tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1163955128398437262024-03-19T15:47:20.142-07:00Raindrops & MusesMany years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano BuendÃa was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice...kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-81135155349436361992019-08-02T13:49:00.002-07:002019-08-02T13:49:41.784-07:00birthday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Your love for me<br />
Is as natural<br />
As the parabola of the wires<br />
Between electric poles.<br />
<br />
I have found<br />
True love.<br />
You are more happy<br />
Of me in this world<br />
Than me.</div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-59943703137730242542019-07-22T08:42:00.000-07:002019-07-22T08:42:10.595-07:00Torrential Rain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today,<br />
We ate in silence.<br />
We walked in silence.<br />
We watched Cinderella in silence.<br />
I read and she translated,<br />
in silence.<br />
<br />
We were not fighting.<br />
We did not have a fight.<br />
We were not about to have a fight.<br />
<br />
This silence was not growing<br />
But comforting.<br />
We went on in silence<br />
Each confident in the We.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-56550843091363347432019-06-17T08:38:00.004-07:002019-06-17T08:38:49.348-07:00The longest summer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We, you and I,<br />
adjust to telephones.<br />
Speaking, listening,<br />
Sighing, longing.<br />
<br />
Not that<br />
They were ever complete;<br />
Making the wait<br />
Interminable.<br />
<br />
Your writing<br />
speaks to me.<br />
I can hear your voice,<br />
the certitude of your tone.<br />
<br />
Each day ,<br />
I make plans.<br />
New ones,<br />
Combining, conceiving.<br />
<br />
I think<br />
What will I do<br />
When I meet you<br />
After all these days<br />
Rushing, running,<br />
In a frenzy,<br />
Thinking everything,<br />
Fearful<br />
Of forgetting plans<br />
Or<br />
Numbed into completeness;<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-33616585247222938932019-05-07T10:57:00.000-07:002019-05-07T10:57:02.778-07:00One evening, in the whiteness of my dining space <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Somewhere, I stopped looking outside the window<br />
I bought a television.<br />
<br />
I forgot the smell of fresh air,<br />
the shrillness of unedited sounds.<br />
<br />
My story<br />
became my photo gallery.<br />
<br />
Shifting homes,<br />
I found my stable equilibrium.</div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-23144807458883098022019-04-29T10:26:00.001-07:002019-04-29T10:26:27.063-07:00Electricity cut <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Darkness<br />
engulfs the house.<br />
The phone has died<br />
for the dying light of the torch.<br />
<br />
The insane world of algorithms<br />
have collapsed<br />
like a heap of<br />
unreceived messages.<br />
<br />
You and I<br />
are finally alone,<br />
unplugged,<br />
offline.<br />
<br />
Its been long<br />
since I played<br />
Pink Floyd.<br />
<br />
Our conversations<br />
sans faces<br />
in the darkness<br />
are like on the telephone.<br />
<br />
Electricity should go more often,<br />
albeit in winters,<br />
And, you are right,<br />
inverters are useless.<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-47503791898660615882018-11-30T08:14:00.002-08:002018-11-30T08:14:44.654-08:00My tea portrait <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
i love you the most<br />
when I pour<br />
the cup of tea<br />
for you<br />
<br />
you are busy<br />
on your mobile<br />
not looking<br />
at me.<br />
<br />
I find<br />
myself<br />
the most rhythmic<br />
in pouring your tea.<br />
<br />
you can<br />
even drink it cold,<br />
doesn't matter,<br />
you are immersed.<br />
<br />
I love you<br />
even in your forgetfulness.</div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-30050116045790812282018-11-27T09:27:00.003-08:002018-11-27T09:27:34.301-08:00Our favorite word - Everyday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Somewhere,<br />
I fell out of writing.<br />
I was not thrown out.<br />
I receded.<br />
<br />
I was talking,<br />
but not to anyone in particular.<br />
I became a measurement tape<br />
of my voices.<br />
<br />
I met you<br />
with the certainty of Haley's comet.<br />
As if, always preparing<br />
for the grand sighting.<br />
<br />
I talked to you,<br />
incessantly,<br />
as if in the<br />
<i>Eternal sunshine of spotless mind.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I changed,<br />
see even my handwriting has changed.<br />
My diction, the line of my vision ,<br />
the S shape of my spinal chord changed.<br />
<br />
We speak in different voices<br />
but the same tone.<br />
Somewhere, while walking cities,<br />
