10 Poems

 

https://www.hashtagkalakar.net/post/always-1

https://www.hashtagkalakar.net/post/strangers

https://www.hashtagkalakar.net/post/wound

https://www.hashtagkalakar.net/post/friends-and-lovers

https://www.hashtagkalakar.net/post/subjugating

https://www.hashtagkalakar.net/post/day-and-night

https://www.hashtagkalakar.net/post/beautiful-in-sadness

https://www.hashtagkalakar.net/post/taste

https://www.hashtagkalakar.net/post/the-wall-1

https://www.hashtagkalakar.net/post/night-bird

Gift

Unwrap your gift
Event by event,
Day by day,
Enjoy these -
A dense bloated cloud,
A hungry writhing flame,
A hedge of barbs,
A labyrinth of glue.
What will you do?
Will you cower and shrivel?
Will you lock in a shell?
Will you falter and fail?
I challenge you to fight.
Show me your fangs.
Can't you bite?
I see you grapple.
But here is more.
Let me see -
How steel thaws,
How colour drains,
How you wither and die.
I was never your friend

This poem first appeared in of The Literary Hatchet Issue 21 (page 65)

Not to heal

Neatly tucked beneath the carefree brow,
The gleaming eyes and the sugared smile,
Is a crimson wound that breathes and gnaws,
Almost fresh, still deepening, still ramifying,
That craves the warmth of that velvet touch,
And the solace from that pristine glance;
But stop yearning...
For what you deem to be the cure
Will hurt even more than the wound.
Stop yearning...
For it is saner to believe the wound is not to heal.
Just don’t place the finger there;
Take a deep wistful breath and look askance.

This poem was published in The Literary Hatchet Issue 21 (page 156)

End

A petrified morning,
A dehydrated bud,
A strangulated smile,
A skeleton of a tree,
A pile of ashes,
A fake flower,
A shadow of the Sun,
A dry cloud,
A whimpering hope,
A knotted mind,
A frozen heart,
An embalmed wound,
A rancid wish,
And oblivion.

This poem was first published in The Literary Hatchet Issue 21 (page 59)

Love

Yes, give me your love.
I am ready to embrace it.
Pile on my heart that divine prize
Scrape my hands with that precious jewel.
Push me onto that bed of roses
Of petals tinier than the thorns.
Bind me with those silken threads
While I am singed like the silkworm.
Bask in that blinding sunshine
While I burn and blaze like the Sun
Before I go down exploding into my dusk
Leaving you to stare at a loveless night.

This poem was first published in The Literary Hatchet Issue 21 (page 106)

Icicle

Remember how I was?
Like Plasticine in your hands,
All my colors molten into clay
For you to knead and play,
To shape dumb dolls and pets
And to roll frail spindly limbs,
Which you would attach
Onto the dumb torsos
And then contort
Never feeling any pain.
And then, the moment came,
When those limbs and joints gave way.
And I who was cased in them
Became water, flowed out..
But I froze before I hit the floor
Not into ice cubes to chill your drink
But into an icicle
Suspended painfully in front of you.

 

This poem was first published in The Literary Hatchet Issue 21 (page 67)

Being

 What am I?
A mass of flesh;
A mesh of bones;
A gush of blood;
Breathing and moving;
Thinking?
Someone's child, spouse;
Someone's someone;
Mine?
Fair, brown or black;
Human?
Follower of some faith,
Believer of some God;
A slave.
Individual?
Why am I here?
To teach some lessons;
To teach someone a lesson;
To tell what to do and what not to do;
To be told what to do and what not to do;
To love and to hate;
To bleed and to make bleed;
To bear and rear;
To eat, drink and sleep;
To cry and to make merry;
To live thus and to die.
No...
To live thus is to die.
And then what does dying mean?
Look into my nightly eyes
That twinkle with dreams
Like the bland night
Kindled with stars.
I am their shine.
I am each of the dreams.
I am their actuator,
Energy and intellect,
Strength and compassion,
The creator made by the creator.
I am not born to live or die.
I am born to do.. 

