Weave a story, would you?

Weave a story, would you? Or a poetry again? Oh yes I would love to, but….

Well, are in this magnificent pause now, aren’t we.

Again… yes again.

When do you see your dreams gathering and collecting themselves into the most invincible tempest of words? When do you see your words seek the memories of your rendezvous of love, of the hours of deciphering the language of lust, of winters that stubbornly froze you into an eternity of numbness, Of the snow that refused to melt on an epitaph, of the moonbeams that heard your tales of love but refused to swim across the ocean of stars to reach the man you shared the tales with, of those hour long flings with loathe or maybe pity, of autumns that were set ablaze as long forgotten epistles flung into the hearth? When do your dreams pick up a language of their own, with a grammar drenched in all shades of melancholia or perhaps ecstasy? When do your words twirl into the air and fancy themselves as threads spinning up a fabric of muslin stained with unsung and unheard melody of you?

I write when I’m in ruins – I write when I wish the tomorrows were only but a finger-counted few.

I write when my heart is set ablaze by emotions that are boundless and merciless all the same - I am no phoenix to rise from my ashes, so I write to leave behind a memory for those who would wish to read me. I write when my dreams swell up and burst into shards that rip my soul apart, when I feel the flesh in my heart hangs by a thread of hope…

I write when I’m being devoured by an overwhelming sense of despair.

The epitaph of a Caesura

 Oh Monsieur! 

             How the ink does betray this once unvarnished expanse of uncompromised quietude, as I wend a wistful sangfroid into an arguably decadent mélange of mellow reminiscences! Some vague souvenirs of yesterdays, feasting upon a siesta beneath the generosities of a bruised elision… some decidedly frivolous, dallying with a scintilla of the notion of a possible unfurled self… some embracing a vermilion-hued triumph over an infidel ephemeron… and yet some others, scrupulously wheedling an acquaintance of their radical selves with an ounce of blemished immortality, borrowed from a slumbering tomorrow - All of these sweet-scented smidgens of an arguable yester-me, somehow glibly waltz away into a cadence of saccharine nothingness. A testimony indeed, to the recherché conspiracies of all those zillion tomorrows that were marred and wasted on their pilgrimage to the Lethe!! Alas…

                 But Oh! Did not herein, evince the serendipity of being owned by the wilderness of your amore, my Corsican raconteur? 

The Shapeless Casuist

Gambling on some fickle-headed morrows,

A certain vagabond smidgen of her recherché self

Rides on the reminiscences of a decaying silence.

Past the lure of a clamant moonlit painting of

Those zillion vows that weave a chimerical zilch,

Past the utopian sky of a seemingly unerring halcyon,

It rides to the wilderness of an uncouth blasphemy.

Like an unbidden gypsy clad in whiffs of callow altruism,

It waltzes to the cadence of this mirage of fallacies;

A cadence that you believe, plays antonym to its being!

As if carousing in the mid-summer bliss of an Italian vintner,

It spins a decorative monologue of its deliberate charade,

And smiles away at its chef d’oeuvre with a selfish pride…

Its an arabesque of a thousand and one misplaced morals,

All daintily smeared with a fanciful scent of blatant truth!

This sinful hue of abstractness, ushers itself onto a pilgrimage to

The caravan of smoke that’s fabricated by her cerise lips,

And then the smoke and the sin waft away into the rain

Drenched twilight, like baubles of blue from an eternal

Brine to the welkin…

A total eclipse of the anonymous goodness you believe in!

Do you see how

Beneath the cloak of rainbow-coated altruism, an ugly

Season of the vilest of misanthropy drinks to its being?

A shapeless casuist, this smidgen of her is indeed!

And do you see,

How this smidgen is the whole of her being?

How this ‘she’ is the nameless prophet of sin in me?

How this ‘she’ is nothing but a selfish ‘I’…

- Barenya Nayak

Autumn Mosiac

Somewhere in those empyrean halls,
An antique cerulean clock strikes ten,
And down here, on these ephemeral
Vales of the sins and virtues of men,
The turquoise skies blissfully elope
With all shades of the summer mirth,
And celebrate from afar, a tulip's grin 
When her spirit gives her a wide berth.

The winds and all their winsome eddies,
Swim the panorama in salient ebullience
And rob the dainty dahlias and peonies
Of their bouquets of tempting essence.
The scarlet rose and her crew of delicious
Summer-tide blossoms tepidly fade away,
While their mesmeric memories linger
Into some wistful caskets of the yesterday.

And just as these oil-paintings of summer
Drift away to a parallel cosmos of elisions,
For three blessed, yet placid seasons and
Feast on the syrah of siestas and illusions;
A spell of invincible mellowness seamlessly
Cascade down in myriads of reddish amber,
A maple slips a leaf, unfurling an autumn
Clad in robes of a tangerine tinted October.

The earth is blessed with a clement sun
Together with smidgens of juvenile cold
And the fields, feed and watered by the
Crisp mustard sunshine, autumn holds,
Rave about their love for the fine fall
To a buoyant bevy of linnets capering by.
A finch waltzing with a passing zephyr
Sings to the starling gleaming up high.

