Month: August 2017

A Dance of Six Legs


Dance of Six legs

A grey lit room one gloomy afternoon witnessed the colors it never had before,
The dance of six legs, three hips, four lips and two more.

White outlines in this silhouette met and glistened each other,
His hip against her perfect bottom and her lips between the legs of another.

The rains blew hail outside, in here blew the breaths of bliss;
As she unearthed her face from between the thighs and gave the other girl a kiss.

The first girl, a sitar player, figured her hands could do more amazing things;
Played the other one and the boy like she knew her Malhar strings.

She had taken under her wings all that the dark skies would;
Pouring down on blistered plains with all madness she could.

Never thought under her shy hide lived a woman so brazen and free;
He wanted to lay down and let her reign and so did she.

The other girl, a percussionist, held back a bit, and was herself appalled;
Never thought she’d skip such beats in a situation she craved the most of all.

Like the hail, she scattered, while being explored by the sitarist’s tongue;
Like cold, hardened raindrops she melted, but by the fears of usual distrust she hung.

There was hardly any of her’s out of all the clothing lying around the bed;
The boy and the sitarist dissolved her worries as they placed their mouths on her bohemian breasts.

To both of them the boy in his cloudy voice sang;
His skin rubbed all over them and the girls, like wine glasses, rang.

The music of this monsoon was followed by an unknown, comforting heat;
And the sun did set, vibrantly colored and lukewarm, under one moist sheet.

poem by Deven

artwork by @alphachanneling



जाने  कितने  लफ्ज़  गुज़र  गए  हैं  लबो  से,  उड़ती  फ़िज़ा  पे  बंधे;

 जाने  कितने  लफ्ज़  खर्च  हुए  हैं  बेफ़िज़ूली  रुसवाइयों  में  लिपटे।

कई  तो  बस  बेहे  गए  ज़ख्मो  से, नफरतों  के  ज़लज़ले  तले;

पास  है  मेरे  बस  चंद  बाकि, नज़रबंद  सीने  में  खिले।

कानों  की  खोल  खिड़कि  देख  रहे  हैं  अल्फाज़ो  का  तमाशा;

घुटके  मुझ ही  में  गूँज  रहे  हैं  मर्ज़ों  से  मेरे  मिलके।

कभी  उतरते  थे  कलम  से,  मुझे  मुक्त  कर;

मगर  अब  क़ैद  मुझी  में,  सर्द  मज़ारों से  बिछे  हैं।

कागज़  के  लिये  बुने  नज़्म  कई,  मेरी  गेहेराइयों  में  ज़प्त;

जुबां  की  शमशीरों  से  कट  मरे  हैं।