Short poems by Sanam
Dedicated to my little man
Don’t love with borrowed poems
Poetry is a half-thrill,
like all those things that are rehearsed,
and, chiseled into a glorious perfection.
So, if you were to fall in love,
for the very first time,
let it not be in the shadow,
of a borrowed verse.
Set yourself ablaze, and run
through the dense woods.
And when you are done with it,
look back at and pluck the verses
from your own scars.
The words may be half-burnt, perhaps,
from the ordeal,
they would speak of a love
that is familiar.
A love that you would’ve endured..
The best conversations I make
are with my seven year old son.
Each time we chat,
I add a bit of a meaning to his
inquisitive little world,
he lends a pinch of innocence
my all grown up world…
There are days when this world,
Shadows defy sunlit afternoons, as
they encroach every bit
of my skin.
Unsure fingers turn fidgety,
as do my anxious knees.
My fretful heart, too, skips its
rhythm, drenched in concern.
Then, you appear,
from the far corner of the street,
and wave to me.
And every bit of me, somehow,
falls into place…
A second chance
One day, when I run out of the ledge,
I will pause for a moment, and
Just to make sure that a sunset
is keeping you warm.
The goodbye too,
will be a mere whisper,
left on the ripples of a warm breeze.
Then, I will have to
jump off ‘time’
into the awaiting chasms of
A second chance perhaps,
to love you again,
in some other universe..
The night curls inwards, and,
spits out a dawn.
The sun melts away the day, and,
a dusk is born.
That is all there is to ‘time’
Moments are just like people
Moments, are just like people.
A few friendly ones always stick around,
eager, to lend a cheer.
Some others, mere acquaintances,
pass us by with an inglorious indifference.
Unworthy of being remembered again. Ever.
Then, there are the spiteful ones.
Leaping out at us from the wilderness
in our spines.
Reminding us of the scars that exist,
on our skins, and,
why they won’t heal,
Love, too, is superstitious.
It is known to have tied
several wishful pledges on to
You can’t have all of it
time trickled down on me.
pricking my skin, one drop at a time.
Indulged, I reached out for it,
Hoping to hold it in an embrace.
It sprinkled down on me,
a bit longer, then,
And, moved on.
You cannot have all of me. It said…
My beating heart
Often, when you hold my hand, and
walk besides me,
along the ocean shore,
I wonder who’s the loudest.
The raging ocean, or,
my beating heart..
Often when I am adrift,
thinking about her.
My words sneak out for a wander,
to the far flung reaches of the cosmos.
Exploring distant worlds,
hopeful of finding shimmering stardust,
the wizardry of her eyes..
Often, on sleepless summer nights,
I take a stroll,
along the drowsy pier.
Often, I find the ornate moonshine,
and the seduced ocean,
wrapped up in a clandestine romance.
Shimmering, silver streaks of moonlight,
riding the polite waves,
all the way to the sandy shore.
As if, to light up the crumbling sandcastles,
abandoned by the days..
Time is stubborn.
It loathes footmarks left across its chest,
by carefree travellers.
Footprints, annoy time.
So come, hold my hand.
Let’s tread all over ‘Time’.
Denting it a bit.
It ought to know,
that love is obstinate too.
That love seldom cared,
to look back at those footprints,
it had left behind,
on that wet sand..
The thing about loose ends is that
they shrivel and curl with time.
Tying themselves up
Days, like spent candles,
spill into molten evenings.
Only, for callous nights to take over,
and freeze the twinkling twilights,
into a monotonous black.
The nights, too, are short-lived,
burnt down, by a furious sun.
Lifetimes will pile up,
one year after another.
You and I, will run out of time too.
Time, that never ticked.
Time, that always stood still..
Riding a rainbow home
Often, afloat an airplane,
when I see them from
the other side I am tempted,
to step out and walk over those clouds.
Joyfully hopping from
one to the other.
Then, as I edge
closer to horizon, and,
I run out of clouds,
I hope to ride
a friendly rainbow, and get
home by sun down..
He played on.
Late into the cold night.