(This poem first appeared in Blue Lake Review)

Lost and Found

 

 Lushness peeled off and cleft,
Buoyed and spun with
The ebbs, surges, tides and currents.

Wisdom, once the best friend
Lay stacked away
Underneath dusts of oblivion.

Fragrance retreated,
And hid flattened between pages
Of a forgotten diary.

Radiance that strung all together
Broke off from the strand
And was lost to the seas.

Severed from the life and spirit,
The crux, the savour and the love,
All seemed lost.

The hands fumbled blindly for long
And having failed in the find,
They hung loose.

Then tired, when the eyes started closing
Something slid into the hollow of the fist,
Something that beat in resonance with the heart.

Feeling the persistent throbbing of my own vein.
I awakened and found me;
I found me and awakened. 

(This poem first appeared in Wax Poetry Art)

Creeper

 

The earth cracks up;
Reveals a crevice
And the tiny green hood
Of the creature
That was born within;
Has ensconced itself;
Ramified and spread,
With its sprawling roots,
Deep, thick and bulgy.
Beneath the tiny green hood,
A hungry creeper awakens.
It is ambitious and presumptuous;
Feeds on the insides,
And crawls on the outside,
Grazing and groveling.
It grows onto your hand
You had held out only to toy
With its flimsy sensitive tendrils
Which now ingratiate
And warp around your stiff fingers.
It grows onto your feet
Though you stood there
Only to be a spectator,
It knots around your legs
Attempts to tie you up,
Restricts your freedom.
Its arms still lengthening,
Still groping,
Have clutched you
As they run across your chest,
Around your waist,
Unaware that you are free
That you have a mind of your own;
Unaware that you had been
Only mocking its idiosyncrasies.
You had felt good when
It fumbled and found you
And to know it can thrive
Only by embracing you.
It is only irksome now
In trying to own you.
You have no use for it any more.
And so, it is time
To shake off the fetters.
To sneeze off the malady;
To uncurl those silly tendrils,
And let them dangle.
It is time to tear apart
The rampant tangled mess;
To burn it down;
To stomp over it;
And to extricate yourself.
The gaping crevice it would leave,
Will be sealed with cement.
The roots will die and shrink
And be entombed within.
You will shrug and walk away
And find another plaything.

(This poem first appeared in Wax Poetry Art)

Veils

 

Veils of so many colors,
Dressing windows and wounds,
Opaque, thick, heavy
Fluid, translucent, transparent,
Thick, heavy, dusty,
Flimsy, paper-thin, perforated.
Embroidered, embellished
Torn and frayed,
For every time and every mood.
For every person and every place.
Drifting in the wind,
Wafting in the breeze;
Drawn in daylight,
Thrown open in the night;
Ripped apart by thieves,
Violated by voyeurs.
You look at me and I look at you
Through yours through mine.

(This poem first appeared in Every Writer's Resource)

Worship Me

 

Behold,
My halo, my stature,
My aura, my powers.
Bow to me, fold your hands;
Cross your chest, genuflect,
Grovel and beg,
And feel honorable.
Light incense, kindle candles,
Sway the fan, throw the flowers.
Feed me blind faith and blood.
Keep my heart beating
To the beads of the rosary
To the chant and the prayer.
Protect me
From blasphemy and the blasphemous,
Appease me in bizarre ways.
You say I prescribed those?
Forget yourself, make me your identity.
Hail me,
As your creator , your God,
Your sustainer, your savior.
Even though you are the purveyor
Of my life, my form.
And worship me,
The creator reduced to your creation

(This poem first appeared in Acumen)

Keepsake

 

I long to touch,
I am awed to touch-
Those bangles,
Lambent and engraved,
Encrusted in gold and red-rimmed;
Sparkling,
But not like many years ago
When they twirled, clinked and lived
On my mother's luminous wrists;
Now, just staring,
Out of that dark velvet box
Locked away in a locker,
As a precious keepsake
With a piteous keeper.

