The brawling lights in the sky turn azure,
While I sit here and put pen to
parchment-
Confounded, befuddled and wholly
unsure
Of little or any literary
improvement.
I wake to the tumultuous call of
birds-
To see that daylight has not made
its arrival;
I sit by my window and think of
the herds,
Herds of lines marching onwards
to their burials.
Daylight glares, blinding my
sight-
A tempest brews beneath my
breast,
Founded upon emotions on wrong or
right...
No! I must lay thee, my pen, to
rest!
The brawling lights in the
sky turn orange-
The Sun has now a diminished
radiance;
My reason and morality
derange-
While I write with increased
decadence.
-Dolashree K Mysoor
Forty pieces of parchment I have put to waste-
Exploring my emotions and feelings in utter haste;
Had I the time to paint the moon gold and yellow,
Such aforesaid wastage would have been mellow.
Yet I scribble on the fortieth my fiftieth,
And such sheer waste of talent it witnesseth;
This fiftieth has been rather tardy,
What can I say? "I'm no Thomas Hardy?"
Save all your well-bred felicitations-
For a simpleton who does not understand punctuations,
And I shall save my tumid gratitude-
From all the world's lies and turpitude.
A hearse of unfruitful men have I lain with,
Before I woke up with you,
Yet in one fruitful myth-
You cannot be my rescue.
Life with you seems fanciful, yet a sodden reality,
I cannot seem to differentiate;
And my memories in the magnanimity-
Of their re-appearance, I cannot vitiate.
Recent realities do my dreams mock-
This I cannot bear;
For this myth building in the dock-
Is all yours to tear.
Nor fancy, nor myth shall be your aide-
In your tedious journey;
For you cannot expect me to be a renegade-
Of my past or my destiny.
Remember yet, how I love you, ardently;
Our lives inter-woven and still weaving so persistently.
-Dolashree K Mysoor
Tethered to my shortcomings
I force upon this parchment, a verse in vain-
With mental fetters upon my literary farthings,
I pen this with only experience to gain.
For I long to witness a verse written,
But mine own eyes fear
To read what has been bitten-
Upon this parchment so dear.
Words I have chosen so fastidiously
Do not my intellect erupt;
Yet with a mere Dictionary at hand, mysteriously-
My mind's tranquility they disrupt.
Oh! These words, I tell you!
They do a writer from his sleep wake;
Curdling his predicament in moments so few-
And forcing him to a poem of them, make.
For I have longed to pen a verse-
And none to materialize,
Until I break away from this hearse-
Of literary abstinence, and my poem I realise.
Dolashree K Mysoor