There wasn’t an audience,
for him to impress, in that lonely subway.
Just the odd sympathetic passerby,
and, the infrequent chime,
of a solitary coin,
hitting his guitar cover.
Don’t be fooled,
by the flesh and bones that make us.
For you and I,
are riddled with wilderness.
Each time, I utter a word,
I can hear this wilderness within me,
whistling, and echoing,
through the throbbing gorges,
that hide beneath my skin..
Time happens to all of us
Big and tiny.
It does so,
for you and I can hold on to,
that had mattered the most to us..
I have tied a message,
to a half-spent evening, and,
hurled it towards you.
as the evening goes past you.
And whisper one back to me,
on the other half of it…
The city streets
Each morning, I see countless dreams,
walk the city streets.
they toil all day, chiseling away,
on destiny and time.
Some days, time runs out, and,
on others, destiny.
So they all wake up the next morning,
to walk those city streets,
all over again..
Molten eternities, often, escaped,
the frozen recesses of the cosmos,
only, to be broken down,
into throbbing moments,
sprinting through vanishing years,
measured by lifetimes.
the double paced villain…
Locks tied on city bridges
Through the long winter nights,
and the harsh summer noons,
the burdened locks, dangled on…
Guarding the fleeting pledges for lovers,
who seldom returned…
Then, in the middle of our conversation,
I feel her fingers gently twine around mine,
as she draws close and,
rests her head on my shoulders.
And just like the setting sun in the distance,
all my worries,
take a plunge too..
On Saturday noons, as you take a nap,
I sometimes browse through,
the letters that you wrote me.
They talk of sunsets, that belong,
to you and I.
Just, you and I.
when I finish reading them,
I lie on my side, and, look at you,
sleeping next to me.
Unaware, and lost in a dream,
you assure me yet again,
a sunset awaits you and I.
Just you and I..
There will come a day,
when you and I
will wake up from this earth.
Only to be strangers once again,
on the other side..
Of perfect love
Love is just a
half-uttered promise, and,
a leap of faith.
It was never meant to be perfect..
And then she appears,
from around the far corner.
Rushes past the people walking by.
Spots me from a distance,
waiting for her.
Waves to me and seals it with a smile.
Two decades, after I first met her,
she continues to find ways,
for me to fall for her..
Each evening, at tea time,
the tremble in their ageing fingers,
made their tea cups rattle
against the saucers.
They had finally,
grown old together..
A sunlit winter’s morning awaits
us in a few years from now.
Newspaper in hand, I will
fumble through my pockets,
trying to spot my reading glasses.
The radio will play a song.
Our favorite one.
Sitting besides me, you will hum along.
Your cup of tea, would outlast the song.
Our love, too, would outlast those vows.
For the only promise that ever mattered,
to grow old together..
Many years ago,
you held my hand,
and together, we claimed,
a few stars in the night sky.
Ever since, there has existed
That belongs to you and I..
Those unsuitable words
One day, I shall write a tale
using those words
that never made it to my poems.
Those crossed out nobodies
bereft of glory, and rhyme
left hopelessly clinging
to crumbling pages stacked away
in a dust sprinkled attic..
Truth or dare
When we are done with the wine,
let’s spin that bottle,
for the truth may reveal itself,
And if our silences defeat us, again,
lets shackle the unsaid,
in the cursed bottle, and,
throw it away
into the darn’ d ocean..
We will meet again, I promise,
in another world, far away from this one.
A world where time will stand still,
for you and I,
and unlike this lifetime,
we will not run out of heartbeats..
A dense winter fog shrouds the
jungle. In it, trees stand tall.
Their shredded barks
smeared with tacky goblets of pain
that shrivel and stick
to the aching trunks.
Pricked by the winter
the trees are hurting, yet
they remain silent.
Spineless foliage from the neighbourhood,
unwanted and unrequited,
crawls up the ailing trees,
leering and molesting them before
curling itself into a noose. Strangling and choking,
the trees. Those trees are hurting, yet
they remain silent.
