Silver Crusader

Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream ! – H.W. Longfellow

Scarlet Begonias

​The first time I saw her, I knew her name,
She wore Scarlet Begonias tucked in her hairs,
So I just called her so,
My Scarlet Begonias her name thenceforth.

I still find her thousand watt smile,
Shaming the sun every time it dares cross her sight,
​In the yellow lights her black frame shone,
Like a star kept for her own.

Some days I would hear her sing,
Auditoriums, amphitheaters, the big stage and the coffee shop too,
And all those other singers I cursed,
Who had ruined them songs before her.

Some days I would see her act,
And lost in her eyes I forgot,
It was not me but the darkness she was talking to,
Darkness her beautiful ally.

I think of words to call her out,
Every time such a loss of them I feel,
The poverty of words to capture her soul,
So I call her Scarlet Begonias and let it be so.

As she moves away to the beautiful lowlands,
I wish she would cross those plains again,
And tell perfection what it means to be her,
Oh Scarlet Begonias may your bloom bring infinite smiles.

– Silver

The Poet’s Curse

You name the greats of musical rhyme,
The poets, the singers, the byrds of the times,
You awe and read aloud of his fame,
You never talks of the poet’s bane.

A cursed creature is a poet,
Drops of his blood are his words,
An agony unnamed are his thoughts,
His vision burns all in sight.

In nights when wailing of his heart,
Grow loud enough to wreck his veins,
He cuts them open one by one,
And let them paper soak in red.

Be a rational, headstrong, critical one,
Go anywhere ignore the storm,
Go to the cafes, the book stores, the alleys and get lost,
Do not ever tread near the poet’s place.

For each time you shall turn back,
You will see the etched trail,
His skin scratched by the August rain,
And standing still in midst of the violence.

Nothing in it, puts pen to paper,
Let his open veins talk,
And then tired of staring at his own clots,
He searches for the needle and the threads.

And assiduously stitches his scars,
Some dried at places away, some bleeding still,
And if you ever see a poet, never praise his glory nor shame,
Just thank god that you are not the one with his name,

And let him silently pass you by.

Nishant

Solitude My Love !

Oh solitude dear, how I have come to love you,
As all my being into fore, one with you,
How I longed all my life, for the loved caress,
That finally you have showered on me dear,
And now that I have found you,
We shall scale peaks and dive into trenches,
We shall sail mastless into the open ocean,
Or simply sit enjoy the silence of the rain,
The petrichor shall be the mist your flaxen hairs entail,
The drops your voice, and we shall simply sit wordless.

We shall fight too somedays around our bonds,
To find each one looking through other’s eye.
And I shall write poems for you,
Humming them with a capricious smile,
Oh how you shall blush darling solitude,
I wonder why I overlooked you years through,
We were always dear friends, but how love blossoms,
As you everytime I push those curls away from your moonlike face,
As you do when I talk to you over of men and moments,
As you do when you are simply sitting toe over toe,
As poetry, sublime thou art, my love,
And I your lover.

The Lost Lesson.

I think I lost a lesson somewhere,
Some chapter obscured, a missed class,
Some torn pages at the notebook’s end,
The misprinted holiday homework.

I lost the lesson I am sure,
For years of learning is no use,
To this rash, reckless and idiot heart,
How do you all keep it afast ?

Mine runs away into places I never knew,
Mine longs for memories I wish were with you,
Mine wreaks havoc on every defense I install,
Mine attacks me when the night is already heavy to brim.

Then I see others, alone and in hands,
And wonder which lesson did I miss away,
Then I see you, in peace and calm,
And wonder what else could you have learnt ?

Oh life, I think I skipped something,
And it scars, to learn to unlearn,
To write and smudge away, vague yet beautiful,
And grow from ashes, like a phoenix’s way.

– Nishant

Blood on My Grains

Who wants to become a farmer ?
Raise your hands in fame.
Till the ground, plant the seeds,
Feed the citizens of our land ?

Who wants to heave the sickle,
Tender shoots of saplings born,
Sacs of grains, golden, silver, amber,
Annapurna’s blessing and strength.

Who wants to raise up his arms,
In deep decisive faith to heavens,
Of monsoons to come on time,
For year to go as a merry play ?

Who wants to plough the fields ?
But remember if the crops fail,
See your children’s large empty eyes,
Boiling only water for sleep to come for hope’s side.

Who wants to see the lender,
The master of thy fate,
Walk astride with his lathiyaals,
Crack open the unpaid heads.

Who wants to become a farmer ?
Half the country’s faith,
A failing crop, a bad monsoon,
And blood shall run it’s share.

Who wants to look at his food ?
And see his indifferent smile rush away,
A hope starts with each meal,
Death spreads blood on my grains.

