The Bruised Sea

 

They try to paint you, they try to sketch you

An expanse of blue, under the sun

And then there is me, I try to capture you

You have cast a spell; it cannot be done

For I am now lost, in some mighty wave

Which comes and sweeps my feet

Listening to the howl of the wind and the wave

My mind is lost in your rhythmic beat

For you are my forever muse

The one which flows in my song

The painters did capture all your hues

But only I watched you all day long

Only I did notice those broken shells

Which you brought to the shore

Only I escaped from your spells

To notice the pain that you bore

You beckoned me, nudging on my feet

And then I realized that you were bruised

But without those shells you were incomplete

So to leave them behind, you simply refused

Well, in a way I am bruised too

These memories are now a part of me

So I just peep into the mirror blue

And in you, I see a part of me.

Niharika Prasad

समुद्र और मैं

 

मैं किनारे पर खड़ी, तुम्हारा इंतज़ार करती हूँ,

अपनी कविताओं में तुम्हें ही याद करती हूँ।

​उन्हें लगता कि तुम कोई काल्पनिक शक्स हो,

पर तुम ही तो मेरी सबसे सच्ची हकीकत हो।

​रेत के बीच धंस रही हैं पांव की उंगलियां,

पर तू आया और फिर यूं ही चल दिया।

​मां पूछती थी छुट्टियों में, इस बार कहां जाना है,

मैं बोलती, वही तो, जहां समुद्र का किनारा है।

​तुम्हारी गोद से नन्हे सीपों को चुनती,

फिर उनको पिरो कर एक सुंदर माला बनाती।

​बचपन की यादें भी तुमसे जुड़ी हैं,

मेरे बालों को छेड़ना, यह तेरी नखट अदा है।

​तुम्हारे ठंडे शीतल पानी में सारे गम भूल जाऊं,

तुम्हारी ही ओर खिंची चली आऊं।

​किसी और की जुदाई मन को उतना विचलित नहीं करती,

पर तेरे लहरों के पीछे सरकने से, एक घबराहट मचती।

​तेरा और मेरा रिश्ता उनको कैसे समझाऊं,

शायर का मन है, उन्हें क्या क्या समझाऊं।

​तेरी लहरों के साए में मैं चैन से सो जाऊं,

इस पत्थर दिल दुनिया से दूर बस तुझमें खो जाऊं।

​— निहारिका प्रसाद

The Past

 

I layer many memories, neatly stored
At the bottom of my heart,
Pushing them down, away from sight,
So they don't tear me apart.

So that they don't climb up its walls,
And envenom my blood,
So that they don't keep pounding,
Or become a raging flood.

Most days, they are merciful
Like the grass beneath my feet,
Not hurting, but gently pricking,
With every heartbeat.

And yet I would not bury them,
But rather, choose to embalm,
Until the day I can finally
Find my peace and calm.

For these are what make us human
Our mistakes, and all the past,
And these are what make me a poet,
And make my verses last.

                                                                                                                       Niharika Prasad

My Love

 

​When they speak of love, I think of you.

They don’t believe me—they think I go to the coast

To meet a person, to find a hand to hold.

They stand with their backs to you,

Clicking pictures with you as a background.

But to me, you are not the background.

You are my muse.

​I have loved you since I was a child.

You and I are the same:

Wild, shifting, restless.

We cannot stay still.

They ask, "How can you love something that isn't alive?"

But to me, you are more alive than anything.

​You never bore me.

In the rosy morning, you are calm and quiet.

Under the moonlight, you are fierce and wild.

Sometimes you touch me with a soft caress,

Other times you challenge me with your mighty waves.

This push and pull—is what keeps our love fresh.

​They think you are just a metaphor in my poems.

How do I explain that I really love you?

Drag me into your depths until I forget the world.

And when I am gone, let my ashes be thrown into your water.

So that I may finally, truly, be free.