of fate and destiny,
Like two lovers who were parted
A long time ago
And have finally found
Solace in that time of the night.

The time of the night when
Poets, writers and artists
Fret for much needed peace.
Peace from their own muses.
Trying to keep their sanity
Piece by piece together.
Yes! Finally you understood
The time of the night 
When lights are on 
Simply to keep on keeping on.

Ah the almost 3 of the night
When it is hard to decide
Between sleep and the temptation
To complete the last piece
You started, maybe destined
To be your next Magnum opus.
So maybe you give in 
To the claws of temptation
Or maybe you fall asleep.
It truly dosen’t matter
As long as it is that time of the night.

The almost three of the night.

Copyright Akanksha Krishnatre

How to ( A guide to become Human)

Ah! I found a manual today.
Hardbound it was kept 
On the counter of 
The measley cafe I own
Named ‘The earthly invasions’.
It is a simple building
With a blue ceiling where
The ceiling lights flicker
Off and on.
The floor, a mixture of numerous
Patches of colours green, blue 
and brown.

In this measly cafe 
Where living beings thrive
Drinking the ambrosial drop
That poured down.
Ah! On the counter the fat ugly book
Kept it’s provoking, accusing gaze
On each customer that stood
Erect on paws two with pride.
The book is a grimoire, 
A spell book of some sort,
That has spells and charms 
To make a frog into a prince 
And a queen into a couldron.

With perfect caution I turned the pages
That were rusty with abuse.
Flaxen prints of time had flourished
In the book untouched from ages.
I came to a guide
Where the ingredients 
were mentioned
With a detailed description 
For “how to become Human.”

First it said
Take a soul from the fire of hell.
For what good could you do
To the soul already pious in heaven.
The souls that have sinned
That have betrayed and broke trust
That have bullied and killed
Are more of a sensible choice
For this recipie. 
After the selection of soul
Lock it in jar
as you go searching for conscience 
In the labyrinth of crimes
Make sure to choose 
That is tainted, even if 
Only by a small mistake.
Now beware.
Do not add the conscience
To the soul in jar
Before furnishing it with
The nectar of kindness 
Which is impossible to find.
Also add a pinch of insanity
To the sane old conscience,
For what good is a mind
Without crazyness that nurtures 
A child in the elder form.
Now check again for mistakes
Before we go searching for passion
Because kindness and childlike wonder
Are hard to find.
Steal passion from autumn leaves
That have fallen on ground.
The crimson leaves burning
To pave a new path are
By strength bound.

Ah! So you found the soul
A heart full of passion.
Now move on to find
The numerous threads
That will make a human. 
So now search for longing
That you will find
In the purest form in homes
Of age old people
Watching the door for their children.
The heart needs hope,
The wrenching torment
That peeps when
No way is found.
So look for hope
Smothered with good will 
In the family of person
Breathing on his death bed.
Ah so found hope,
Cajole it in the heart
Before life tears it into pieces.

Now did you look for love
My dear dear witch or wizard.
Ah! You forgot I see,
Get along searching for 
The elixir that runs in the veins
Of life and death.
You will find it
In the intertwined hands
Of two soulmates 
That lie content breathing 
The same breath.

Did you take a teaspoon of joy?
If not then find it
In new born’s smile.
And also gather a little sorrow
For what is life without pain.
Now for flavour let’s savour
The simple threads 
That will bind the heart to the soul.
Find care for family
And intimacy for friends
Because a heart without
Warmth is a soul without heart.

Now that you have found
All the ingredients big or small.
Let us now put them together
To make the human we aspire.
The conscience with morality
Kindness and Insanity
Is fit into the soul. 
And heart filled with passion, 
Love, intimacy, care, hope 
Is bred into a charm.
And then installed with utmost
Delicacy into the soul 
Without harm.

So my Sweet pumpkins, 
My honey drops,
The witches and wizards
Welcome to My measley humble Cafe
“The Earthly Invasions”.
Where a grimoire lies
Waiting for you with
Precise instructions as to
“How to become Human”.

Akanksha Krishnatre

The Things We do for Love.