The songs of the gladness of autumn
Those of a jubilant harvest and life,
Of the aromas of pumpkin and peach
And the plums and pears, who are rife,
Chime their way through the passels
Of smiles and laughs of rejoicing men.
But soon dusk breathes a winter blue
And a fallen lark hears a clock strike eleven.

Alas!

Yet another autumn kisses an oblivion!

               

  ~ Barenya Nayak

Memories of a harlequin melancholia

Infinite questions, an inane pursuit and a treacherous bridge of uninvited intricacy delicately weaving them together – Yes, sometimes life betrays! I feel so vulnerable, so petrified, so vacuous and so very inebriated by my overwhelming fears. You could accuse me of pondering over what to ink down, but consequently, I wouldn’t give a wide berth to your accusations, for though acerbic, they portray a poised and unvarnished axiom.
Perhaps, no; It is not a void fribbling away in my soul, it is a medley of harlequin melancholia. Surprisingly, Life has never been modestly scrupulous. When you assume no masquerade, and are appeased with the genuine ‘you’, some officious paramour of Satan veils your persona with an imaginary exaggerated tag of ‘fraudulence’ and makes sure that your juvenile alacrity evanesces in a tempest of despondency. Yet would you succumb and embrace the ever-austere ethos of saccharine buoyancy and pseudo altruism, life wouldn’t bother to smile upon you either. That’s one modicum of advice, the twelve years of banality at my alma-mater have hurled at me!
Although I adulate innuendos, I’ll dodge it for now. Three years from today, down the corridors of yesterdays and yester-years, I seamlessly reminisce what a churlish bitch I used to be. I had this impolitic hauteur and undying imprudence that embellished all my narcissistic instincts, but though relentlessly impugned, the chances of my vain aplomb being immured in an abyss of impasse were assuredly synonymous to triviality. May, be I wasn’t agreeable to an infinite majority, but life sure seemed agreeable to me, so ‘my-way’ and unstained with baseless accusations. But somehow, succumbing to the umpteen accusations hurled at my blessed arrogance, I let an invincible opacity envelope my whole being. Being opaque is so exacting, but when you conceal your genuine temperament and let people assume you’ve blended yourself with their vibes (for a good many presume solely their preferences to be superlative), life bestows an ephemeral clemency. But for the herculean endeavors, all I get as a souvenir is chagrin again (Perhaps, she adores my insaner eccentricities). How deplorably cabalistic could it get!
When you are crowned with the badge of honor, a tiny rectangular piece of metal, with cyclopean deferential influence, something for which you’ve nurtured an adulation and appetence, all the eleven long years, you feel like life couldn’t have offered an jubilation better saccharine, but ironically the sun impales your rainbow arch, eroding it before you could the golden pot of opulent bliss at its end, and you, resigning to the harrowing aversion people nourish against you, abandon the badge and console your inconsolable self, for a moment, life seems like an incessant and expanse of unsurpassable chagrin, a moment that again seems an eternity (And worse still, you have to have this annoying facades of bliss and fake smiles etched on your face, all the while). When you are accused of being romantically inclined to some deservingly popular comrade (As if love is an unpardonable peccancy!) and soon, you yourself are vanquished by the uncanny veracity in the accusation, but almost every other entity pushes it a little too far and eventually the delicate threads of unacknowledged mutual penchants entangle and lose their verve…. When you’re once-upon-a-time close pal is ruined by the incurable affinity towards any fool of the opposite sex, along with being consumed by a ridiculous proclivity to the Dollars and parallel sanctimony – You can’t help but fling the epistles of camaraderie at the hearth and see the ink on paper dance way into oblivion, under the arabesque clemency of the phantasm of fire. When you know your prissy heart gives refuge to predilection for a certain him and a her and another her from the three scores of teachers, and for a few blissfully roguish, but adorable fellow-classmates as well, but you get seized by a tempest of qualms, the fears of being uncompromisingly abhorred by them, you rile your sanity and throttle the remnants of your sangfroid and complacency, within a triangle of abysmal remorse, amaranthine decadence and towering emotional mayhems. When you know your first crush, was such an insane random choice, so very barbaric and bizarre that you can barely break your cocoon of recondite but unblemished sagacious and poised- silence and when you feel so ‘nothing’ for the long lost friend, you had held so close you your heart and so etched to your memories for the past seven years, but now all the penchant seems to have wasted and marred itself in the Armageddon of empathy, just after stumbling across her out of the blue, you just can’t help but let the insatiable frustration, consume your heart and mind, both of which now stand shattered into a million of evanescent dew drops, each a testimony to my cacophonous melancholy.
Twelve years at St. Joseph’s, of which the last saw me dying a twelve thousand deaths, saw someone who flaunted and her amour-propre, reduce into a quasar of mortification, a hatred for being who she was, saw a gullible someone brimming over with aplomb, stammer and forget how to entrust another for the rest of eternity, someone lose the last hopes of regaining her unduly snatched acumen… But that era is over now; it has been gathered to an elision. No more mornings where my mom would caress me and consoling my fears, coax me to go to school, no more assemblies where my petrified self would try its best to be out of any teacher’s sight, lest she should call me a defiant bitch from the inside and grin on the outside, no more breaks where I would confine myself to the class-room of X-C, just to be away from Mephistophelian cynic … No more St. Joseph’s; Just an empyrean bliss at the thought of embracing the new insecurities of tomorrow’s unknown ventures and blooming from a new caramel bud, under a new agreeable sun and yet another bliss at the thought of sewing up school-life.
It could never get harder to push a pencil, for me…. Well, sometimes it’s best to cling on to my invincible opacity and muffle my vagabond musings and barbaric emotions with a solitary thread of pristine reticence.
Oh! I just discovered the thread is overwhelmingly fragile… pity.

