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

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

Yes, I am ashamed.

I am ashamed
for the satire that is Humanity.
You claim to care
You claim to love
You claim to respect.
But it all ends in tumbled mess
Of broken promises.
The country where each religion
Worships A goddess.
The world where Durga and Mary
Hold their dignified stature.
The universe where bows
To touch their feet.
Crosses their hearts
By their name,
And echos in their blessing.

Yes I am ashamed,
A girl of mere sixteen.
Still unable to comprehend,
That how in this world?
That how in her country? 
Is a girl molested.
How the demons of humanity
Do not feel ashamed
Touching her, abusing her, molesting her.
Do they forget
By their each breath of pleasure
That they too have a sister.
That they were nurtured in the womb of a female,
Their dignified mother.
How can they forget?
That a time will come,
When they will father a pearl of a daughter.

I am ashamed of politicians,
When they question
The very story of the victim.
And then with burning face 
And fiery eyes I ask them
Would they have dare question
If it was their daughter, their sister
Who was unmasked out of her dignity.

I a girl far away,
Am shameful of these people.
How come you forget,
That the girl you are looking at
Is a sister for a brother
Is a precious daughter to her father.
She is a mother 
of the generation to come.
How come you omit this
Reality from your heart is above me.
How come your hands don’t tremble
And you not feel guilty
When such thoughts
Merely cross your mind.
You demons, are above me.

Being a girl even I am shameful.
How come tears don’t prickle your eyes?
The innocent girl in her zenith,
Robbed of her modesty,
Humiliated for the mere fun of it.
Shame on you,
For not bring petrified.

I am adored, from the moment,
when I was born,
For my father I am his life.
I am the colour of my brothers canvas.
Just like me
Just like every girl for her family.
The girl you commented on,
The girl you molested
Too is the life of her family
She is the rainbow
For her siblings.
How dare you
Take away her colours?
How dare you extinguish,
The flame, that was her?

I feel ashamed for the society,
Which is all about power,
Domination and position.
In this hell of a world 
The devils crawl like mouses in the sewer,
Too much and filthy,
Carraying plague of their mentality and broken morals.

Hey girl! I do not feel pity for you.
For I know like a phoenix
You will rise ,
From the ashes of your past. 
The scars will be a reminder,
Of the stories to come
Of your survival, your victory 
And remember
the battle has just begun.

Akanksha Krishnatre

On the shameful act of mass molestation on the eve of new year in bengalore.