our speeds of walking synchronized.<br />
<br />
Somewhere,<br />
I started liking soup<br />
and, you started<br />
going for movies.<br />
<br />
Somewhere, the law of attraction<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqhXvDqYyeRqet-B1NWRw2Ga-IVC5i4fxPtEKzfYN27unGm9BKgxvgknotykLei9D-fj1lcY-6mh5wTehigZZzBAFn1ScnTrpwiDiMoRris5LrQLzQ9ljY1sh2dUDsHlnqFb8_82hUvX4/s1600/nish_harsh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqhXvDqYyeRqet-B1NWRw2Ga-IVC5i4fxPtEKzfYN27unGm9BKgxvgknotykLei9D-fj1lcY-6mh5wTehigZZzBAFn1ScnTrpwiDiMoRris5LrQLzQ9ljY1sh2dUDsHlnqFb8_82hUvX4/s320/nish_harsh.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
also became the law of gravitation.</div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-46956026694959376552016-06-04T13:41:00.000-07:002016-06-10T08:12:01.426-07:00Untitled poems<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
have you lost something?<br />
<br />
something that's asleep now,<br />
like in a stupor,<br />
forgotten,<br />
curled up,<br />
knee in mouth;<br />
<br />
<br />
yes,its time itself.<br />
<br />
Making pictures,<br />
incomplete pictures,<br />
not that color,<br />
not that sound,<br />
not the people,<br />
not the city,<br />
not the swoon,<br />
not that fearlessness.<br />
<br />
Memory makes me smile,<br />
gives me the greatest of pains.<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-44146080904242103872015-04-06T11:32:00.000-07:002015-04-06T11:32:29.989-07:00mojave<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is gurgling<br />
at some distance<br />
like a swift stream<br />
rushing down the rapids.<br />
<br />
I don't know<br />
for sure;<br />
what's determined<br />
has no color.<br />
<br />
Nobody is<br />
greater than time.<br />
It flows,<br />
an unknown force.</div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-20218813216951966782015-01-22T06:05:00.002-08:002015-01-22T06:05:42.581-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Just raindrops<br />
making slimy dents<br />
into the loose soil.<br />
<br />
the rain that occured<br />
yesterday,<br />
seeped into the earth,<br />
<br />
taking the abandoned<br />
leaves into the ground;<br />
something seems subdued,<br />
<br />
maybe it was the invisible din,<br />
something is sublime, new,<br />
washed off the dust.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-8955552213940720232014-10-07T01:13:00.001-07:002014-10-07T01:13:48.759-07:00When poetry starts becoming pastiche,what should one do?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Raw,natural,<br />
wild,untamed,<br />
rough,<br />
unrelenting,<br />
forceable,<br />
rushing,leaping,<br />
climbing,<br />
eyeing<br />
<br />
into darkness.</div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-45218548599720644062014-09-25T03:00:00.000-07:002014-09-25T03:00:22.300-07:00however,whatever,where ever <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Staring at the wall,<br />
you suddenly close your eyes<br />
too tightly<br />
for any light to penetrate.<br />
<br />
You build darkness<br />
in the light,<br />
fool yourself<br />
listening to the invisible,<br />
inaudible rain.</div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-83168394314321160402014-08-31T07:55:00.001-07:002014-08-31T07:55:48.835-07:00sometimes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
sometimes,<br />
walking down the empty<br />
road on a hot afternoon<br />
a dust storm takes you in<br />
and you're helpless.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-74567239633334578242014-07-28T08:37:00.003-07:002014-07-28T09:14:11.117-07:00The spirit is all knowing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Running like a wild dog on<br />
<div>
the worn out roads of countryside,</div>
<div>
I search for the rain,</div>
<div>
search for the visions</div>
<div>
of you and spring.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Its dry as a desert.</div>
<div>
Huge mirages with </div>
<div>
no oasis.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
The spirit in us</div>
<div>
is silent, thirsty,</div>
<div>
waiting to go</div>
<div>
home.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
I write this,</div>
<div>
my spirit being</div>
<div>
nostalgic.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-46130349890514676542014-07-17T07:23:00.000-07:002014-07-17T07:23:57.269-07:00Some cities refuse to die<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Some cities don't die.<br />
They refuse to.<br />
It just appears<br />
to be dying,<br />
in permanent decay.<br />
This small town<br />
I was born in,<br />
its one of those.<br />
<br />
The air is<br />
heavy here,<br />
each whiff<br />
filled with<br />
memories.<br />
<br />
The decay is<br />
forever here;<br />
crumbling walls,<br />
many lakes-<br />
vestiges<br />
of ancient Kingdoms-<br />
names,temples,<br />
