A Summer in this Winter

| You melted,
like snowflakes
on my fingertips,

you poured
oceans on
my frozen palms,

you gave me
a summer
in this winter |

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This one is for the creeper!

­­Behind happy groups selfies ,
I have seen crossed fingers
And bitten lips
Of palpitating hearts.
I’m (not) so sorry
To bring this to your notice.
I’m (not) so sorry
for mentioning this.
I know this isn’t as important
as Trump danger alert
or implications of
Indo-Iranian trade relations .
I know you might skip this
below the more important
NewYorkTimes news updates.
But when I see
cursed expressions
Of conformity,
behind glistening
homogeneous smiles,
I see an entire nation
of meekness and docility
refusing to disobey
and deviate;
I hear clocks ticking
and feet pounding evenly
in equal regiments.

Behind happy group selfies,
I have seen opinions
getting crushed like pepper
over a family size pizza
they couldn’t afford;
beneath this veneer of happiness
I have traced sounds
lurking quietly in one corner
Undergoing a strange
“Metamorphosis’  (1) ,
silently and imperceptibly.
Those snow-capped mountains
that looked so close from a distance
had deep ravines and valleys
between them, which I saw.

I have questioned happiness,
because it came at a price to some;
I have scratched it enough number of times,
and found deep gores and naked wounds
festering for over years;
I have questioned happiness,
because once backstage,
the show never appealed to me;
I have questioned happiness,
because it calmed an angry heart,
like a rolling pin razing over a shredded dough,
a panzer bulldozing a heart,
a heart that must be angry.

I may not know where to go from here;
how to cover the distance
from this mountain to that;
how to fill the space that
was puffed with air all along.
I may not know how to bring
my Time and Space together,
the two ends of a magnet
“run down by the taxicab of Absolute Reality”(2),
that comingled so harmoniously
a while ago in my happy trance;
Humanity may never appeal to me again
because like a flock of birds
a herd of sheep, a hive of bees
it is nothing but a reiteration
of a set of codifications,
robotic manipulations,
factory products,
with limited sensory data to receive and give!

Screw people, I like individuals more.

I may not have anything to fill this with,
but once you come here,
you cannot un-see,
un-feel, un-hear, undo.

Behind happy group selfies,
I saw a violence,
a hush-hush business.
I have been on the strong side,
and on the weak,
and the tenuousness between them,
was a gruesome acknowledgement!

The opposite of happiness

Is not sadomachism,

The horizons of these Definitions

Are delimited for once and all,

Someone had to do this,

Something had to change,

Cuz I know no other place outside this power field,

And I’m not leaving.

So,

Tonight
I will think about that meek sound,
I will bring it back from oblivion,
I will think of it
like a soaring wild bird
that belongs to none
but the Infinite;
that measures the distance
between the depths of the valley
and the heights of the mountains,
that singes the wounds with
its needle-like- flight,
and I will play it loud
until the violent crash of the mob grows dim
and dilutes the gasoline, the napalm, the nitro-glycerine;
until  the voice resuscitates
and resonates through
this expansive universe
and registers its desired utterance!

Note:

(1) Metamorphosis is a short story by Kafka where the protagonist, Gregor Samsa changes into a grotesque bed-bug one night.

(2) This line is taken from Allen Ginsberg’s ‘Howl’ .

(3) This is not an attempt to sound elitist like T.S Eliot.