Caramel Chimeras

When a delirious mind ambles
Through a plethora of reveries,
In a rummage for the atrium
Where evanesce quandaries;
A mirage of winsome chimeras
Is poured onto the brown veil,
Like a ballerina incited by the
Syrah in some wager's deal.
Fancies are ignited, so the whims,
As if summoned to the empyrean,
To welcome the savior from the
'World of lights' of a Mandaean.

A clairvoyant - Unfounded and sham,
Builds an odiously buoyant imagery;
While the facades of opulent vagaries
Hurl their phony charms as a gaudery.
A pariah smothers his melancholy
And riles the remnants of his sanity
To paint his new quasar in an alluring
Pearlescent bohemian rhapsody.
While another mediocre Utopian
In an unseasoned verve and alacrity
Losing his aplomb, drowns the vilest
Yet fanciful farragoes of animosity.

Risible the charms of the chimeras,
Those blithely swill all nonchalance
And with specious guile adorn its
Cenotaph with an arcane ambiance.
In some pacific clandestine orifice,
They shroud their own peccadilloes.
Yet bewail! Curse these charlatans-
The insidious slayers and vespilloes.
Knitting the candid musings into a
Canvas, they paint a divine fantasia.
And veil the onerous reality and rue,
To deluge with silky auras of ambrosia.

Blasphemies against these chimeras!
They draw a caramel bridge between
The pragmatic Utopian and his utopia,
And thaw when a Helios of reality's seen.
The caresses of hopes are verily poised
Not chimeras, if you sense that the line
Between the 'realistics' and 'idealistics'
Ought not be effaced but left pristine.
This ephemeral travesty of a 'dream'
Courts a duchess of baloney and elopes,
Leaving behind a tempest of melancholy.
So blasphemy against chimeras, not hopes!

Saints And Sinners

Creativity and sensibility can never share a mutual penchant for each other; At least not for me, so do pardon my baloney. You see, while sauntering amidst the shadows of varying tones of grey and slumbering black, when an affluence of serenity drenched in nonchalant blues, pours the sangria of whims, to rouse a bohemian's dreams, the thin line between sense and non-sense drowns in a blur. So are the impressions of a ludicrous reality on the ostentatious cadenza of life, where aspirations and compulsions, wrongs and rights, loves and aversions as well as amiable fantasies and abhorred obligations, all mingle into an atrocious pandemonium that echoes the intensified hassles between the audacious mind and the emollient heart.
Somewhere in our sedentary pursuits of materialistic luxuries, a zephyr of emotions skim across our soul, in vain attempts of embellishing the remnants of humanity in modern 'men'. But a better share of people deny the blissful innocence in its demeanor and sabotage it. The fragments of my fifteen year long acquaintance with life, that have shattered themselves and now take refuge in my heart, proclaim that life can be Beautiful (with capital 'B') if you see it as it should be seen, love it as it wants it to be loved and define it as it wishes to be defined – as a farrago of blinding emotions caresses by the music of candor and genuineness. My reader, are you one of those unfortunately ignorant beings who seeks the beauty of life in a few prodigious chateaus, exuberant wheels and crispy notes and pronounce your ignorance to the world with a risible profusion of pride? Permit me to act on my own accord and I'll label these delirious entities as translucent evidences of the bafflingly despicable sagacity of mankind. Your mistaken if you've assumed the sagacity to be regarding the '$' loves for I've been decrying the choice of loving your mind more than the heart, all along! The fault can't be entirely yours, for I'm not a success at delineating!
You can't toss a drachma and be a Greek, but you can abandon the peccadillo of adulating the narcissistic instincts of your mind. If I just said 'peccadillo', let me rephrase it as 'blunder', for the mind is the only abyss of ghastly egoism. Every mind is a misanthrope's chalet and every heart, an altruist's paradise – unsurprising you're in oblivion of either the former or the latter. Very dolorous? Perhaps... but the consequences of the oblivion are way beyond the presumed dolorousness. When you smother the melting yellows and roguish smiles of life, allow your genuine alacrity to die in an elision and seek solace in fortunes by slighting your heart and cherishing the odious fancies of the mind, you are merely dragging your whole being to the Armageddon.
The saints can be sinners and the sinners, the saints. Would you choose the lesser of the two evils that dwell in you, that is to say, the random saint over the incurable sinner or chide my extravagant sanity, and decoratively address your asininity as 'indifference'?