The fog doesn’t relent , the wind
sharpens its edges. Howling
through the columns callously
ripping apart unhealed scabs off those
pain infested trees.
The trees bleed, yet again.
Their agony curdling into new goblets
that run down like teardrops,
along the bruised limbs of
a defiant jungle.
The trees are hurting,
yet they remain silent.
For they know that winter shall pass.
It always does..
I adore evenings.
For they make wonderful companions.
Keen listeners, they seldom,
interrupt my silences.
Like a caring friend,
they tame the rowdy ocean too,
if it bothers me the slightest,
with its roars and rants.
Then, as the night takes over,
they whisper a soft goodbye,
and quietly melt away with the
Sunsets, have a charm about them.
They squeeze the noise,
out of dizzy moments.
Sedate them with lullabies,
and sprinkle them,
along the ocean shore,
for you and I to tread.
Then, as the soggy sand
shrivels into our footprints, the
timid waves rush up, and caress away,
any clinging burdens, off our feet.
And that’s all that ‘love’ ever needed.
From the other side of the night,
there was a knock.
One after the other, they,
rattled the tin roof,
as if to check,
if the night had fallen asleep.
They were rebels, perhaps,
intent on quashing the night’s decorum,
and, it’s silence too.
But, in their splatter that night,
the insomniac, found a lullaby.
The lonely, a conversation.
And the poet, a poem..
The night sky is a lie
Suicidal stars, imploding under
duress for they have lived
way too long.
swerving into one another with a
Columns of orphaned
stardust being spewed out in fury,
over dizzying distances.
The night sky is a violent expanse, and
it has you and I fooled.
For often on quiet nights,
we seek our peace in it..
Night skies do not have horizons,
For darkness has no shades to it.
Yet, curious stars,
searching for a horizon on the far side,
tread several miles,
Only to perish into a sunrise..
Lonesome wintery evenings, often,
echo through the fading impressions,
that remain etched
across frozen, fogged up windows,
long after they have left the room..
Tonight’s night sky is in fact
a twinkle from millions of years ago.
And isn’t it fascinating to know, that,
in a few eternities from now,
on a warm summer’s night,
some young boy may look at the night sky,
that I was meant to look at tonight..
These starry summer nights,
often, take me back to a boyhood,
when a handful of young dreams,
and the magic in your eyes,
marked the extent of my universe..
On the far side, erupted,
the first streak of dawn.
And, in a few rushed moments,
the countless stars ended their vigil.
Extinguished, one at a time, and,
compelled to seek refuge until nightfall..
The night, too, had its acquaintances.
A few scheming crooks,
a handful of distracted wanderers, and,
some dreamy insomniacs.
Often, though, the night had,
overheard the days,
gossiping about a bustling planet,
rampant with noise, and life.
Yet, each time, the night
a drowsy earth, treated it to,
lonesome, half-lit streets,
silent dwellings, and
a snoring mankind..
On a sunlit afternoon,
the boats decided to romance the wind.
As they gently swerved to the
flirtatious gusts, they tugged,
on the unsuspecting anchors holding them back.
Blinded by a love for the ocean,
those boats pulled, and nudged on those anchors,
hoping to break-free.
The scarred anchors though, did not
relent, as they held back the smitten boats.
For they knew, that the ones
they had let go in the past,
from the folds of that treacherous ocean..
That Coffee shop
It was past midnight.
The world had fallen silent.
Yet, as I went past it,
I was drawn to it.
An exhausted coffee shop, in a deep dream.
Much like the brews it served all day,
that sleeping coffee shop’s loneliness, too,
had an aroma to it..
The birth of a poem
Suddenly, you feel a niggle inside you.
A caged sense of unease thumping
erratically behind the ribs.
You try and ignore it. It lingers on,
refusing to go away.
Plunging itself into the throbbing veins beneath the skin.
It swims upstream in furious protest.
Rattles the sturdy insides of your skull.
Gags you, tying up the tongue
in tiny knots.
Yet, seeks a voice.
Consumed by this rage, you scribble
some breathless words,
across blank pages.
