Aditya Shukla ( Prose Poems)


2.
There are many songs playing in backyard. The sheep are grazing on the mountain top. Butterflies flitting around. How to know which song belongs to you? What if someone played a trick on you, played three songs out of which only one is for you, how would you recognize your song? No, you don't have to recognize it. It is there and you have to just receive it. Whatever you receive, becomes yours even if it was not meant for you. The source and the destination never touch each other and even if a traveller takes upon this tedious task of covering the distance between the source and the destination, it would still mean a journey. When you go to the source, do you become the source or you remain the destination or become something entirely different? Does one ever return from the destination to the original or is forever lost? I am lost in your arms but they are no longer there. I am no longer here. We are no longer what we were. We were songs. We sang into air like an archer aims an arrow into air. The arrow takes it's own trajectory. Each to it's own. Where does it hit? What gets wounded? How gravely is the target wounded? Is it bleeding yet? Is it bleeding poems? Which bird died on my breast last night? What life bloomed out of my being yesterday? How do I fold myself and delve into a vase? What form should I take? Which city should I travel to? Are my sources and destinations still intact? Have our cities changed their locations? So where are we? Where am I? Where are you? Where is the original flower the traveller was traveling with or was travelling for?

3.

Have you noticed the autumn already? Wasn't it the same expression Arthur Rimbaud used in his poems, 'Autumn Already'. If you read those lines you can feel the autumn around and every time autumn comes, these lines automatically pops up in my head as if they are some sort of secret messengers of poetry. Have you read my letters yet? Wouldn't you like to say some words in response, even bare minimum words of negation? Unanswered letters, what can be sadder than them? Tell me? Some people claim I have achieved poetry of love in my letters but what do I know of poetry and what do I know of love? All I know about is my childish longing, my naivety, my irresponsible attitude towards the greatness that love could be! I have heard a great deal of what love could achieve. Yes, I have read them in poems and novels. That's why I love poems and novels. Also, I shouldn't forget to mention, I love colours too. The colours that you wear on yourself. The airs that you carry with yourself. My heart, if I am allowed to use this expression, pounds. I am born again. I am born again in the shadow of your gaze and I am born out of your embrace. I know people can call it many things but I do not care. I do not care what people think or say, I do not care even if you discard my love for you, even if my need for your avowal is trampled, for, in this moment, I do not worry of the risks future may hold. I am content for now. You are. I am. Nothing else is needed. Let years weigh down on me! Let tears roll down my cheeks! I can not express the beauty I am blessed with and this is my achievement. You may think wrong of me and it worries me. Even if there is no love, please do not think wrong of me. Please do not think wrong of me. I have to write to you without asking for a response. My words carry the weight of my existential anguish but let them not affect you. I do not want to disturb you by my clumsiness. Please forgive me already. It's autumn. Look around you. The colours. The wind. We are blessed with beauty for a while and let it overwhelm us for the time being. Farewell for now dear being!


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