The Song and the Hand.

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Of Beren and Lúthien.

I have heard stories of love and its surpassing hate,
And of how some averted tragedy and rewrote fate.
I have heard of heroes and gallant deeds,
Of blood and war and their causes in unworthy needs.
I have heard of all in this long life of mine,
But one story of all evades destruction by time.

I have heard tell of the great lady dressed in blue,
And eyes which spoke of a rain-filled cloud’s hue.
Moonlight her skin, shadowy twilight in her hair,
In Beleriand there proved none who was so fair.
In the land of Doriath she did dwell –
The one we called Lúthien Tinúviel.

In the story her heart’s breath was linked to one,
Who had fire in his mortal veins, Barahir’s son.
He was one trapped by vengeance, an outlaw,
With the kind of valour that few ever saw.
One who feared captivity but smiled at death,
And hated the Enemy with every breath.

They loved each other at first sight,
Through each morning and each night.
Daeron was the minstrel who betrayed them to the King,
And of the story that followed I shall not sing.
For all here know of the quest of the Silmaril,
It is something that is talked of still.

I wish to speak of the Love that between two hearts grew,
Something that I wished I could have too.
It is something beyond praise to achieve,
Losing a hand and yet manage to weave,
A noose so tight, to spite a father’s austere frown,
To cut the Jewel from Morgoth’s crown!

But what of the courage of Lúthien?
The one that surpassed that of many men!
To rush to her beloved despite the evil in elves,
Who forgot all in lust despite themselves –
With the help of an unlikely friend – a hound –
To rescue him with whose fate hers was bound.

Her strength combined with his was victory,
For if not for her song, rewritten would be history.
If not for her lips to draw out venom, or her power
To staunch mortal wounds, ghastly would have been the hour.

To this love – which made a mortal hold Feanor’s jewel,
And an elf to chose mortality with him to dwell,
I sink to a knee and bow my head low,
And wonder if such a love I shall ever know.

Blood Red.

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Rose petals in my mind,
Blood red, blood red,
I search but can’t find
My heart that fled.

The smell divinely sweet,
Assailed and said,
Your heart and you can ne’er meet,
It’s dead, it’s dead.

Friends and Lovers.

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

Friends and Lovers.

You asked me, some days back, why friends are all to me,
For, you say, I neglect you and think of them constantly.
When I’m with them, I give them the leisure of my smile,
But you are part of my frowns and tears all the while.
I write this on a rainy night, for you caused me hurt,
And impregnated my eye which has just given birth.
You misunderstood my heart and raved some days before,
Though I thought you – of all men – knew my heart to its core.
I feel that I thought wrong and you, a contradiction.
And now let us just dissect fact from fiction.

My smiles are not all heartfelt smiles with all of my friends;
For they neither know where my love starts nor where it ends.
But you, you do. (Or I thought you did.) They can – do not.
And intense emotions do not fall in friendship’s lot.
(Unless, of course, love plays its tumultuous role in it.)
And that is the space of difference you need to hit.
The rain has stopped outside briefly and our dog wants out:
I walked her and glared at the surrounding muck and doubt …
I have let you see the side of me only few see;
But you wish to be blind to this part of me.

Since you wish more smiles, you rate yourself to be a friend
Nothing more. So decide true, as lovers then we end?
Now, for example, take the pentacled box you bought me,
‘Twas a gift needed! Joy untold! Such felicity!
Mother asked for it since I have not put it to use,
But memory of your love, I could never abuse.
So it remains, filled with smiles (unused) still on my shelf,
Until I find a better use for it by myself.
You think (yes, yes, you do!) I look to friends more than you;
But, my silly dear, pigs will fly, if that is true.

When I first fell in love, I thought silly things,
I thought all love is the same song that life sings.
With years, I thought I learnt a different song.
Today, I know on both counts, I was wrong.
The silly band has changed, as has the sharp tune;
But the words sound the same to this bloody loon.
You talk of my friendly smiles and frowns in love,
But now let me speak of what I’m thinking of!
My box, your phone – love’s gifts – one to the other.
Though when it comes to your friend – oh, no bother!

Off goes my gift in his hand – just for a day, you say,
Oh? But there goes your argument, up the arsehole’s way!
I trade mere smiles in my friendship, mine to make and give!
I gift the love that I make myself – that’s how I live!
But you just traded my love for the sake of your friend!
I guess this is where my argument should end.

5th August.
3:30 a.m.