The first thought

A poem within me.

Smiling, yearning,

crying.

Passionate,

dead, dull

beautiful.

Sweet darkness of my own,

give light to my poem,

my own.

Teardrops like rain,

falling.

Poem, you’re beautiful,

I exist in you.

familiar face,

déjà vu.

Poem, I cry for you.

~26.03.09

When Lucy spoke

I am no Lucy

But if I were

I would wait for you in my cottage

I would stand by my window

staring out,

till you came.

I would send clouds towards you

to tell you of me.

I would know that

I love you

even though I had not opened my eyes.

Lucy has always loved you

much before you realised.

I am no Lucy

but if I were

I know I would have no other

You would teach me

more than I would ever know.

You would tell me of my existence

and speak aloud my name

 I would not know passion

only know to wait.

 And I will

till you longer doubt

what would have been.

What is there is there

has been there for years.

Before you; before me; before all.

I am Lucy

and I am right here.

 ~28th November 2013

I am no Wordsworth but if I were...

And Then Sadness Prevailed

Emptiness,

encircling gloom.

Leaves falling off,

leaving me alone.

Distress,

I deserve all this and more.

You going away,

melancholy has never been so sad before.

Darkness,

am all alone.

No one by me,

you- forever gone.

I have a  new feature on my blog called Verse Wednesdays. I will be posting my poetry on Wednesdays. Sometimes I will also have poetry from guest bloggers. 

I wrote this poem 7 years ago when my maternal grandma passed away. Last Wednesday night, my granddad passed away. I miss him loads. Thought I'll share this poem today. 

Ours is not a mere paragraph; a short story or novel. Ours is an infinity of words.

Did you know that

 when I share  love quotes

 with you,  I mean them?

 I may not have written them

 but I relate to every word.

 I wish you were the kind

 to get poetry, I wish you

 loved poetry.

Who would marvel over Eliot

 and Kafka and Murakami and

O’Henry and Shakespeare and

Pablo Neruda and obscure

writers who touch me with their words.

I know everyone is not

wired the same;

and there are so many things

we do have in common;

and there are so many things

I don't get about you ;

and there are so many other things

about me that you DO get.

Yet I crave for this too.

Because words, simply put;

are beautiful, in every possible way.

 And I don't know if you know

 the nuance that separates

always from "Always".

Or that gibberish also has meaning.

And that "lost in translation" is a real thing.

 And I don’t say it but wish

 you understood when I make

literature references.

Or that I refrain from making them

coz it's too difficult to explain the context.

 And that by the time I do explain,

the spontaneity of saying it gets lost.

I will always have other people

to talk poetry but

sometimes I wish I could talk about them

with you too.

Because I want to be able to

talk about everything with you.

We are not made of atoms;

 whatever science claims.

We are made of stories.

That is NOT a romantic notion.

 And I guess being practical

and not caring for romance

is a facade for the world.

I have never been a cynic.

And I still wish that flowers never die.

And I laugh when I say this

and I hate to admit

that I am, after all

a romantic.

And if you're my Fitzwilliam

and I  your Elizabeth;

we still don’t have

our very own dance yet.

And when I found you, I knew

you were my Flynn, Ron and Darcy

all rolled into one.

But I wish I could tell you that.

One day I will; and if you're listening

you will hear me whisper:

Will you be Jim to my Della?

 (and I will be hoping that you say “Always.” )

~Anjee Bhatia

27^th November 2013

Dedicated to A, my poetic license.