We find ourselves
hidden in traces of poetry
In the sentences that break into
rhyme schemes—
of alphabets and letters that bear
similes, antonyms, and the like
assembling an array of emotions
which we often conceal otherwise

We find ourselves
in storybooks, songs, letters
which we secretly write to a lover
dreaming of an astral paradise;
As we float beyond space and terrain
claiming affections we boldy accept beyond reasons

We find ourselves
amidst changing seasons
As we warm ourselves from the winters of a severe unforgiving cold;
In blankets that are wrapped and rolled
To cushion our bones,
for them not to crumble
for them not to fall

We find ourselves
in accepting discomforts that lie
letting go of fetters which are shackled in chains;
lamenting over suffers that exist in reality and pain
That slide, pour, slither
As we recuperate from the delgue of a harshest monsoon rain

We find ourselves enclosed in covers;
hiding appearances of who we really are,
to save us from the prickling heat of a summer
As we change to acclimate,
to every surrounding that is made
We blend in most seasons
To camaflaouge in nature’s weather
Be it sumner, winter or rain

We find ourselves in pictures;
that we draw, paint , rummage
through shades found in squares of a colored palette;
To assembling vivid memories in frames
for us to remember, reside by
We stroke, spew and brush paints
on a bare white canvas;
Resembling those of our inhibitions that weave our vulnerable soul
In this man-made madly world,
We find ourselves,
wanting to feel anything,
something we can barely explain.

– Shwetak Kher



Image source: Pinterest

Walk me through,
a boulevard of unbroken dreams,
cradle me in thoughts of hope
Unravel me to encumber,
courage that must unfold

Let me now;
live through this happy moment
that my mind converges to fixiate upon;
The salty water gushes at my feet
I peer to see reflections of happy moments that gather—
in depths, hollows they come to meet

Heading towards mountains that echo my wraith,
I hear my name being called,
as they beckon me fondly to embrace dreams I’ve dared
In nature’s whispers they halt,
in reverberated tones
midst a peculiar silence I now know
it surfaces a happiness I’ve hardly known

My eyes fall upon on a marigold flower
to awaken an optimism that never tears
in yellowish-golden streams
It glows in my face to emit rays
beaming to upift my mind,
To sprint in happy hours that lay
in grasslands, meadows
uncovered with trials
Do I find myself
loitering, lingering over hours that stray
In stillness,
they engulf my mind to this momentarily headed happy hour
I willfully embrace

We build our life around a capsule of moments we wish to inherit or ponder
We breathe in moments,
that we often cherish or escape
And, so to say,
We all live in our moments—
both happy, sad or so
momentary bits of life,
those of which we shall ever know!

A clipped happy moment this is:
I now feel the grass stubble tickle my back,
In serenity, I lay
playing to the rhythmic beat of the winds,
as my mind tapes to plug its singing ears
over a mixed record of feelings
Consuming me as a whole
I sweetly savour my body, skin
to ablution from afflictions;
I must now negate from

to make this be, a happy moment of mine
I cling onto this haven
for the minutes I’ve encountered,
Bottled in this happy hour
I churn,
in a whirlwind of days I treasure
And, so I stay,
Just for a little longer
as I slowly, unwillingly,
depart with every minute
from this finite happy moment of mine.

– Shweta Kher


We find words
to embark upon love, affinity,
to familiarize ourselves over grief, empathy
A pair of eyes see and a heart that resounds
feelings felt;emotions abound

Must you use them words to sing songs
To listen; whilst we wail our hearts’ to cries
tearing us from infatuation, indignation
Must you use them words to take pleasures, the delightful things you wish to see
To hark; whilst our joys emanate
laughs and chuckles

Amusing to be, astonishingly
like the paper trails of journeys left behind
Found in our footprints,
embossed on terrain—weighed by the soles of the walks we lead

Words— spoken, soft, written, aloud
(gestures even)
Strangely making their ways to communicate Succinct in their voices, enough,
to interpret even the feeble noises made: Of a gallery or a crowd
even those remote to the indistinct chatter
Will and must you use them words?
Describing all that it takes

