I wrote for the lone ranger in the distant sea,
I wrote for a love in an unknown galaxy, Words revolving like the celestial moon embraced everybody, much too soon, they flitted up the hill at moon rise, they drifted up in plausible disguise. As dawn breaks, I enter your room with thoughts ready to consume.... your photograph fills the vacuum a deathly silence in the sunlit tomb The warmth of your embrace fills the air, your laughter rises like the morning prayer I see your spectacles, your watch, your pen and a fleeting thought corners me then, Why did I never write a poem for you? I couldn’t dad, I did not know how to. © Jaspreet Mann
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There is that deeper me
The me that you cannot see Sometimes on a rainy day I go to check its state Well, many a times it’s too late The roof leaks and the water pours Or I simply lose my way Strange it may seem, but this delay Is like a tsunami on a rainy day There is that deeper me The me that you cannot see Sometimes on a dreadfully windy day I go there to check the doors and windows All around the wind lashes and bellows Consuming everything, that it sees Yet I never ever sit to pray There is that deeper me The me that you cannot see Sometimes on a still day I try to gauge The lull that surrounds me I still hear a noise that cries and battles A screaming banshee that howls and rattles The sound scares the life out of me That deeper me you cannot see. © Jaspreet Mann. Monsoon Showers (2010). All Rights Reserved. Our life is a canvas: silent, secretive, mysterious, sublime, waiting for us to fill it with a medley of colours conjured in the depths of the heart and the mind. A dash of color from the sun, a sparkling ray from the moon, a mischievous twinkle from a star, gentle nudge of afternoon and the picture emerges much too soon. Stand back, look at it, carefully draw the outline, run your fingers along the edges, feel the gush of colours burst outside and fill the silent spaces, dipping the brush in your beautiful mind. Streams rush to greet you, mountains move to give light, birds orchestrate a delightful symphony in tandem with your design, just step outside, follow your heart and find your mind.
© Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved. Don’t trap me in a definition
or in a predetermined interpretation of what I should or should not be, Don’t contemplate where I belong Or where I want to be. In your defined expression of the perfect bliss in the layers of my skin, don’t take me for a commodity and think how lucky I am fortified by your masculinity. Don’t be fooled by my silent stare, your true intentions will not shatter my serenity, lift the ignorant curtains and see I am returning to me. © Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved. The sky seems to be sloshed today and as the rain falls bringing with it the gentle fragrance of the frangipani, I cannot help but tell myself that I am the interpreter of my own soul and my own being. I have a kismet, a destiny and I am fulfilling it without compromising my dignity. That for me is a woman of substance; a woman looking straight at me from the perfect hand carved Belgian mirror. Am I being illogical? I don't know. Sometimes, I feel that logic is an impediment in the path of emotions and feelings. So if I am driven by feelings, it is because I am not a machine or a programmed robot to feel in a certain way and to react in a perfectly balanced manner at all times. I don't want logic. I don't want the exact arithmetic of living and breathing. I want poetry. The poet's spirit addresses the woman hidden in me and she is worthy of love and she is worthy of the flame of poetry. I care for myself. I care that I exist and I care that one day when I leave this planet, someone, somewhere will read one of my obscure poems and say- I felt like this. Any person who is older than me and claims that he has unparalleled experience in love, relationships and life, needs to know that it is not the time that we have spent on earth but how we have made use of that time and experience that counts in the end. Love has its seasons but love is not a series and it is certainly not temporary. Love is larger than life and in its generosity we find that it can overwhelm us and sometimes leave us confused. The innumerable contradictions, confusions and complexities that it hurls in our face can make us feel, at times, that life is nothing but a series of tragedies. It makes us question our own convictions to such an extent that there are hollow moments when we gaze at the ceiling and ask ourselves- Why me? Why now? Is this a parable? Is this a fantasy? Is this a reality?, and the quest goes on and on. However, the answers remain buried within us. We just stumble on them when the time is right. So going back to being a woman of substance, I'd like to say that she is not an angel or a celestial being. She does not dance to the theatrics of superficial beauty. She does not need anybody to validate her beauty just because she looks a certain way. She is born with an inner treasure that very few can see and those who do see it, find the last song of sunshine in her eyes. It takes a very special person to know this soul and when the collision takes place, it is seeing without looking, it is knowing without meeting. And such meetings are planned by the souls even before people meet each other. It takes a special kind of love and it takes a special kind of heart to tie this knot. The last song of sunshine is just a beginning and the story goes on....
© Jaspreet Mann. The Last Song of Sunshine. All Rights Reserved. India is an absolutely, heart stoppingly gorgeous country.
~Anthony Bourdain, Parts Unknown, Punjab (India) One day, after years of travelling in the desert, we follow our shadow backwards to the place and time we were, to the oasis we were. We are kind to ourselves, we light a fire but we no longer burn. And, so we return.
© Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved. So I am writing a poem
perhaps a poem is writing me my mind is dancing in circles the words are falling in a line like disobedient recruits they try to understand time they shake their head, they smile words don't need a reason or rhyme nobody reads poems, nobody gives a dime. © Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved. It seemed as if
he was searching for more than just energy from beneath those familiar bottles that glow like orange flames (the ones who dress in labels of someone elses name) and it seemed as if he was empty in more places than just the bottle in his fist craving refills like answers, hoping emptiness wouldn’t win. © Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved. You could lift them
from their solitary confines, raise the perfumed coffin- to unexpected sunshine and let the gentle lines dissolve in the golden rays and fall back like pearls on the oceanic waves. You could shred them to tiny pieces in an unknown land and release them in the air in the shadowy mists lurking between the swaying trees of the glowing sunset and feel the music tingle reluctant senses everywhere. If you like, you could ignite the startled words with a stroke and let the flames fly eagerly with the birds when the fire and fury dulls © Jaspreet Mann CONTRABAND ( Titanium Poetry Society, 2015) All Rights Reserved. |
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