Tejasvi Saxena writes

“An Absurdity called Hope"

"The gullible eyes look towards the silent shores 

Incredulity of an uncharted course, unknown

I find a kneeled body bent in a muse 

Wearing a gaze with par beyond this cluster of stars

His deformed joints, fractured existence 

Narrate the woeful voyages of his lone battles

A monk was he, in bylanes of Vietnam 

When waves of time swirled through frothy

whirlpools in his unquiet land

And he floated with the nebulous course

He woke up a morning to howls of screams

To burning smell of flesh; reduced to charred piles of lifeless sheaths 

The sheaths that once closeted breaths of life

The monk's eyes sheen with fiery bosom of fires

Raging flames ablaze in reminiscence of bonfires

The burning pyres of fellow monks

With torched creeds of communism

Gobbled up in dark conflagrations

The melange of doctrines are buried with their torch bearers 

Under a buoyant and slippery ground of capitalistic ventures

Monk's indelible quiescence of hope;

Raptures me 

As he hopes!

Which itself is an immemorial self

And an eternal absurdity."

 Burn, Burn, Burn -- Silvia Pelissero

Tejasvi Saxena writes

Anatomy of a Rickshaw-Wallah's Dream 

"On bustling routes of old Dehli
In dallying reverie of autumnal dusk
I met a figure discerned from folks;
A Rickshaw-Wallah
Who meanders in search of his bourgeoisie masters 

A gaunt face of aged life
A gleam of wisdom in ancient eyes
He chatters with the swiftness of a gay child
And often wears a grin wide 

He lapses into musings
His musings on life
While fancying the harlotry of bygone times 

For his were few dreams and a life to hone
Afar, floating in recesses of ocean
They rise with tides' nocturnal swings
and brim on brink of undercurrents 

The flimsy frivolities of tenderness
To live on the side of an ocean's bay
Entangling his experienced fingers
In a tangled mesh of a fisher's net 

And ferrying his past through oars of perseverance;
He wished to sing the rhapsodies of Majhi
While sailing a boat against buffets of wind 

The trail of imageries droops
As drops of elixir from reminiscent tongue
The betel stained teeth of his
Often are shown
and gaps in between
Defy his mourn

Of living in urban ghettos
Of a paunch that groans
Of sighs belittling his nomadism
Of identities he's reasserted with
Of glances of condescension he's cast upon 

He pulls his rickshaw on crowded lanes
Carrying shadows of counterparts
Who haggle for a few coins with him
Unacquainted of promises he veiled in his heart

I reckon his flight of flaying dreams
Carrying behind his tattered rag;
As too precious to be sold
In the market of dreams
That his eyes behold."

 The Rickshaw Puller -- Ekta Singha

 

Tejasvi Saxena writes

Landscape Of Purple Dreams 

"I often find myself on a land,
A landscape of purple dreams
In trance of my subliminal commonality
Swooned on frailty of mortal being

I gaze beyond the improbables
That smile through beams of crescent moon
Or shaft of a bleak, dark sun
On ageless grounds of dreamer's eyes

Her swift & mild gaze
That falls as a drop of sweet adumbra
On withered flower of pruned soul
Plucked from a nude branch of thoughts

Celestial songs she hums
As her lips tremble & quiver
On reciting soliloquy of labyrinthine lanes
The lanes that hold a choked memory;

A reminiscence of purple dream
Glazed in amethystine mist are they;
In boxes of forgotten reveries

I sniff the gracious essence of her immortality
That often hides & lingers behind
In rugged fabrics of my inconsequential life."

 Purple Dreams -- Barry Boobis