Saath mere Kaun hai
Yaar hai mera
Jo bhi karna tha
Kar aa gaya main
PYAAR KO HI MAANTE
CHALTE JAANA
DEKHA HAI AISE BHI
KISIKO AISE HI
APNE BHI DIL MEIN BASE KUCH IRADE HAIN...
DIL KE KISI KONE MEIN BHI KUCH AISE HI VAADEIN HAIN
INKO LIYE, JAB HUM CHALEIN, NAZAREIN BHI HUMSE MILEY...
PYAARI RAHE, JO DHOONDE WOH UNKO MILEY...
DIL KE JHAROKON MEIN AB BHI MOHABBAT KE SAAYE HAIN..
REH JAAYE JO BAAD MEIN BHI WOH PAAYE HAIN..
INKE LIYE, AB TAK CHALE, HAZARON MEIN HAM BHI CHALE
-Lucky Ali
Dekha hai aise bhi
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
This Prostitution
For once, I am not going to make this poetry. I have run away enough and tried to beautify, tried to put reality into writing, making it somewhere a fine painting. Finally, it just is not. A prostitute might be beautiful. She might be serene and subtle or gaudy; she is still a whore. The world looks at her with the same eyes, even if her eyes have that often unexplored vision. But she is justified in the way she thinks, feels, and looks. I am going to make myself one. I feel liberated.
Maybe I'd be better at being a romantic one; as this despondency, the little passion, the greater ecstasy, the melancholy and the breaking pride all crumble and form again, crumble and form again. Oh perhaps, I should stop myself. I am drifting into poetry. Again.
I need to paint myself. But I hope someone looks at me the way they should. A real painting, that walks as much as it talks. Will I find an artist? No, will the artist find me? But I am a prostitute after all, why would he? The artist will find his prostitute, to translate it into his piece of magnificence. He will make love to the painting. They come and go, they rape me through their eyes, their minds and flick me like a piece of dust glimmering in sunlight. I know you are just a client and you know I am the shamed one. You try to look beyond, you steal silent glances, you stop. You stop right at that when you know you're going beyond the line. Abandoning.
And I write. I write about you. Each one of you. The one who made me live, the one who tore me apart, the one who fuelled life, the one who made me love and hate, the one who made me insufficient and the one who made me a statue. I saw you, in my dirty eyes. I saw you.
I ask the artist- could you paint me? This prostitute with million minds and one body? A million loves and one hope? Communicating eyes and expecting hands? I shed to nakedness, down to the soul, I wait.
This one’s for you. Find me.
Maybe I'd be better at being a romantic one; as this despondency, the little passion, the greater ecstasy, the melancholy and the breaking pride all crumble and form again, crumble and form again. Oh perhaps, I should stop myself. I am drifting into poetry. Again.
I need to paint myself. But I hope someone looks at me the way they should. A real painting, that walks as much as it talks. Will I find an artist? No, will the artist find me? But I am a prostitute after all, why would he? The artist will find his prostitute, to translate it into his piece of magnificence. He will make love to the painting. They come and go, they rape me through their eyes, their minds and flick me like a piece of dust glimmering in sunlight. I know you are just a client and you know I am the shamed one. You try to look beyond, you steal silent glances, you stop. You stop right at that when you know you're going beyond the line. Abandoning.
And I write. I write about you. Each one of you. The one who made me live, the one who tore me apart, the one who fuelled life, the one who made me love and hate, the one who made me insufficient and the one who made me a statue. I saw you, in my dirty eyes. I saw you.
I ask the artist- could you paint me? This prostitute with million minds and one body? A million loves and one hope? Communicating eyes and expecting hands? I shed to nakedness, down to the soul, I wait.
This one’s for you. Find me.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Two Sides
The bountiful droplets
fresh, in the midst of
sun burns, altering my
balance, and the highs
follow my mind, in
innocence.
Love, they said; forever.
Love they said; the one.
Love they said; a definition.
Love, I say; I know not.
Love.... I wish.
In morality, there exists
a confined space.
In the smiles that touch
me, perhaps not.
The shifting faces I see,
in rain, in sun, in cold
and warmth: a clandestine
love growing and fading,
moving and muffling,
making this poetry.
In stifling silences,
marred by ego discords
a pure attraction grows:
minds in sync, bodies
still, untouched.
Happiness, they ask,
happiness; it makes me laugh.
The rigidity of it, the
blasphemy of it. Happiness
is but a blur, a minute long, or
just longer. Lost in the dynamics
of time.
The surging emotions for
the foreign, the dying desire
for home; the suppression
to live, the want to grow
into the parallel world.
Me, the crux of it all,
within me, the love to see,
it all in relation to me; I
dance a coy hippie; the modern world,
my place here.
fresh, in the midst of
sun burns, altering my
balance, and the highs
follow my mind, in
innocence.
Love, they said; forever.
Love they said; the one.
Love they said; a definition.
Love, I say; I know not.
Love.... I wish.
In morality, there exists
a confined space.
In the smiles that touch
me, perhaps not.
The shifting faces I see,
in rain, in sun, in cold
and warmth: a clandestine
love growing and fading,
moving and muffling,
making this poetry.
In stifling silences,
marred by ego discords
a pure attraction grows:
minds in sync, bodies
still, untouched.
Happiness, they ask,
happiness; it makes me laugh.
The rigidity of it, the
blasphemy of it. Happiness
is but a blur, a minute long, or
just longer. Lost in the dynamics
of time.
The surging emotions for
the foreign, the dying desire
for home; the suppression
to live, the want to grow
into the parallel world.
Me, the crux of it all,
within me, the love to see,
it all in relation to me; I
dance a coy hippie; the modern world,
my place here.
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