As I dip the quill
In your blood,
Swirling the thick liquid
In circles.
Writing poetries,
That exist on the undertones of flesh.
Branding the heart,
Cushioned with the proddings of my pen.
In those fearfully bright lit eyes,
Which hold the abyss
And void with reflecting light.
I sway the rose,
The lilies,
And the wolfsbane
In your crimson fuel,
Ablaze.

I swirl and sway with the rhythm,
Of your still pumping heart
Which gives the music,
That once was the reason to breathe.
Now a necessity to live.

So I encase it
In a big black box,
With locks and keys guarded.
More strongly than
The heart of Davy Jones. 
Upon your fiery lips,
I place the cool petals,
That once were adored
By your kisses.

And mirrors in your bosom,
To hold me infinitely
There somewhere.
Where once a heart lied
Now lies a hollow socket,
Reeking of affection and adoration.

So that heart cased in cage,
And those lilies stand in a vase
Dripping drop by drop,
The tales of life.
Slowly unweaving the silk threads
That once bound you and me.

So the thick petals of roses,
Dipped in the elixir of your blood
Are now curled with heat of your cheeks.
They have lost their tenderness,
Changing to the hollow human
That you now are left.
So I place them upon your picture
Relishing the metaphor.

On the slaughter counter
Lies your pious body.
No longer the chest moves
Up and down.
No longer a fire burns in eyes
And the socket has lost a heart.
But still in those loathed images
You stand beautiful.
Oh so beautiful.
I stand back and look
At the masterpiece.
My Magnum opus.
You.
On the counter with the pale face reflected
In the blue lights of ovens flame.
Ready to embrace you,
Adore you in its flames. 
To hold you down,
To lull you to sleep.
A sleep where dreams
Are afraid to enter
In the fear of being marked forever.

So you my Masterpiece,
are like a lost painting of Picasso,
That I finally completed.

(c) Akanksha Krishnatre.

Heaven and Hell, Horatio.

The mosaic of moments
Wrapped in verdant,
Dance through the eternal 
muse of life.
So, Oh! Horatio.
There is no such thing
As happiness.
It’s a fleeting illusion
Created by a little less pain.
Ah! Take my words
My friend.
Suffering too isn’t real,
It is a choice between
Surviving with dignity
Or living with pain.
Who ever proclaim’d
life is easy,
Is a fool to be wary of.
For life is nothing
If not enough twisted
Into coils of wants and longing.
What is good with people
In this world
Oft gets incinerated
and what lives long
Is deeds that no corpse
Succumbs to have committed.
So Horatio, 
Heed my words my friend 
As I tell you to run,
Save your skin
While you truly can.
Because once you get
Embroiled in these endless
Threads of life.
Coming out unscathed
With no scars to tell your tale
Stand impossible.
So be saved my lord
While safety is possible.
So don’t survive,
Live my lord
While living isn’t a dream.
Ah! Love my lord
Until love isn’t tainted.
But heed my words
Don’t search for bliss
For it can’t be found.
And remember 
That world no longer
Is what it seems.
For there are more 
Things in heaven and hell 
Horatio
Then could ever be
Dreamt in your philosophy.

Akanksha Krishnatre

I

I am a story,
Encrypted upon flaxen pages
With ink hazel and blue
Like the midnight sky.
I do not have the stars
nor the moon,
That on delight of dreams
adores the yonder blue.


I am a painting,
The uneven splash of 
Monochrome colours.
One on another,
That together form
The imperfections 
On the vivid canvas,
Just like the little flaws in me.


I am a poetry,
With rhyme scenes forgotten
Just flowing with the wind.
The words combed together
Sharp like claws
To strike a chord hard,
On the strings
Of innumerable sins.


I am the music,
The sound of sticks on drums
And the grace of blaring noise
With cadence as its origin.
The sound of metal upon metal,
The laugh of ringing resonance.
The tune of a known song
just revived once again.


I am a mosaic,
Of abandoned masterpiece
Incomplete yet admirable.
The uneven pieces,
Molded together
to form a raven
of strength, strong 
like a warrior.


I am art,
Breathing for my own sake.
From strokes of brush,
To the fold of pages
From the chords of violin,
To poetic rages.
I am beauty of the beholder
Seen in vivid forms.


Forget what I told you,
For I cannot be remembered.
Like the director in shadows
Let me just be all and none at once.
The writer of my own story
And the protagonist too
So omit me from your memory ,
For I am you yet no one at once.