forts<br />
fading into<br />
obscurity.<br />
<br />
Unlike big cities,<br />
children still play<br />
cricket here.<br />
Football is an outsider.<br />
Dialects, people,<br />
weather, predicaments<br />
refuse to change.<br />
The decay set in<br />
long, long back.<br />
So long,<br />
nobody can trace<br />
how long.<br />
<br />
The city I was<br />
born in<br />
refuses to die.<br />
It appears elegiac<br />
when Sun sets in<br />
evenings on<br />
one of the many lakes.<br />
<br />
A beautiful breeze<br />
filled with music<br />
reverberates<br />
through each night,<br />
refusing to die.<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-60848544443624699362014-07-10T10:06:00.000-07:002014-07-10T10:06:33.010-07:00Haiku-I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Rivers at the foot<br />
of mountains<br />
streams always, like blood.<br />
<br />
Never running dry,<br />
its sad, happy,<br />
stoic, meditative.<br />
<br />
The valley<br />
thick with forests,<br />
sunbeams like spotlights.<br />
<br />
Dust dancing,<br />
like dazed drunken<br />
actors of a bankrupt company.<br />
<br />
I find strange<br />
noticing these,<br />
unlikely of me.<br />
<br />
But, your presence<br />
makes me<br />
nuanced, subtle.</div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-72674781331492682722014-07-02T10:37:00.000-07:002014-07-02T10:37:09.105-07:00Nothing but dust<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We are nothing <div>
But dust in the end.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All this to achieve immortality;</div>
<div>
All the throat cutting.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Few will remember you</div>
<div>
As light in their lives.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Those, whom you gave darkness</div>
<div>
Will forget you, happily.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We are nothing </div>
<div>
But dust in the end.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-60180612837960375432014-06-27T10:51:00.000-07:002014-06-27T10:56:00.994-07:00Untitled<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am alone<br />
in this crowd.<br />
People do talk<br />
to me<br />
but fail<br />
to converse<br />
with me.<br />
<br />
I know<br />
its cliched.<br />
when the world<br />
does not<br />
understand you.<br />
<br />
<br />
I want to<br />
swim<br />
in the<br />
great oceans<br />
with no<br />
islands<br />
and<br />
no Sun.<br />
<br />
But,<br />
I don't know<br />
how to swim.<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-91321904714919388312014-06-25T10:13:00.001-07:002014-06-25T10:13:39.048-07:00Moon in the River<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I want to<br />
drown<br />
in silence<br />
of a river.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Wind makes the bamboo<br />
bow and scratch<br />
the river's surface.<br />
<br />
The moon<br />
in the river<br />
is rippled.<br />
<br />
River,<br />
in its rush,<br />
takes a few boughs,<br />
<br />
moon<br />
is blemished,<br />
its face scratched.<br />
<br />
<br />
Wind subsides.<br />
Bamboo rises,<br />
moon is full again.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-28482405365267164092014-06-23T09:08:00.001-07:002014-06-23T09:08:18.219-07:00Obviously, its difficult to understand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Grey Sky.<br />
Remote Clouds.<br />
Feigning rains.<br />
Unbearable heat.<br />
<br />
Sadness of summers<br />
laden with dark clouds.<br />
Growing heavy<br />
each passing moment.<br />
Two people refuse to talk,<br />
sitting abreast.<br />
Due to very trivial reasons.<br />
Cloud growing.<br />
Silence like raindrops<br />
making it heavy.<br />
Poised to come down.<br />
Two people are the<br />
dumbest of all,<br />
refusing to talk.<br />
<br />
One pigeon<br />
doesn't know<br />
where to shit.<br />
Pigeon bubbled<br />
the cloud from<br />
its beak.<br />
<br />
One man is bad.<br />
Why God gave him<br />
eyes, he can't understand.<br />
I don't blame the pigeon.<br />
Only, he should time the shit better.<br />
Like on the eyes of a<br />
man, who is bad.<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-58582087292957496292014-06-17T08:36:00.001-07:002014-06-17T08:36:35.796-07:00Biography of a day after Bloomsday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Two sparrows<br />
in my balcony.<br />
A crow<br />
far away.<br />
<br />
Summer heat,<br />
humans curling,wavy.<br />
Chimneys<br />
giving off smoke<br />
from the earth.<br />
<br />
<br />
Evening draws.<br />
Ceiling fan's<br />
shivering shadows<br />
spilled on<br />
walls.<br />
<br />
Sweat-<br />
water splashed<br />
on<br />
face,eyes refreshed.<br />
<br />
Sunset<br />
is a<br />
long affair,<br />
complete with<br />
theatrics.<br />
<br />
Nights<br />
filled with<br />