Hidden in their plain sight
they, connect on a given meaning;
a certain amalgamation of our prescribed feelings;
Exposing devices of our heart and mind
tied by one’s own sentiments in clear,
do they find ways oddly enough
to frown, jeer and cheer

To dance to a paramour’s serenade,
cry over a ballad of heart-broken tales
To revolt, reprimand, reverberate,
leading a cacaphony of sounds made

To contemplations of life, love, wisdom
imparting to cherish and wish them well
In verbatim; written, spoken they dwell
All expressing in words,
for them to be desired
for them to be conveyed

Jillion from varied parts of a region,
forming dialects, discourses even
No scarcity will you find!
Rather cultivated in our roots,
in cultures that we sow—
finding them in corners and pockets of our world
all in unique different ways
In phrases, syllables;
comprised of their components
Distinguishing characters,
analoguous to their intentions
Stitched, sewn, solidifying identities
In amass, do they wealth to accumulate
to contain, confine similar meanings.

– Shweta Kher


I drizzle in my ink to write you
words that are vying for sentences; they go awry
The rain stops and beckons me
for a splash and little play
I go outside leaving the ink behind
The felt-tipped ink becomes dry
leaving cracks to my blue blooded pen
In paper they leave a swirl of amorphous clumps;
I peer to look what’s written inside
only to find us intertwined,
appearing in pages of smeared ink.

– Shweta Kher


I came to love myself,
over the disappointments taught to me,
over beliefs and faiths admonished by life;
a sinister of revelations brought to me

I came to love myself,
in search and discoveries of new callings
the exclaimed use of passion
Where I found them to be—
hidden in books and poetry,
the picturesque orange tinted sky,
flowered seasons and roads that radiate;
from an autumn’s fall on its leaves

I came to love myself
to take delight in places I visited;
basking in nature’s astound beauty
the people I observed at restaurants, waiting for tables;
clattering plates and dishes,
serving and savouring taste buds to form exquisite flavours
Realising in entirety,
Self fulfillment—an unrealistic expectation
is never to be achieved and dreamed

I came to love myself
Last but not the least—
in undefining yourself,
reconstructing spaces,
Demolishing built dreams
To fulfilling just a day; over a simple survival’s guide
For self love,
is a matter of loving yourself
in the ways contrived in mind.

– Shweta Kher


The inferno within my heart pervades over the love letters you write for me,
In a cauldron of smelting pot they broil, figments of my mind I give to you
Stirring to make up ingredients;
I taste of you

Tracing black pen’s ink,
they outline words of endearment—
In hushed voices, they wrap me
in woven subconscious-dreams,
that are often made of you and me

Your letters,
fissure inhibitions in my mind and conquer to titillate me
over words that are now slightly run over
Making their search,
to find me at my lowest;
My mind travels to where your letters take me

Surrounded by an island, enclosed,
Stranded by you and your dead promises; to that of a magician’s delusional entice
You leave me enchanted with your letters,
melting my heart to its lowest
You stay,
as I break into this beautiful memory you once gave me

Chiding an uproar of tumultuous wave to silence;
that ripples chaos by the ocean
The inferno within my heart conflagrates
Oh, what a rebel this heart can be

Ruffed by its edges— is the shoreline,
Smooth crippled pages are its feet
I preserve your letters,
placing in an ornate wooden box of things I hold onto;
Agile in their weight and sense of you
Pledging them forever to stay and be.
– Shweta Kher


I am a puppet of my own mind
Tilting me left and right as it chooses to sway
It conspires to take over thoughts of distraught and distress
those of which, I can never flay

Implanting sleeplessness
It conflicts me with resolute absoluteness—
To conjure and ploy a stratagem
making me a docile host in my own body
for a place to harbor its stay

It refuses to shun and cease provocation
one, which is its favorite occupation
Diabolical in nature,
it guiles my mind to this trickery
to force myself upon thoughts which won’t give away

You know this to be a playful game,
in this so called charade, which you and I play
Each time, I let you win
to lark in this dalliance with speculations you enjoyably concoct and create

I am a puppet of my own mind,
for your amusement I participate
in this farce you and I stage
I comply and cede
to your over thinking
letting you triumph in this victory of a tug-of war
which, you I and wrestle for days

– Shweta Kher