The other day,
I caught myself thinking,
Wondering whether the old Gods,
Still walk this earth.
Do they anymore dwell,
In the din,
Of our shuddering cities?
Or is the fuel for the fires,
The flames in our engines,
All that remains,
Of their lifeblood we drained?
In the dust, ash and grime,
It is hard to find,
Marks of the divine,
When these desolate lands,
Like the bent broken backs,
Shells of their bodies,
That still stand.
Maybe the old Gods are lost to us,
We've been left abandoned,
To perish by the torments,
Of our own devices.
Yet we need to hold on,
To hope,
That hiding in the breeze,
And the shades of trees,
In the gurgle of a cool stream,
Are the new Gods,
Gods who will rise to reclaim this earth,
Gods who will heal the creation we've hurt,
They who will lead us to rebirth.
Tag: divine
The Stranger
I have no poetry for what I want to write now. The feeling is at once out of place and familiar, and rhymes will just hold me back. Last night, I couldn’t sleep, and while listening to music that takes me away to a peaceful place, I understood what’s been bothering me, what eats at me.
I have understood, that I am a stranger in my own land, that the places that speak my name aren’t here. The books I’ve read, the songs I’ve heard, all of that has taken me away from the places I’ve lived in, and away from the people around me. It has put a distance that I have been unable to find a bridge to. The gap between me and them, has grown much in the recent years. The more I’ve found my true calling, the more that I’ve found the depths inside myself; the more I find myself distanced in my heart and mind from the ones around me.
It is no wonder then, that I have felt so abandoned and lonely for so long a time. Not just in my search for a romantic relation, but in even in other aspects too, there is hardly anyone who complements me in the breadth and depth of my thoughts; someone who resonates with my beliefs and the values I live by.
So, I am left a stranger in my everyday life. What I see in my mind’s eye, I have met none who share the vision. It’s as if I am unseen and unheard by anyone I talk to. The language I speak in, it’s not of the here and now, the life I live is not of this place or time. I am the stranger to everyone I know. Never understood, never accepted. I have never belonged, but everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve felt that I’ve been there before.
In my heart, I pray to the Gods that have looked upon us through time, that I soon find my people. People who are not of this time, but of some age in the past when humans were one with the Earth, when honour and morality wasn’t so alien, so hard to grasp; when the words we spoke was truthful till every last syllable. Misfits now, we belong to places where the divine isn’t lost, and we walked with the Gods. A way of life where the children never lost their way, and we found wisdom from the ancestors, where nature was respected and feared, and legacy was of values, not material. I hope to be with those people, who love with all their hearts, and live with all their souls. People who are not afraid of the old ways. Companionship that speaks through time, in the language of the universe. Human beings who understand that we’re meant for so much more.
Deyja
In disarray,
My mind,
Withering,
Drooping,
Grey.
As is this attempt
At poetry.
Alien,
The outside,
Desolate,
Crowds flock,
To structures
Devoid,
Of the human soul.
Glass and steel,
Smoke and wheel,
Grating,
Whining,
Wailing.
Dark skies,
Dead hearts,
Hollow eyes,
Doused stars.
Barren,
The insides,
Bleak,
They walk,
On and over,
Adrift, Incoherent,
Bereft,
Of cosmic import.
Untitled 1.2 / The Storm
Bloodied
pieces
of me
are
scattered
around,
all
over.
Dripping hunks,
that I carved out,
held up to you.
Offerings on your altar.
In this fever dream,
Frantic, I scramble at the walls,
rising
about
me,
now
c
r
u
m
b
l
i
n
g,
burying
me
under.
Within, a flame savage,
demented, devours.
I whimper, begone!
Wretched shadows that I cast.
Without,
a storm rages,
frenzied.
Howling
I crawl,
trapped,
crazed,
the temple ablaze.
M-
I met her just twice. Successive days in the hot summer of 2019. May? June? It’s been one and a half years now.
In moments of solitary thought, when I have felt friendless, I have thought of her. And even though we don’t have occasion to talk much, I feel her presence. Not near me, not beside me, but somewhere out there, where she is, I sense her existence, like the twinkling light bulbs of a distant town, hers brighter than any other.
She is a mountain girl, you see? She is as proud and aloof as those Himalayan cliffs she’s grown up around. Unforgiving, unyielding. Solitary in her loneliness.
But I have felt in her the blowing winds and the bright sunshine of the vales too. Like ripples that flow over a field of grass, and the whispers through pine trees, life spills from her. Life animates her. Like a blooming bud or a flittering butterfly, her twinkling eyes.
I have wished sometimes that I be witness to her sleep. O how ethereal in my mind’s eye I have imagined that moment to be. To have her sleepy head in my lap, to gaze upon her peaceful face, a smile playing on her lips; to bask in the glow of her beautiful, beautiful being. Dare I run my hands through her hair? Are they worthy enough?
Otherworldly, her poise. Every step, every pause. Every bow of her head. How graceful she is, when I see her walk up the mountain path, the Sun vying to outdo her brilliance. How vital, live-giving her joy, when I see her run, the wind in her hair, her dog by her side.
She has been touched by Freyja. And when rain falls and life doesn’t flow as strongly, I am safe with the knowledge that she is there. She lives, however distant. She reigns, even in her exile. And I suffer no pain, only an intense longing for my gaze to be blessed by her sight, her presence a sacrament.
I ache to be there for her, to hold her, to be of some comfort? But she is divine, and this is the only tribute she commands.
Spiral into me 