Solitude

 

Something or someone,
Has yet again maimed the Sun.
Hapless, it falls and glides,
Down the demon's throat
Dark, slippery, unending
Bleeding all the way.
Rays of darkness
Unfurl and burst out.
One viciously shoots
Right into the heart,
From where I am beckoned,
To close up, to recede,
To descend the same old steps;
Into the derelict dungeons;
Where I could get locked up.
Or get unlocked;
I could eke out ghosts of the past,
And draw apparitions of the future;
I could unearth Gods of strength;
I could worship them,
Or bury them back;
I could run hands over the rugged clotted wounds;
I could soothe them;
Or rake them;
I could recall and relive and recreate pain;
I could convulse with it;
Or reconcile with it;
Or quell it.
It is all upon me and also me;
It is between me and me.
Which of me will have my way?
And what way will that be?
I assume to arbitrate but,
Am I the sanest amongst all of me?
Let the doors to the prison stay closed.
Yet again, I am in parley with myself.

(This poem first appeared in Wax Poetry Art)

Burn Along

 

If you had been a pretty doll of wax
Which froze behind a glass wall
With folded hands and a painted smile,
They would have adored you;
Guarded your delicate form and poise;
And kept you right in front of their eyes.
But you chose to be a sombre candle
Warped around a persevering wick;
You chose to be lit to light up their lives.
And burned with hope and grace.
You burned even when they blithely walked away.
Hot tears trickled down your dissolving face.
But there were no hands to wipe them.
Your flame writhed and struggled.
But there were no hands to guard it.

(This poem first appeared in Wax Poetry Art)

Quicksand

 

If I look away for a while
If I don't mollycoddle
You wander away and far.
Then when I need you back
I set out to find you.
I look with hope and alacrity
In the stir of the woods
And in the calm of the meadows;
In the freedom of the skies
And in the scent of the oceans.
But you have not lost yourself in these
For these do not inspire you?
And then I stumble upon the mire.
You are about to step on quick sand.
I call you out to dissuade
But it sucks you and you give in.
I urge you to flounder your way back
But you don't even try.
I hold out my hand for you to grab
But you stare into infinity.
Then when you are neck deep inside
You reach out and hold my hand.
But it is too late now.
With yourself, you drag me down.

(This poem first appeared in The Yellow Chair Review)

Personal Safety System

In this post, a personal safety system is discussed as one that is intended for use in case of severe danger or life threat to anyone and especially, children and women. The system will usually consist of a connected device in contact with the person who needs to be protected. When triggered, such a system can either alert people who can help the victim or the law enforcement authorities. Such safety systems if effective, can enhance the safety of children or women against violence and crime. These systems can also be used to monitor the sick and elderly.

Some of the existing such systems that are available in various markets are discussed below. The common disadvantages of such safety system are also enlisted.

Father

Those hands were strong and muscular, 
With a golden tan and the veins etched out. 
With palms wider than my waist 
Which held me close to his face 
As I buried my head in his shoulders. 
I remember the surge of strength 
When they delicately held mine. 

They locked me in embrace. 
They cut and filed my tiny nails. 
Tied my shoelaces and even mended my shoes. 
Lugged my satchel and tinkered my bicycle. 
They deftly bound my books and notebooks; 
Turned cardboard into doll-houses; 
Held out colorful boxes of firecrackers; 
Soothed my feverish forehead; 
And walked me across roads. 
They beckoned me outstretched, 
When I sulked over meaningless things, 
They wielded heavy bags while I ambled by his side. 
Into them, I slid my petty shopping lists 
Of candies, sketch-pens and cellophane. 
They tautly held onto the handles of the scooter 
As we rode to my school and markets. 
And each day, we kept riding 
Through my childhood, through his youth. 

I hold those same hands now 
Protectively while crossing roads. 
I grab them before we step on the escalator. 
And as they melt and submit to my grip, 
As I feel them palpitate within my palms, 
I clutch them even harder 
Hoping to pass on in my touch
A little bit of their former strength. 

(This poem first appeared in the book Po'try)

Considerations and use case for massive IoT

IoT is touted as one of the next big things in the wireless technology industry.

