Sajal Choudhary

I tell stories

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Tag: poem (page 1 of 2)

#82 in an year of mornings


Birth, death and everything in between


Birth, and death,
Death, and birth,
Are either two ends of a line,
Or, two points in a never-ending circle.
Now way to know, to be sure.
After all none have come back,
From the great end.

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They killed some more men today


They killed some more men today,
At a place where men kneel,
To gods, looking down at men.
They killed some more men today,
With a gun, a bomb, and a knife,
There was a man, a woman, and a child.
They killed some more men today,
They said it was for the good cause,
Their cause. Their fight. Their war.
They killed some more men today.
They killed some more men today.

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Where we love


The past, is like ink on paper.
Present. Permanent. Persistent.
The thoughts I’d had then,
Feel like a different universe now.
A universe in which you would have been,
In love with your work, and I would have been,
Close to you, in your city.
But that’s what it is. A universe,
In which I don’t exist.

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You ask me not to imagine,
You ask me not to build,
Castles of glass, and sand.
You are afraid of what they do to me.
What they make me do.
You’re right. In parts.

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Sometimes, I wish


Painter and his muse

Sometimes, I wish I were a painter,
And not a poet,
So that I had a better reason,
To sit, and stare,
To have you, sitting across from me.

You’d be my muse,
As you are now,
But not just in my head,
You’d be out there,
Physically, in front on me,
And I’d faint creation.

Sometimes, I wish I were a painter,
And not a poet.
Sometimes, I wish I were a painter,
And not a poet.

Why build walls?


We build walls.
Bricks. Cement. Slug.
We build walls,
Strong, high, menacing,
Forbidding any to breach,
Enter our hearts,
And minds, and souls.
When in need,
We go deeper,
Inside the shell.
Do you know,
Why we do that?
Why we trust us,
More than others?
More than those,
Who love us, care for us?
It’s fear. I think. Fear.

Washed lands


Washed lands, moist soil…

There is on an average one poem that I write each day. That, gives me at least one thing to post each day here. Come to think of it, that’s a good way to manage post a day.

On that note, here’s one I wrote yesterday, as it rained outside, and I sat slaving the day away inside the building, the cubicles.

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Who am I to you?


What am I to you?
Who are you to me?
These are the questions.
Questions without ends.
Beginnings, or otherwise.
Infinite. Parallel. Never-ending.
The who, the what of us.

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I hold you

I hold you, close to me.
I push you, shove you, into the wall.
I touch you, my hands on your hips.
I kiss you, on your neck.
I am intoxicated, with you.
I am on fire, so are you.

I undo your dress,
The little zip at the back,
I pull it all the way down,
I slide my hands in, probing, touching,
You are warm, soft, a treat to hold.
Your dress falls! To the ground.
You blush, step out of it.

We look at each other,
Our eyes meet, but don’t.
I ask, you say yes.
I kiss you, this time on your lips.
The fire! It grows. I think I’ll faint.
I am high! On you.

I hold you, you hold me,
The kiss continues.
The roles have reversed now.
You’ve shoved me, into the wall.
I don’t protest. I like where I am.
At your mercy!
I play with your hair. We dance!

You guide me, I guide you, till,
We are both in the bed, under the sheets,
I look at you, again, for the umpteenth time,
And I realize how lucky I am,
I see how magical the night is!

We take it slow,
One step at a time,
I grow in you, I go in you,
You hold me, and moan and writhe,
I feel happy, I feel pride,
We keep going, till we know ecstasy,
And then we sleep, like babies,
With not a thought, or care for the whole wide world.