Tag: poem

An Idea of Love.

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia3 Comments

I thought Love would be all the things the Poets said:
Sunlight on the Face, red roses on the Bed.
It came in with Grandeur accompanied by Hope
Who my last love left behind, after he eloped.
After him, it seemed sane to give up and turn away,
But Love always seems to come with the intention to stay . . .

[Or so I thought in the vaguest of fantasies –
Dreaming of a Love carved with brilliant fancies]:

He would do this and He would be that;
He would say this and He would feel that;
He would cherish and care a hell of a lot;
He would protect and – you know, all that rot.

He came and He loved in a manner not Mine
And I have grown enough to give up on Time.
I love him, too,
But one thing is true:
The Love is never your Love,
When it happens for you.

30th July.

“If I seem sad do not bother to stop by”

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia5 Comments

If I seem sad do not bother to stop by
And ask if things are awry,
Just walk on and I shall be fine
It’s just another phase of mine.

(I think too much that’s the thing,
Or maybe it’s an excess of feeling.
Perhaps love has caused me grief
Or a friend has shred my belief.
I set a lot of score in both
And both have me at the throat.)

But you stop and question these tears of mine,
And ask who has cut me this time.
You are not my lover and I refuse to say
What makes me act this way.
Instead, clutching my bloody throat, I walk away
And you realize what happened today,
Since on your shoulder I do not depend,
The wound was caused by some old friend.

Oh, Stranger-Like-Me.

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

I wonder many times, oh-stranger-like-me,
Of how it would be
If you perhaps come across these lines
And smile (or perhaps shed a tear) and think
This heart’s so much like me.
If I would write of how love passed me by –
And you would not question why
I was thinking of throwing myself to the ground
From the terrace of a building.
If I would mention how love returns –
And yet incessantly burns,
With a sharpness and sting
That makes all wonder on the need of this thing.
Would you, stranger-like-me, think of this?
Have you hoped for immortal bliss
And settled for earthly disillusionment?
A neglectful youth arising from abuse –
Of what I have gained and what I shall lose?
Do you – would you – have any reckoning?
I have loved again and now I find
That love alone can torture the mind;
By the lack of words or a stronger voice,
Have you ever had the pressure of choice?
Have you ever thought he never wrote back?
What didn’t I give? What did I lack?
Now, I have loved again. Do you think:
What if it all passes again in vain…?
Then did you scowl and write
In your way of scribbling down black on white,
That being held by some one once again
Is worth so much of all this pain?
If you do feel even the slightest bit
Of the emotions my heart knits…
Know also, stranger-like-me,
I write for eternity.

1:30am
14th February.