– Nishant Saurabh

नींद के रिश्तेदार

ओ री निंदिया, तेरा गौना कब हैं री,
इतनी राग द्रुपद सी लहरयि री,
कहाँ को भागे हैं री,
कौन हैं तेरे, कैसे तेरे रिश्ते री |

निंदिया बोली, ओ रे पखवाड़े,
तेरे बुलाने से ना आउन री,
तीन ताल और चार राग,
दीपक, मल्कौस, भैरवी, हिंडोल हैं मेरे री |

राग त्याग केए बात क्यों छेड़े,
संगी मेरे बहुतेरे री,
सबका नाम गिना गिना कार,
आज करूँ तेरे डेरे री |

ऊंघ उपवासि बेहेने हैं मेरी छोटी री,
याद दिलाती मेरे नक्श नकल अकेली री,
भार बराबर पालकों पर लाता मेरा भाई री,
शरीर में सनसन दौड़ता हैं मेरा अँगड़ाई री |

इतने में जब लेट कर सोंचुन,
हैं नृप, नर, मुनि, नारी री,
चुपके चुपके सौंच चुरा कर,
लो भागा मेरा कृष्ण मुरारी री |

आखिर मै जब आति हूँ,
स्नेह अमृत सुधा बरसाती हूँ,
डग पग पग डग सबकी याद भुलाति हूँ,
शांत कर सारे वेग अंतर से बतियाति हूँ |

करवटें मेरी दो चाची री,
एक छोटी एक बड़ी, अपनी अपनी अभिलाशि री,
खराटें मेरी भौजाई री,
आँख में बनती धीरे धीरे मेरी बेटी किर्चाइ री |

घूँघट जो मै उठाऊँ, पीया मै आपने पाऊँ,
स्वप्न की नगरी के हैं वो भ्रमराई री,
मेरे अपने हैं, या भ्रम की परछाई री,
वॄथा ही सोंचु, हैं वो हरजाई री |

चल पखवाड़े साथी मेरा तू,
तन को है अंचलाता तू,
खून नहीं तोह क्या कम हैं,
मेरा तू सगाई री |

निशांत सौरभ

Almanac

Then they wrote the dates,
Welcome rain, winter, spring you shame,
Petrograd named for the communist reign,
Free world, how free.

The Red Shirts pick up snow,
Can they break it even more,
The Japs hold up the sand on beaches,
Can they pulverize the already head blown.

Ah world, your dates and destinies,
Your clarity of past and worthlessness of future,
Fleas of humanity, useless race,
To it’s own extinction, exploding the farce.

Flashing Kalashnikov across waist, children in arms,
Holding their caliph’s helm,
Shots, rounds, jets, bombs,
Burn, burn, burn, burn the world.

I wonder as the light strikes the match,
How could you break dust,
What holds me back, the deep abyss,
Your beauty lures into walks unread.

Welcome to the new world.

Lucifer’s Den

Go to hell was banished a living man again,
He looked down, depth and abyss,
Scared as he was in his heart and hand,
Hell he knew burned like death.

At the gates he saw swathe of devil’s guards,
And a burning fire churning all souls,
Going in he could see no more,
Magma, hot out pouring on the surface.

As he walked in din and chaos like the city he lived,
Shouts and cries, pain and agony,
Did he now know them all ?
Walking past he could see.

What ? Are they poets, oh noble souls of hell,
Keats, Tennyson, Shelly, and lovers unknown,
Sitting with coffee in their hands and smoking cheroots,
Poets guild biding their time.

Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf hands on their heads,
Scribbling on the ground of fire,
Letters burning like a hundred thousand suns,
Cigarette smokes around in air like hues.

Black angel why did they make this place ?
To banish all who did not grow old,
For years may roll, but their souls,
Lead mortals into our own place.

Ah there comes Lucifer the master of deceit,
The beholder of vanity the non existent fore,
Welcome dear for this is hell,
Of poets and lovers and letters unknown.

We serve coffee, cigarettes and Tennessee whiskey for sure,
To eat we had nothing but why shall you need it anyway,
For why do they call it hell ?
To burn in longing away form the world.

Why the poets ? What wrong did they do ?
They loved real, a mortal, not the divine,
They have been left here to wither in time,
While their lovers shall sit in the Elysian lawns of nectar and pleasantries.

What is their deed with you fallen angel ?
No deed, do you think I would heed ? came his reply swift.
They will lie here till they reconcile,
That love a mortal and you shall lie here in hell.

Love the divine and grace shall rise,
For beautiful as hell looks, it sure is hell,
And heaven is what they strive for,
Look at his dress, ah is that Shakespeare ?

No my dear, that is a company for you.

Red Sky

This morning the sun shall rise out of blood,
Reeking violet warm blood like it’s own son,
Blood red dear beautiful,
Blood all around splash covering the pall of the vanguard.

This morning the moon shall leave in tears,
Tears, lost, dejected, seldom waking,
The calm slumber lost in midst of din,
Watery eyed it rose shall depart with eyes filled.

The stars unaware shall peek and leave,
Stars twinkling brilliant,
Leaves of pages beautiful as always,
None could ever smudge the letters over them.

Lying awake the wind shall wait,
Wait to turn against the ship it sailed,
It will not head against the lonesome road,
Wind you moron, will you destroy them homes ?

– Nishant

Warmth

​​In this cold January morn,
There lies a colder self which hides,
Shivering at the thought of it’s own decadence,
Bound by resounding world view.

Unmisted with shades of you or I,
I wish I could just walk by,
Or disappear maybe,
But not hung out to dry.

Dry but away from sun,
Burned in winter’s urn.
Tossing and turning in unwelcome thoughts,
​Can I not think just of now ?

I wish when the morning comes,
I sit by your side,
Hear you chirp and light the world sunshine,
Free me, I beg.

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