Confessions of a poet

I may sound wise,

but I’m not always so.

I may seem evolved,

but I have pitfalls too.

My best love songs,

don’t make me romantic.

They enthral me sometimes,

but don’t always give a kick.

A beautiful poem doesn’t

make me a perfect person.

For in the ocean of my flaws,

it’s just a wave of perfection.

I have my moments,

I have my quirks,

I get hurt too and

behave like a jerk.

I am as human

as human can be.

But when poetry comes,

It’s not just me.

Although it may seem like

it’s coming ‘from’ me,

the real truth is that,

It’s coming ‘through’ me.

I learn as much

in the process of writing

as you all do

in the moment of reading.

I sometimes don’t practise  

the wisdom of my own writing.

For I often slip, falter and fall

before I get up and get going.

But when I fall below the line,

I’m aware of the missed track.

My writing becomes my mirror

that I can’t face, until I’m back.

My poems become my beacon

that draws me out of the dark;

when I’m finally out in the sun,

they sing merrily like a lark. 

O' Mind! Let go

O’ Mind! Let go of your cocoon

and give wings a chance.

A life with flight awaits you.

Let go of the hoarding

and give sharing a chance.

A greater treasure awaits you.

Let go of your fear

and give love a chance.

A life more fulfilling awaits you.

Let go of the past and future

and give present a chance.

A life more aware awaits you.

Let go of your prejudices

and give acceptance a chance.

A life more loving awaits you.

Let go of your doubts

and give faith a chance.

A life so miraculous awaits you.

Let go of your competition

and give collaboration a chance.

A life more evolved awaits you.

Let go of your insecurities

and give existence a chance.

A life so fearless awaits you.

Let go of your limitations

and give source a chance.

A life so limitless awaits you.

Let go of possessiveness

and give freedom a chance.

A life more eternal awaits you.

Let go of the hurt

and give forgiveness a chance.

A life so wholesome awaits you.

Let go of your attachments

and give detachment a chance.

A life so Godly awaits you.

Let go of your chatter

and give silence a chance.

A life so divine awaits you.

Let go of your ‘self’

and give God a chance.

A life so complete awaits you.

O’ Mind! Let go,

In your withering lies the true blossoming.

Let go, for there is more where that came from.

मैं कहाँ लिखता हूं ? - Hindi Ghazal

मैं कहाँ लिखता हूं ?
मैं तो एक कलम हूं किसी और के हाथ की

मैं कहाँ फनकार हूं ?
मैं तो एक वीणा हूं किसी और फनकार की

मैं कहाँ कुछ केह्ता हूं ?
मैं तो खुद अल्फ़ाज़ हूं किसी और की ज़ुबां का

मुझमे कहाँ कोई हुनर है ?
मैं तो अभिव्यक्ति हूं किसी और अदाकार की

ये ज़िंदगी मेरी कहाँ है ?
ये सांसें तो कर्ज़दार हैं किसी और लेनदार की

Transliteration:
==========
main kahaan likhta hoon?
main to khud kalam hoon kisi aur ke haath ki.

main kahaan fankaar hoon?
main to khud veena hoon kisi aur fankaar ki.

main kahaan kuch kahta hoon?
main to khud alfaaz hoon kisi aur ke zubaan ka.

mujhme kahaan koi hunar hai?
main to abhivyakti hoon kisi aur adakaar ki.

ye zindagi meri kahaan hai?
ye saansein to karzdar hain kisi lendar ki.

Translation:
========
I'm not the writer.
I'm just a pen in the hands on another.

I'm not the musician.
I'm just a veena (musical instrument) of another musician.

It is not I who speaks.
I'm just the words in the mouth of someone else.

I don't have any talents.
I'm just an expression of some other artist.

This life is not mine.
My breaths are my debt to some lender. 

Madness filter

One day at a crowded station

as I waited for the local train,

through the crowd came a shriek

that pierced our busy brain.

“I hate you.

I love you.

I kill you.

I hate you.”

Every head turned to check

the source of the sharp noise.

The crowd split apart to reveal

a torn clothed man without poise.

We observed and ignored him,

gave space and let him be.

He blabbered what came to him

without a filter of propriety.

“Poor crazy fellow,” chuckled

the dapper man next to me.

We forgot him as the train arrived

in our hurried boarding spree.

Every commuter was lost

in his phone or her thought.

Every face, though silent without,

in an inner volcano, was caught.

There is a fine filter that masks

our emotions and projects peace.

It curbs our real thoughts and

creates a facade of pleasant face.

It’s the filter that separates us

from the ‘mad’ in our society.

Else, we’d be mouthing it all,

killing our purported sobriety.