QUICK LOOK ARTIST Yogesh Wagh

QUICK LOOK

Yogesh Wagh

I am a writer who believes in Shakespeare’s coined phrase “What’s in a name?” (unless the name is written under the poem). I am also a technology student, though I am often strolling around ruins at sunset and framing poems in my mind. My personal expression is done through words and my love for cinema.

Words Spoken

Ever and anon I surmise, That Newton was a poet, And Gravity was a metaphor he used To say an unexceptional sentence like - Earth has no tongue.

Walks and walks, she never talks to peter out.

Sometimes, I desire her semblance; In the dead air two feathers dive, An anthology on Silence authored in my name, And no more tiresome mornings ushered in vain due to numskull efforts for the utterance and being sane.

I reckon in the mirror, Compare no more the hands to the one, Who is loved, Perorates no lie, Spills like leaves and shouldn’t concern.

Talks and talks, the world never walks to peace out.

Survival

The other day, I disliked the monologue from my favorite film. Yesterday, my mother’s tongue rained words of compassion, and I don’t know why - I almost hated them. These days, my plane doesn’t roam around the universes of songs, especially the songs I can derive meaning from. They pass by & smell like discomfort. The lyrics, which I understand, are suspected of witchcraft. The languages in which I think have started to bomb my neural tombstones. No wonder why the letters in my poems look distorted and wear the semblance of thingness. Today, when the sun roars, the train howls, crickets palaver & a dog sings in its foreign vocabulary; this hubbub doesn’t bother me. But, now I’m afraid of flying towards the sun for research, or asking the insects what they’ve been gossiping about. I don’t let that dog lick my brain to nourish it with sense, I’m already tired of running behind a mirage, that denotation of survival.

When It Rains

There around the puddle, playing with mud, Can you see those lads in their rain attire? One, my friend best; to the other, I call sonny, he laughs like the cake cutter from my birthday post on Instagram two years old.

When you don’t, I tell you the story, Of mouth whose lips flap like hummingbird’s pennons taking the flights in expedient yellows. In this consensual perusal, come, I let you intrude on the archeological site of my brain.

Caprice in the power of the gaze, and you argue about a dry leaf on the ground that’s returned to green, flown upwards and married a timber; who’s life to whom is a rebus for you from an undeciphered language. In one frame, Buddha’s rainbow in Tushita and black clouds under the shadows of witchcraft; Now, you pretending to be in the shoes of a therapist, judge bi-spacer disorder of my polar! In your Holmes novel, you seem perished of fame when you give up on those monstrous footprints of the divine; Left, a broken piece of blue Chinese tiles, and right, a testament to deities of love, humanized.

You read all the poems found, and dig for those ulterior. Is it synonymous with the exchange of blood?

Not a phone away, my buddy is phone away. My hummingbird is airborne in a famine. Probably I’ll call those eyes impotent, yours in the back and mine at the fore, before that, Can you tickle my skin to present and fetch me between the deluge of azure and home?

In poetry, I have learned to write my sentences last.

humanized. humanized. humanized. humanized. humanized.