And so, a poem is born..
That homeless person on the street
On a wintery evening,
I stood there,
watching destinies go past each other.
The ones draped in finest wool,
cheerfully, strolled the city streets.
Indulging in warm coffees, and,
love drenched chats.
Tucked away in a dark corner,
was another destiny too.
A homeless one.
Shredded and lonesome.
Trying to shiver itself to sleep.
Often, I try and puncture,
the silences, that befriend me.
For I know,
their poise and tranquility,
is a mere seduction.
Once, turned inside out,
these silences too, are ingloriously flawed,
like you and I.
Infested with demons,
and raging with anguish..
Often, as they rested on sunlit noons,
the curious platforms would ask,
the train carriages where they’d been.
Nomads, the carriages would seldom disappoint,
for they had tales to tell,
of places they had been to.
Spring splashed meadows,
rain drenched woods, frozen pastures,
autumn clad wildernesses..
Of rainy days
There is a charm
about looking out through
Doing so, often, comforts
bruised by destinies and toils.
If only they were brave enough,
to step out once in a while,
letting the rain-drops drench them,
would’ve felt healed..
Disowned by the fleeting clouds,
befriended the branches of a helpful tree.
Their refuge for the night.
Unaware, that a deceitful sun,
awaited on the other side,
eager, to consume them, and,
hand them back,
to yet another passing cloud..
As I walked through the soggy night,
raindrops, from the hushed drizzle,
splattered my face.
Some slipped down, instantly,
scooting across my cheeks.
Some, plunged into an abyss,
swallowed, by my shivering lips.
Some, entangled in my eyelashes,
exploded with a vengeance,
each time I blinked, as if,
to avenge their fallen mates
Sneaky clouds, no longer able to
conceal their stealth, spill
And as the sun baked soil,
wraps itself in the summer rain,
water stolen from a sleeping ocean
One drop at a time…
The overzealous raindrop
I listened intently into the dark night.
Much like the words in a poem,
the raindrops too had a melody
in their fall.
And then every so often, fell an
not in sync with rest,
shattering the entire symphony..
In that pinch of darkness, that,
he held between his folded hands,
hid a firefly as well.
Each time, it let out a flash,
he giggled, the little boy.
Unaware, that the world will soon,
want him to grow up..
From the haunting nights,
painted in deepest black.
Of, from the blood that was deep red,
when it was first shed, and,
then turned purple,
as it curdled.
Or, from the white shrouds of,
Not all kids, learnt their colours,
Growing up in an orphanage
she missed out on a lot of things.
Throwing a tantrum,
was just one of them..
He held a chalk and sketched away
all over the wooden deck,
the little boy.
Aimless lines, meandering and
looping over each other
was all that he drew.
And when he was done
he stood back,
looked at his work, and giggled.
Elated with his creation,
he moved on to his next adventure.
And here I was, fearful of appraisals,
crossing out misfit words,
to write that ‘perfect’ poem..
I like to write on notepads.
For they keep me grounded.
Devoid of a ‘backspace’, they
often keep a score
of the number of times it took me,
to get it right..
The blinking game
Long into the night, we kept
staring into each other’s eyes.
The night sky and I.
We both held a stubborn silence,
that refused to
There are no answers
We seek comfort, not answers.
For there are no answers.
Wisdom is just make belief.
Educated guesses, derived with a bow
stretched a tad too long.
Fallacies, like beads, stitched up
in a thread of logic and reason.
All designed to explain the unventured
Countless explanations offered.
And you and I choose the one,
that comforts us the most….
Often when the night turns
I turn to the trusted window in my room.
For each time I leave it ajar,
distracted strands of silvery moonshine
come rushing in, eager,
to converse with my
There’s a fine line, that,
separates the dream, from the journey.
Dreams fetch thrills.
Journeys remain stale.
And if the two were to merge,
you will never again sense the thrill,
of turning the clouds inside out, and,
looking at a thunderstorm,
from the other side.
if the two were to merge,
the journey will eat up the dream,
and, you will merely hop, between,
days, and places..
