I Won't Wipe the White-Board Clean

Let what is, be what is seen...

Don't force me to clean the white-board, my doodles, my imagination,

My math, my trepidation,

My haiku, my not-haiku-

Don't urge me to rub these off...

For, even if it leaves marker-smudges or deep imprints,

I won't.

I won't wipe the white-board clean,

If I hadn't intended to today, before you said you'd drop in.

I won't wipe the white-board clean,

Because it was never on my plan, anyway...

I won't do it, just because you're calling on me today.

I don't want to show you the spic-and-span,

I don't want to show you an empty land,

I want you to see what I've been seeing,

What I've been doing, and not doing,

And saying, and not saying- I want you,

To be allowed, to decide, whether you want

To read my white-board or not...

I want to give you that fair choice.

For caricatures are all fine, but not with good friends,

And not with good people. I'll leave the easel threadbare,

The canvas en forme pleine, the markers in status-quo,

Because that's how things were, and will be once you've gone.

I need you to know that I won't change for you,

And nor will the appearance of my creations.

For that matter, neither will change for anyone.

And change, if it occurs, will be documented truly,

In its gradual progression, not as an abrupt transformation-

These are things I want you to know-

I want you to see my journey from Eidelweiss to Indi-Pop,

Or from Enid Blyton to Jeffrey Archer- with all the rungs

In-between- the soft Hindi music as well as the Agatha Christies.

So, as tempting as it is, when you're about to arrive,

I won't, shan't- wipe my whiteboard clean.

Image Courtesy: https://in.pinterest.com/pin/317714948685377095/

Comments

Still

A landscape of feathers The smoothest natural canvas, For Nature's painter- Alighting while parading its beauty Before retreating Into a well-worn easel. Soot-black, rust-grey, brown like tinsel, Folding up and pulling down the covers Over grace, beauty and space, Compounded with distance, Rendering known unknowns, beautiful art. Now mingled with unknown knowns, Streaks of color paint the marauded canvas Differently. Camouflage seems eminent, Unimportance, inadvertent. The marvels Of the aerial world, beget stupor as They transform into the pedestrian In the realm which is terrestrial. The miracle of flight now a bane, As for food they must forage With feet, not fly with feathers. I don't want to startle them. It is silence that beckons them to the ground. Startlement stirs them upwards, into the skies, Simpering, whimpering, not soaring and diving- Trespassers on a land where they are weak, Vulnerable- they know they can't win. Aviation is a weapon futile against...

The Tree Says 'Hi'

The tree says Hi! My balcony was briefly an arboretum. Windswept leaves splayed over the floor Like champion specimens -parts of a fine species- Careening into a welcoming sanctum That is otherwise empty- save for clothes on stands Or people on feet. When this tree paid its timely visit Luckily, there was nothing, no-one. It probably seized A rare chance- when it was out of anchor, fit and fine, In form- and the tiled floor bare. No sign of occupation. It bore its way past the metal rails that serve to Prevent our falls, but here cushioned the tree's. It rested its somber branches easily on the rail, Which is mighty strong and sturdy, as I can now discern. It snooped its slender branches threateningly over A cauldron of leaves. Green cauldron, green sorcerer. When I woke, there it was, unshakeable, unmovable. Oh, it was mobile alright. It'd have moved of its own will. It was merely enjoying its soiree in a forbidden land, Like we all do. But it just stared at me, with compo...

Clandestine

Sometimes we wait too long, To speak our minds. We let lingering truths linger, We let sporadic clocks, chime.. We allow patient seams to fritter away Like a sparrow does with the timber of the tune That she was shrouded by; shrill words tearing Ears, each word she utters, careful, today. While the first day it was a free reign, until Some unctuous winds carried to her, criticism. Just the same way as copper utensils in a house Of steel, are anyone's delight, until bronzed, With wear and use, both are the victims Of sundry needs and glances. Just the same way, some things, Are stowed away in careful pockets Because they have borne a lot of perusing When kept in the open. Like love. Like hurt. Like envy. Like silence. Trust and truth are two things I can list, That are given, that are l'habitude. I tell the truth because it is, it exists, It is what I perceive, it is what I've lived.. And I keep your trust, because I've learnt That it'll help you keep mine, it wil...

The Happy Wanderer

Search This Blog