IoT devices are in general characterized by low power consumption and bandwidth requirements. They may need to transmit only a few bytes of information sporadically either in case of certain events or to keep alive. The battery life requirements correspondingly can protract to years and even decades.These devices could be embedded in the appliances of day-to-day use or be planted standalone along with sensors,etc.

Following are a few current wireless technologies that can be used for such IoT requirements. Each of them is designed for operation only in specific licensed or unlicensed frequency bands. The range of operation of these technologies depends on the frequency of operation as well as other design choices that impact the link budget.

Perseverance

Sadness is not an enemy. 
It is the goad and fuel to the fire. 
Which fortitude cups its hands around 
To countervail the dark running amok 
Eager to stomp out light with its shadows. 
The fire shines on the silver lining 
Crouching underneath even the gloomiest of clouds; 
And allows the unflinching vision 
Past the knotted lashes and mangy hope 
Into the colors of the rainbow. 
The fire is waiting for a whiff of wind 
For it to flare up and illuminate 
The face seared by tears. 
Sadness is not an enemy. 
It is the goad and fuel to the fire 
Which smolders silently and persistently 
To warm and soothe the night. 
That fire will eventually turn into the day. 

.

(This poem first appeared in Wax Poetry Art)

It is late and dark

I had loved the sunshine.
When it had trickled down pleasantly
Caressing and glowing,
Enlivening, kindling.
It soon got too arrogant for my liking.
It would go its way unaffected by my love or need.
It would hide in clouds at its will.
Then, when I had given up waiting,
It would emerge suddenly, beaming.
I thought I would pay it back in indifference,
So I looked the other way while it showed off.
I ignored its charm, warmth and refulgence
Its pride,
And dallied with the shadows and shades.
I looked back much later but only to see
The sunshine aging, waning, cooling and descending.
As the Sun slipped down the sky
Dragging its outstretched arms along the Earth
I tried pulling it back by one of its last rays.
But that sleek, slippery, shiny ray escaped
And fell off the horizon;
The day was extinguished
This was the time to embrace the dark
And it was all eager to embrace me.
I encase the dark, now, and the dark encases me
I guard the dark, the dark guards me.
I have come to love the dark, and the dark loves me.
So, must you insist on lighting the lamp?
.

(This poem first appeared in Reading Hour)

Cinderella

 

Here you come,
Looking for Cinderella-
The abject doll in distress
Who you must rescue and reinstate;
Transport from one prison to another;
From one prisoner to another;
Driven by mice in a pumpkin cage;
Wrapped in a glitzy dress,
And fitted with squeaky shoes.

 But you are lost and mistaken!
Cinderella is no more here.
She wound up her chores yesterday
And in self-pity, went to sleep,
Crying into her tattered dress,
And praying to the good fairies
For a strong and handsome prince
To look after and pamper her.

 However,
Cinderella got much better
Than what she had asked for
She died when asleep.
She woke up as a lioness
Who fed on her wounds
Prided herself on her might.
Who tore apart hurdles,
To conquer, eloped into the wild.

(This poem first appeared in The Yellow Chair Review)

Wild Flower

 

So you stumbled upon
That wild unruly flower,
Borne out of mystery
And the mysterious forest,
Not heard of and not seen,
Not smelt and not kissed,
Not admired and not loved,
Inebriated with its own fragrance
Which heady and strong for you
Is fragrance nonetheless,
Unaware of its own beauty
Which singular and blinding for you
Is beauty nonetheless.

You found it odd and intriguing
That it did not stare at you
Prudishly from a flower vase,
Vacuously from a picture book,
Obscenely from a bouquet,
Expectantly from a flower bed,
Or sullenly from a wreath;
That it refused your patronage
Or to owe much to you;
That it insisted on openness
To the Sun and the rain.

But you were resolute,
To maneuver and to conquer.
To turn the wild prim and proper,
Fit for your garden of subjects
Not wild and not free,
Not unkempt and not unruly.

And so you brought home
To tame the wild flower
Which you planted sans its wilderness
Hoping to keep only what you like.

But now it runs amok
Ramifying into that same jungle
Bringing down your kingdom.
You rush to hack it before it kills
Your sweet roses and lilies. 