strange music.<br />
Dreams<br />
are cooler-<br />
and I<br />
have your<br />
company<br />
in dreams.<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-63484707954342821102014-06-13T08:25:00.001-07:002014-06-13T08:25:31.968-07:00Picture Composition <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A narrow winding lane of mud<br />
was in front of me;<br />
And the sun was overshadowed<br />
by the welcome clouds.<br />
A couple of children<br />
on bicycles ran past me,<br />
the tinkling horn of the bicycles<br />
filling the air.<br />
A few steps ahead,<br />
big trees leaned onto the road<br />
the mud lane disappearing in the trees.<br />
Two birds fly off from<br />
the foilage and it starts to rain.<br />
The road becomes slippery.<br />
I take off my slippers,<br />
walk barefooted to my house,<br />
beyond the winding lane,<br />
beyond the trees arching above it.<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-41305645930025017842014-06-12T08:40:00.000-07:002014-06-12T08:40:36.167-07:00My Grandmother is addicted to Rubik's Cube<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My grandmother, is not so old;<br />
she is not yet frail.<br />
its only when she speaks,<br />
I get its hard for her<br />
to search for words<br />
in what is a dried up well,<br />
no monsoon can gauge its depth.<br />
<br />
Her hands don't yet<br />
shake on their own accord.<br />
She has a sense of the world,<br />
a sense of me, an in depth<br />
understanding<br />
of what should be,<br />
and what should not.<br />
<br />
For me, she always has<br />
one corner of the heart,<br />
untrod by others.<br />
She listens, and<br />
then dismisses, often<br />
smiling, and I doubt myself,<br />
what I was saying,<br />
for, she has a sense of the world.<br />
<br />
These days, when my grandfather,<br />
is away for a few weeks,<br />
she is addicted to rubik's cube.<br />
She can't get the red ones on a face,<br />
its been five days, the two red squares<br />
are eluding her, making her slide<br />
the cube all day.<br />
<br />
And she loves to call people,<br />
the same ones again and again,<br />
seven times a day.<br />
She isn't one of those old<br />
grumpy women, pretentious,<br />
holding everything in offensive.<br />
<br />
She has her own jazzy personality;<br />
an astute sense of dignity-<br />
saying people, in the face.<br />
She is cool, liberal,<br />
and loves calm and quietness.<br />
<br />
But, she has lost her will to learn.<br />
Often, she says, how she'll<br />
while away her days<br />
and its really sad for me.<br />
But I don't tell it to her<br />
because she isn't really old,<br />
she isn't even frail yet.<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-37569425422831130712014-06-11T08:52:00.002-07:002014-06-11T08:52:59.266-07:00Postcards<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Halfway down your journey,<br />
you relapse<br />
<br />
from the black leather upholstery<br />
of your black taxi<br />
<br />
into tranquility<br />
of that city or wait, it was a town<br />
<br />
you read about in that poem,<br />
in that book.<br />
<br />
Its like the last step, on a flight<br />
of stairs, which isn't there.<br />
<br />
With eyes open, under scorching Sun,<br />
you see coconut trees dripping from the rain.<br />
<br />
If only ,there were postcards, without cities<br />
on them, letters without senders-<br />
<br />
just things written, answered,<br />
then posted again to someone unknown.<br />
<br />
What's the mountain to a river?<br />
It can't express love, like the river<br />
<br />
Its stern, grumpily guarding the river,<br />
writing postcards to her, from ages.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116395512839843726.post-42933892142402242272014-06-10T09:22:00.001-07:002014-06-10T09:22:21.644-07:00On failed poems<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Richard Strauss' Metamorphosen<div>
on strings-</div>
<div>
takes me far,</div>
<div>
very far away</div>
<div>
from the heat and dust,</div>
<div>
from pain,</div>
<div>
evenings, full of sadness.</div>
<div>
It rains there,</div>
<div>
and the soft swishing sound</div>
<div>
as the trees move</div>
<div>
in the wind.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Poems, most of the times</div>
<div>
they fail miserably</div>
<div>
but I keep on writing</div>
<div>
one after the other.</div>
<div>
It gives me peace,</div>
<div>
a strange pleasure,</div>
<div>
to write failed poems</div>
<div>
because you know</div>
<div>
the good ones</div>
<div>
even before you write them.</div>
<div>
the best ones go unwritten </div>
<div>
we never ever write it,</div>
<div>
might it put a stray streak</div>
<div>
on the painting</div>
<div>
in our mind.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
kumar harshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10718852172206696141noreply@blogger.com0