After a certain age,
destinations define us.
Yet, today as I travelled with my son,
I put my forehead
against the train window.
Just like my seven year old companion.
As we peeked through the glass,
another train went zipping past.
It caught us by surprise.
Startled, we looked at each other.
Then giggled, and went back to,
hearing the melody,
of the train wheels, scooting over
tightly stitched rail tracks.
Age never abandoned childhoods,
Moments, in a brisk sprint.
Lifespans, on a slow crawl.
Desires, on crossroads.
Journeys, beget journeys.
Destinations, mere arbitrary stopovers..
Much like the stars in the night sky,
they erupt too,
out of the porous bones.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
One after the other, they take over
every inch of unclaimed flesh, and,
unleash a chill that runs,
all the way up the spine, then,
explodes in between the eyes, and perishes.
Like those shooting stars,
in the night sky.
Much like a shooting star too,
you try and hold on to them, and
to the thrill they inject into your skin.
But like it is with shooting stars,
all you manage to do,
is to make a wish,
before they extinguish..
Smitten by a romance,
shrewd, moonlit nights,
melted in dew drops at dawn,
and, clung on to unsuspecting rose petals
the forbidden days..
In its afterlife,
the discarded quill
took flight, once again.
through the words of a poet..
The ocean shore
Then, as the fleeting waves recede,
the love drenched sand, too,
shrivels and shrinks.
Bleached by the sun,
the wet blots on the shore, too,
Parched, barren grains remain, as,
sand becomes sand, again.
Just like you and I,
when we’ll be gone..
I swallowed a mouthful of the storm,
that raged outside.
It tasted like the eucalyptus leaves,
that it had ripped apart.
Then, as I chewed it a bit more,
it lost its rage.
Reduced to a mere breath within me.
A humble, tamed breath..
We are all shackled in eternities.
You, and I.
One day, when we shall all perish,
along with the fanciful worlds we live in,
bits of us shall,
continue to live on.
Etched forever, on a pinch
of unclaimed stardust, you and I,
will forever exist,
somewhere in the silent recesses,
of this universe..
I shattered the darn’d sky
The sky managed to shake off
as it turned into the deepest shade
of blue, today.
Flawless and poised,
it stood above me,
as if to mock my burdened mind.
Sitting by the lakeside,
I picked up a pebble in disgust,
And hurled it at the still lake.
Shattering the arrogant sky,
Into trembling ripples..
The boy who once left home
Every dream that he had ever held,
As dusk loomed,
He found himself stranded,
Amongst a towering wilderness.
He pasued, for a moment,
Turned around to look back.
His footsteps had perished, so did
The dusty trail he thought he had etched.
The trees had a charm about them,
but, were unfamiliar.
Much like the winter’s night, that lurked.
Home, remained several sunsets away..
Nostalgia has a fragrance to it.
If you were to hold it close enough,
it will smell of warm twilights, or,
snow drenched winter nights, or,
soothing summer rains.
Or perhaps, of a love,
that was not meant to last,
And if you ever chose to douse yourself
you may end up smelling like those dusty attics,
that hold on to crumbling suitcases,
which hadn’t been visited
in a long time..
One day, when you and I,
I shall instruct my words to
revisit and reconstruct,
They know the craft of
turning back time..
About the Author:
Molten Eternities is a collection of short poems that etch out the dogmas of this universe and attempt to have a look on the other side. The poems poke the vast eeriness of the cosmos, and how it is an eternity and a brief moment, all at once. Caught up in this paradox of ‘time’ are all of us - molten fragments of an eternity, and shackled down by years, and lifetimes. Lifetimes that thrive on promises and vows. Each one of us yearning for a love that is flawless and yet, evades us. The poems reflect the turmoil that each one of us faces as we grapple with emotions that race through our veins. Short and crisp, these short poems paint a lush landscape of thoughts in a handful of words. They try and ponder what we all seek in our lifetimes, and what awaits us at the end of it all, when, we pass on into the stagnant Universe. Only to become an eternity, once again..