(This poem first appeared in  The Rain, Party & Disaster Society)

About Me

I am Sindhu Verma. I live in Bangalore, India and work in a multinational semiconductor company as a wireless systems engineer. I graduated in electrical engineering from IIT Kharagpur, India. My detailed technical profile can be found here on Linkedin

I love working on technology and have a keen interest in literature and fashion. I write poems and design clothes outside my working hours. 

I created this blog to be able to document and share my poetry, thoughts and artwork concerning things that interest and move me. 

My email ID is sindhu.verma@gmail.com
My Instagram link is https://www.instagram.com/sindhuverma_rs/

Disparity

 

Hello there!
I stare at your pretty clean scrubbed face
Smeared with fragrant oils and cream,
Resplendent with complacency,
Smoothed for lack of struggle.
Won't you stare at mine?
It is caked and caulked with dust and hardship,
My features hidden beneath layers of meekness
My teeth still white but too shy to be bared by a smile.
Nice and immaculately pressed is the skirt you wear.
There is lace on your skirt.
There are embroidered roses on your skirt.
There are buttons on your skirt.
I am wearing a mangy skirt as a skirt,
A mangy skirt tightened around my neck as a shirt,
And a mangy skirt as a headdress
So I don't get too dizzy in the Sun.
What do you have on your fingers?
Precious stones- colored and scintillating.
See how my fingers have hardened into stone.
But of course, they are not at all precious.
How beautiful are the tassels you wear on your hair!
My hair is tangled into dry dirty tassels.
And you wear shiny heeled shoes.
Well, I don't need any for myself
For the soles of my feet are cauterized to numbness
From walking the burning roads, the thorns, the slush.
What do you carry in your large embellished purse?
Sheaves of notes - crisp and unmutilated?
Are they tens or hundreds?
Do you even have notes of a thousand?
And what are you going to buy with them?
More clothes, more shoes, more stones, more lace?
Ice-creams, chocolates, prettier hair and prettier face?
I too have coins, their jingle means hope for today.
I have them in a plastic bag I picked from the trash.
Just a few more coins from the philanthropic, the divine
And I will have earned a stale loaf of bread
Which I will gorge to the last crumb
And then douse with some infected water.
Oh, I see you looking at me too.
But what is the expression on your face?
You are wincing and grimacing.
Why do I repel you so?
You should know I don't like you either.
If I ever get a chance,
I will gouge out the fake flesh from your face.
I will drag you by your beautiful hair out of your beautiful cage.
I will strip you of your pretty clothing, pretty shoes and pretty purse.
And leave you to dry and shrink;
To feel and taste the scorching Sun;
To feel and taste the desertion;
While I will run far far away with my plunder.
But then I know, copiousness will find you again
Through the police and the newspapers and the televisions;
Through the love and the doting and the fretting.
The flood will trickle in and engulf you again.
And you'll be placed in the glass aquarium again.
To be fed and fattened and sated.
Because you are entitled to it.
As for me, even with your clothing and purse and shoes,
I will not taste respect and wholesomeness.
I will be exposed yet again, unclothed, unfed and shriveled.
And so you who grimaces looking at me ,
You who is you without deserving to be you,
I hope you drown in the surfeit
While I perish in the dearth whose child I am. 

(This poem first appeared in Verse-Virtual )

Sport

Let us both play a game today.

Let us each be a sport today.
It need not at all be rational,
Let us just brace ourselves.

Let us both harden our hearts.

Let us both cloud our senses.

We will play with pointed daggers

With which we will etch lines

Dark, serpentine and crooked

Like our morbid tangled thoughts.

We will play with sharp swords

With which along the built barriers

We will cut up lands, rivers and seas

Into pieces we will call mine and yours.

We will then assume positions

Rigid, offensive and unchangeable.

We will hate and clash and fight.

And then with assumed victories and defeats,

We will walk back and farther apart;

Widen lines; etch them ruddier and deeper;

Raise barriers, make them higher and stronger.

Like many games, this will fetch us accolades.

(This poem first appeared in Verse-Virtual )