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  • my_cup_of_poetry 5d

    Fall in love, yes do.
    When you are
    Eighteen, nineteen or ninety
    For " n " number of times
    Fall in love
    Along the corridors
    Of a college library,
    Or in a strange city
    Or around a new alley,
    Or in a wornout park
    Anywhere and
    Everywhere
    Fall in love
    Easily and quickly.

    Sneak into an abandoned
    Corner holding hands ,
    Sail your lips upon his
    Behind a Sycamore tree,
    Let him make a voyage
    round your being ,
    Your hills and your valleys
    And you trace the map
    of a world he carries under
    his robes.

    Thereafter when he waves a
    Goodbye, you smile
    and say goodbye too.

    Don't become Sylvia Plath
    in love, never make poetries
    for him, don't write an elegy
    when he departs, okay?
    Try not to become Frida Kahlo
    In love either, don't paint tears
    In your canvas when he starts
    unwrapping another woman.


    Ah, fall in love I say
    Just don't make him
    an art you know,
    Coz my professor says
    Art out lives all,
    Art is immortal.
    So in that case
    he would continue
    to live in you while
    you die!

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 2w

    Sometime back a friend told me that World War III memes are trending on social media. I didn't know how to react to that. And I don't know how one can laugh about wars.

    All I know is that I see a man limping and struggling to walk along the roads of my university campus everyday while passers by keep mocking about the way his one leg is.
    That man is my history professor who told us in the first lecture that he lost his one leg during Kargil War.
    Is sensitivity a forgotten art? I hope and pray it's not.
    There's NOTHING funny about a war. Understand. And grow up.

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 2w

    // DAY 1 //

    " Is it that easy for me to embarrass you ? ", he asks staring at me.
    " No " , I reply almost trying to avoid an eye contact.
    " But I just did thrice " , he says giggling.

    That's when my city first witnessed how those tweety eyelashes of yours droop down half closing your window of gazes and those bunny teeths flash behind your pink hills when you laugh. In all my silent lanes of mind I was trying to find perfect metaphors for a man who travelled miles to travel my mind.

    ***

    " Ah, there's Dominos even in your city " he exclaims smirking to get his favourite sarcastic reaction from me.
    " That's not a good one ", I reply to his surprise.
    " Why "
    " The good ones are in Mumbai "
    " No, the best ones are in Mumbai " and he breaks into laughter still staring at me.

    Do I not keep sarcasms at my tongue tip ! And here I was letting you win. Like my smartness and sanity, even the period cramps went on a vacation the moment you entered my city. And I had walked to meet you like a river who awaits ages to meet the sea. Yet I intended not to reveal how when you get busy looking at my city, I quickly stare at you and in no time I look away as your eyes turn to me.

    ***

    " I don't usually like tea but this is really good "
    " Are people in Mumbai not good in making tea ? " , finally trying to be sarcastic I ask.
    " They are. I am amazed that even people in your city know how to make it " he says giggling again.
    " Come on , I am waiting for a sarcasm " he adds.
    But I keep quiet and smile.

    Did I walk out of my room today to fail in conversations. Maybe yes. But some failures can make you smile like an insane child each time you recall them. And I am jotting this down to celebrate it like victory and to celebrate you like poetry.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 3w

    A temple that smells like
    fresh blood and rings with
    the cries of death,
    cannot answer my prayers.

    And I cannot worship in a
    mosque that shackles dear
    Tabassum inside four walls
    for life.

    I better pray inside a ruined
    hut of four who offered me a
    glass of water without asking
    my religion.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

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    // religion //

  • my_cup_of_poetry 13w

    A very old draft that I never intended to post !!
    ��

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 14w

    My grandmother always
    asked me to stop gazing at the
    Faded crimson wall ,
    Tightly held by bunches of
    Ivy climbers,
    Visible from the backyard
    of our home;

    I always replied that
    that the wall seems wounded
    by the hold of Ivy!
    and the cuckoo sitting on it
    is lamenting.

    She would look at me
    And not say a word.

    Then the evening
    before my departure
    to a different land,
    She said - "

    Meher choked one night,
    the dowry was little low.
    A crimson wall was raised,
    the cuckoo sang eulogies
    for the bride everyday
    And I kept quiet .

    I hope you DO NOT "

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

    #memories @mirakee @writersnetwork

    // One woman loses her life every hour in our country because of dowry //

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 15w

    For years,
    I called myself an Artist
    Rubbed my hands smashed
    In black paint
    Over white canvas
    And created Grey

    Grey sells well
    in melancholy markets;

    Then one October evening
    You kissed my hands
    And I stopped creating grey

    Black fell
    In the season of fall
    And I knew not
    How to stop!

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 17w

    A fifteen minutes conversation had almost reached its denouement when she asked, " when are you coming home? "
    " 2nd of October, Mum " I say before disconnecting the call.

    Home. The place she taught me to call home is painted in the lightest shade of green hue with charcoal black windows. Close to one window laid an old guava tree and few lilies amidst wild grasses which I loved gazing at for hours as a child.

    Those lilies over years started smelling like the alcohol my father gulped every night and soon stopped growing. The guaves grew bitter like my parents' relationship and the echo of my mother's voice abandoned the place.

    The place now houses a man in his early fifties who chose himself over everyone else, who every now and then complains that no one cares. I smile and tell him that lilies were dying in the garden and he refused to water. The last text from him reads " I am the culprit ". I don't know what to reply.

    But I did want to tell mum that though I long to be home, tell me if it ever existed!

    // HIRAETH //


    ©my_cup_of_poetry

    #home @mirakee @writersnetwork

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 18w

    @mirakee the drafts shouldn't be limited :(

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    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 19w

    When do you know that
    you have fallen out of love?

    When you wake up every morning
    To realise that you will never see
    that familiar face beside you,
    When you stop counting the days
    You heard him last,
    When the calendar is unknown
    About your span of separation,
    Or when that face fades a little more
    In the heap of memories and tears,

    When do you know that you
    are still in love?

    Maybe when you realise that you
    Never unloved but learnt to stay alone,
    Or when you acknowledge that you
    Only chose yourself over a storm,
    That could ruin.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

    P.s : I am struggling to write!

    @phoenicorn You lady ❤

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