Poetry Is Important

VII-IV-2016 Poetry is important But some who write seem to forget Poetry is not in the form The form is only a vessel Poetry is not In the quotes your keep sharing Written by poets you can never be Poetry is not in your bookshelf It is neither a privilege nor an achievement Those who…

Chinar Tree in the Forest Besides the Lake

Amidst fallen apples, smell of dried saffron, mild wood fire smoke, the fragrance of algae from the lake and a mixture of tobacco and mist One can smell the foliage Of fallen leaves carpeting autumn They seem to be from this chinar They spiral down in a slow amber rain Calmly descending on scalps of…

Window Pane, Circa 2011

7 July 2011 at 02:21 a series from the collection “Poetry sans the Mind”   1. I rest my elbows over the brim Shadows scatter effortlessly Over vacant footpaths and the sky is dim Crows crackle, Leaves tackle the breeze in sways, a riffraff of foliage urges it’s way into an empty lane A pedestrian…

Sitting In a Rickshaw With a Nice Girl Who is Also a Good Friend

That’s a rarity. Make the most if it. Tell her she’s beautiful, only if it’s the truth. Tell her she’s fucked up, only if it’s the truth. Listen more than you speak. You might learn something new about yourself. Keep your eyes where they should be. Go Dutch on everything. Don’t be afraid of being…

Post-Rain, October the Twentieth

I write a few poems every October. This is from the 2012 October Series. __________________________________________ The present fills your eyes in blurs. As your mind migrates between tenses you become alone without a premise. In the backdrop sparse murmurs of falling raindrops fill the ambience without your permission. Never mind the reflections. They seem to…

Touch

I’m in the mood to post some old poems in the coming days. Here’s one I wrote in 2011. Written on IV-VII-2011 Illusions crowd my eyes in unforgiving numbers. Crows spot the greyness of the sky with black movements. The wind is music for the season. I’m its only available audience. You slept with me in summer….

Forest

The forest is born and reborn every moment. One leaves behind the noises of a confused mind and enters the sanctuary with anxious footsteps Winds snake through your hair, snakes slither calmly across the prehistoric floor Flowers Grow and regrow with the changing skies With the passing seasons one forgets the past and comes to…

Prelude from a New Poetry Series : Montages

Copyright:  Ishan Sadwelkar No part of this writing may be reproduced without the consent of the author ________ This is the first poem from a new series I’ve started titled Montages. Montage 1 On the surface it was just jazz Standards 6/8. The time was 6.45 a.m. or p.m. I was unaware in walks a lonely father…