My poetry is entirely devoid of reality
Which is why it sometimes reminds you
Of a sultry sunday afternoon of childhood.

Why do I wistfully ignore the solid phonemes
That sit around me like naked saadhus
In penance.
And reach out for star dust
To wet the ends of my writing quill.

Why do I wash down reality
Down my throat
With gallons of white water
And tremulous eyes
Hurriedly like hot coals.

There are no galloping horses
Cobbled stones and chariots
No cherry-lipped lady love
Leaning over balconies

There are no beggars
And aluminium bowls
Bazaars with wanton women
Bangles and pedlers

No winding rasthaasĀ 
With red soil rising up at dusk
And dark dinghy rooms
With starved old men

All action is at sky level
All people reside on clouds
Rain, smoke, mist
Clouds, flowers, dust

Lemony scents
Silver streaks
Golden moons
Purple antelopes

My poetry is entirely dependant on imagination
Which is why it sometimes reminds you
Of a drowsy winter evening
Submerged voicelessly in clouds.

P.S: I hate my writing at times. It is bloody pseudo.

7 thoughts on “Pseudo

  1. are u trying to get back at someone here ? šŸ™‚
    anyway, i dont think your writing is anywhere near pseudo, so shake-off all that and write good stuff like you are doing now. i loved this.

  2. @ Pingu

    Well.. I sometimes feel like my images are not derived from reality any more and the truth in them is dying or dead. It makes me very sad.

    @ Venkat

    Well.. you have appreciated me but I cannot appreciate myself.

    @ theanalogkid

    I am getting back only at myself. I am hoping all you guys have a point there. I am not so sure though.

  3. Your poetry is not pseudo. Of what good is a ‘real’ poem, btw?Falsehood is also poetic. You may choose to call it pseudo…but the point is, it is beautiful..

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