Arabesque nights,
love and all of the rest, deserts that feed on water, early spring pretext, tangled routes, distress, drunk distillery of life ghosts dancing at sunset, fistful of flames in a run over sentence silence, sorcery, spell, Stories that glasses tell, insomniac's blossoms, masked clouds, lingering scents, seas separating two people like a foreign country, rainstorms, moon beams storms inside the skin voodoo, sin, lampshades, lightless, hollow, heaven, hell Stories that glasses tell. © Jaspreet Mann. All rights reserved.
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When I lived in Kashmir, I realized that it was very difficult to say which season was the loveliest. When the glorious sunshine touched the peaks and cabbage-white butterflies fluttered by the clumps of violets, narcissus, crocuses and daisies, the fragrant air held the promise of a tantalizing spring. The firmament would be filled with the songs of mynas, thrushes and sparrows. Occasionally some bold crows would barge in, but besides that, beautiful birds always perched on window sills, curtain rails and even chairs. They would ceremoniously sing their favourite love songs, laden with the lyrics of spring. I would think that that was the best season of all, as day after day passed cloudlessly. Autumn’s suspicious tints had the charm to make me stop in my tracks and gaze at the golden chinar leaves, fall on them, and hear their stealthy secretive whispering. Slowly the golden hues would fade into a dreamy haze as chillness descended and gave birth to frost-weathered grass and leafless trees. Dark clouds would hover near the mountains and sweep along their mist streaked summits threatening the stillness of the valley. Even one solitary sun-ray peering through the dark curtains of the sky had the power to brighten a gloomy day. This was also incredibly lovely. Sitting by the Bukhari, it seemed winter had the power to take me on a writing spree. There was something soothing, something so inspiring that it cannot be put in words. But with the years, seasons have changed and now even the moon slowly rises against a background score of gunshots, with a disturbed serenity. Now if somebody asks me about my favourite season in Kashmir, I don’t even know how to answer that. Clearly it is not the eye but the soul that sees.
© Jaspreet Mann. All rights reserved. Propriety and sanity.
Puddles and insanity. What will you choose? We have everything to lose. Will you cross the threshold? To the horizon bold, Or watch the rainbow scatter Colours that might shatter Your peace of mind. I’ll choose insanity, I am blind, You think with your mind. © Jaspreet Mann. Monsoon Showers (2010) Writers Workshop. All Rights Reserved. Poet of Colour,
Liqueur, Saboteur, Athena in the head of Zeus Avalanche of apocalypses Turkish delight, Celestite Undressing in Black and White. © Jaspreet Mann I see you with new eyes,
The myth shattered, The face unguarded, untrue You are human too! I see the pretence of Pretending often and The deepening suspicion renew You are human too! I see that you see me The enlightened soul, Seeing what you do You are human too! © Jaspreet Mann. Monsoon Showers (2010) Writers Workshop. All Rights Reserved. Not in vain Mr. Bourdain, half the world is awake
the other half hanging on the ledge of disdain Tangiers, Punjab meet at the rim of your plate one second, one hour, one day at a time, slow sudden, sweeping recklessness of the mind every door that creaks, every river that weeps every song that has a dark descending sky knows the frailty of a heart, a broken arrow bleeding inside the marrow of every thought you are not alone, every footstep reverberates in the agony of endless pain, every smile fakes the haemorrhage of hopeless nights, of days soaked in bloody champagne, of evenings written on the threshold of love, of afternoons murky in the aftertaste of shame, a lonely ceiling in a solitary hotel room, cacophony insane the long spell of darkness, the short eclipse of fury the never ending bout, the futility of debate the sadness of sorrow, the trauma of hate the logic in illogic, the unmake, the life at stake not in vain Mr. Bourdain, half the world is awake the other half hanging on the ledge of disdain. Rest in peace Tony (25 June, 1956 - 08 June, 2018) © Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved. The first time I heard
the girl from Ipanema I heard it twenty times once was not enough it could never end Por causa do amor Nem olha para mim The words ran in circles inside my frenzied head like the long shadows of dancing memories the refrain of Fogelberg lingering in the bed outside the window the rain fell slowly whispering, breathing it can never end it can never end Nem olha para mim Por causa do amor love can never end © Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved. How magnificently my life has flopped
can be measured by the bricks i made in the fury of the flame; candid, insane who knows me? tempests, hurricanes humble words finding wings in vain soft slow speeding songs of disservice to love or something close to it pointlessness of a paranoid postscript apologies mean the the same transcript never forgetting, never giving in over and over the same sordid thing who knows me? misgivings, empty sunsets deathly silence, disheveled hair, doomed air nobody knows where i took my blows nobody knows where i shook my woes my most prized things- a slip of vanity a slit of wrist, a scholarship of hope an untethered boat, a soldier's frugality a woman's anger, a woman's frailty who knows me? my dummy books handmade ghosts, origami footnotes myth-making, unhumanish offspring the last song of spring, desert longing I got blood on my hands, they are bleeding the moon is a desert language fading above you talk of eternal, forever, always love are you leaving? are you coming? is it this? I am standing in the midst of an abyss a proud, unbroken homage to suffering. © Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved. It is that time of the year
when I was preparing to head to New York City in a remote corner of my country my mother was preparing to die the last words she ever said to me your dreams are worth every thing they are higher than the highest sky fly © Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved. We the lost souls
here, there, everywhere coming, going nowhere We the lost souls nameless, unknown unwritten on a stone We the lost souls dreaming, daring despairing, repairing We the lost souls finding words in everything finding everything in words We the lost souls omnipresent, overbearing forgotten passwords. © Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved. |
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