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

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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

An appeal with my readers

A lot changed me in the past few months. And a lot changed around me. A lot changed about me. Now no longer a teenager but I finally became a girl with a voice, people would listen to. 

My amazing friends and fellow bloggers, I Akanksha Krishnatre finally became an author with her poetry collection named ‘The Symphony of A Soul’ published. 

you all have been a rock in this journey, encouraging when I felt weak. I am thankful to all of you for always being there for me and my verses. 

An excerpt from a poem named ‘To the one reading’  in the book reads:

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.

I would be grateful if I a child still would get more and continuous support of My amazing fellow bloggers. The book is available on amazon. I would be delighted, if you could take the pains of going through it and leaving a review on the link below.  It would be an amazing help to a growing writer if you placed an order. For this visit the link below..

https://www.amazon.in/dp/8193184157/ref=cm_sw_r_wa_apa_i_udw.zbR7XWAHP

Thank you for your support.

A.Krishnatre.

P.S don’t forget to write a review.

A Happy birthday letter to Shakespeare

Wordsmith colony
Teenage lane
India

23 April 2016

English writers block
Gate 1616- Dramatist’s paradise
Heaven.

Respected Shakespeare Sir,

Again, I am here at your service to provide you with information regarding the, tangled mess of people, that is the society. But before I move to those not-so-pressing matters, let me ask after your health and happiness. After my last letter I hope everything regarding you has taken a turn towards the best. Now let’s discuss some matters that can’t be neglected.

So Sir before anything else let me wish you a grand, magnificent and full of grandiose birthday. May your fame succeed you in all the next generations to come. Now I remember that your unfortunate death also took place at this same day ,but considering the fact that I am a mere teenager writing a letter to you,that seems like a taboo topic to talk about. Let’s move to something more cheerful that lightens the mood and creates an aura of bliss.

I assure you respected sir , that the reason behind my being late in writing this letter today is not my forgetfulness, but my hesitancy to write. Sir I realise that it will seem like a poor excuse to you, the greatest dramatist of all time, but I assure you that to a budding poet like me , the hesitancy of writing to you was more hard to overcome than a writers block. But it doesn’t matter any longer. Here I am writing to you.

Sir, now about the homo sapiens. Human society is just moving forward slowly and steadily on the cycle of rise and fall. Nothing out of ordinary about them. As you portrayed the assaisan of Caesar by the hands of Cassius,  Brutus and other conspirators, I assure you respected sir , the same is going on with every part of society , where each and every man looks out for his or her own benefit.

Respected Shakespeare Sir,  Do not worry about the society,  even though they pave their own fall , yet do not worry about them , for they will learn with your guidance and in the end they will understand their mistakes. But that’s not what I am writing to you about.

Sir , I am writing this letter to ask about the feast that took place in heaven to celebrate your birthday. Do give me account regarding it. Here on earth we the literature feeding , bookworms,  bibliophile, bookmaniac and your epic fan teenagers, adults and older people definitely celebrated your birthday. Enjoy your ultimate day.

Respected Shakespeare Sir, through your vivid views on everything,  I hope your view about birthday’s in general is  a great one, for I love them no doubt. With cakes and candles and sweets and joy nothing more is needed.

Sir, I now see that I have said a numerous things that do not make much sense and rest assured definitely I will give the excuse of sleepy eyes and confused head at midnight. I hope you won’t mind. I will again write to you when I feel like it , Until then Adieu . Do shower your dramatic blessings on me and give my sincere respect to Sir G.B.Shaw , Sir
Ben Johnson , Sir .Samuel Beckett , Sir Arthur Miller and the whole crew.
Do write if possible,
If impossible
Write all the same.

Yours faithful young wordsmith
Akanksha Krishnatre.

P.S. Have an incandescent birthday blast.

A letter to Shakespeare

Wordsmith colony
Teenage lane
India

1 February 2016

English writers block
Gate 1616- Dramatist’s paradise
Heaven.

Respected Shakespeare Sir,

Take my salutation into consideration and do proceed with the letter . First let me out of my sheer morbid curiosity and politeness ask, Sir how is your stay in heaven? I sincerely hope you are comfortable and cheerful because on earth situations are not so grand. I hope you are full of felicity at your grand success in the literature world. I completely agree with the world and myriad of geniuses that you are the greatest dramatist of all time and ‘course a supreme poet. Well I sincerely hope your fame has reached the eerie yet magnificent heaven. Now when I am hearty content with your health and happiness let’s proceed onto the topics at hand.

Sir I have a few queries that I need answered and I hope that you will be kind enough to do so. The first and foremost thing that baffled me was how did you know what the human civilization was going to end up like in the future? What I meant dear sir is that your dramas are the perfect portrayal of today’s society. Did you had a magical mysterious ruby jeweled mirror or something of that kind that reflected the future? Or is it just the fate of every society to decline and fall after its exuberant rise. History repeats itself , for the cycle of rise and fall could be traced from Rome to Athens. And you dear sir are very well aware of that. But can’t the cycle just end at the rise and set a enrapturing example. I know you are laughing at me , saying that it’s a cycle, and a cycle cannot end at a point but be continuous. I know your answer will be a clear and wise no, well Never mind.

Now that you have seen and understood that humanity is falling in its own trap like it’s succumbed to decline and ruin. You must be feeling sorry. Well don’t worry because you yourself made clear that after every great tragedy either a man’s fate is that of Antonio or that of Brutus. Either a man understands like king lear understood or he dies utterly consumed in his own plethora of ego like Macbeth.  But whatever turn the man will take, Victory will always be of the one who is righteous.

Dear Shakespeare Sir,  through your wit , humour , passion , power , love , lust , politics , omens , forecasts , wisdom , cruelty , internal conflicts and game of thrones,  you being the wise being you are, showed us different ways out of trouble , all we need to do is to read them intently and be passionate in doing so.  Thank you so much for jotting down the future of present mankind in the past.

Sir I love your writings and above all I respect your wisdom . The way you sum up whole life in a few sentences and the way you express emotions in words that can even wield the matter. Your dialogues are the perfect example of silky emotions blend with iron will and logic in the perfect proportion. The grotesque coldness of time and the illogical decrepit ignorance of Lords were described on the flaxen flyleaf in a graceful manner.

Sir I hope for you all kinds of bliss and joy wrapped in incandescent smiles. I will again write to you when I again fail to understand the aim of human kind . Until then Adieu . Do shower your dramatic blessings on me and give my sincere respect to Sir G.B.Shaw , Sir Ben Johnson , Sir .Samuel Beckett , Sir Arthur Miller and the whole crew.
Do write if possible,
If impossible
Write all the same.

Yours faithful young wordsmith
Akanksha Krishnatre.

P.S : I cherish your writings, for they act as a flickering flame in the darkness of unknown. Happy writing.