I was reading a book
I was Indulging the smell of its old pages
my imagination was ignited
as I ate every mere word it has
my eyes were healed
my mind was quenched
I was not me when I was walking the journey
and it’s a story that I hoped would never end
its covers conceal fragility
and the book sheltered me from reality
I was focused
I was bound to the book

lots of things had happened
and I was unaware
it was already afternoon
the flowers poured the summer’s snow
fogs devoured the pearls of the ocean
trees have lost all of its leaves
the bookshelf fell and got broken
my coffee became cold
and many more had happened
everything happened
I did not know
I was too busy
I was reading a book
and that book was you

I regard my attraction to language as an affair,
as a withstanding relation,
a product of indecorous communication.
This devotion has demanded a life of its own,
accepting my whole as its proxy.
Others won't understand this affinity.
They aren't familiar with the curving lilt of a domestic tongue,
Nor the taste of a verse fermented in the mouths of one's ancestors,
Surely not the stuttering moans of a mother dialect,
Yet the sharp sting of a jagged vernacular,
or the mastery and art behind the articulation of a single utterance.
This discourse developed over time,
I required maturation and growing before my notions aligned.
I felt eager upon observing the pervasive movements of great text
Which delivered a high known greater than ***.
It is true that I contemplated profoundly first,
before committing my desire and will to the whole of verse.
But now that my diction reflects the appeal of great literature and enamoring fiction
I couldn't be more satisfied.

If you were a glass of scotch,sans soda
sparkling like gem stones on rocky ice
or
A tiny shot of tequila,besieged
in a castle of glass,pleading
not guilty through out,
I could quaff you down
my parched throat, like
an elixir,stung
by short lived fearless wisdom.

But you are not.

You are a castle
amidst the infinite sea,
not made of glass,
concocted in layers,
masking the answers,to questions
i could never ask,
buoyant by wisdom hidden in your pillars,
resplendent by your tall embossed walls, with figures,
an index of its sagacity,
chandeliers hanging like words of all kinds,
enlightening the castle at its pilgrims appeal,with
right words,
wrong words,
sensitive words
and
insensitive ones,
So many words.

And I too wish to feel your embossed skin
through my fingertips,
with each flip,
gaining access to the your light.

I wish to stay afloat with you,
on your paras  undulating
like sea waves of a quiet night,waiting
for an eternal dawn of wisdom.

-Pallavi Goswami

You could be my glass of scotch,sans soda
sparkling like gem stones on rocky ice
or
A tiny shot of tequila,besieged
in a castle of glass,pleading
not guilty through out
and
I could quaff you down
my parched throat, like
an elixir,
stung by fearless wisdom ,but
just for tonight.

So, let me drink
you through words,
one at a time
   right words,
     wrong words,
         sensitive words
    and
   insensitive ones,
So many words.

So, let me taste
you through my fingertips,
taking down to you mine
through each flip, like
a token of appreciation, against
generosity bestowed,
none plundered.

So, let me drown
into paras, undulating
like sea waves, on seeing full moon.

Let me sink,and
get high on them, but
Forever!.

-Pallavi Goswami

Was a man who believed
To read was to pray
The sound, the smell, the touch
Of books, truly made his day.

"I'll collect books," he thought
"To read to my hearts content."
And so he did, filling chests
In pursuit of his intent.

He bought and he brought
He stocked and he stored.
Reading forgotten, collecting
Meant so much more.

"Books so countless
Their stacks so tall
I would not live," he'd say
"To read them all!"

It's funny how fate works
The man's wish came true.
But not quite so fantastic
As the dreams he drew.

The books he collected
In his bibliophilic lust,
The termites left him naught
But some dunes of dust.

this is how i travel,
with a paperback clung to
my chest, fingers wrapped 'round
like birthday gift ribbons

i sail on the syllables,
the music they make.
how many homes i have,
nestled in the spaces
between paragraphs and phrases.
each chapter an
island
where i'm somebody
else

this is how i learn,
how i journey -
between pages
and tales.

do not come to
find me

She is not merely a bookworm
She does not read for pleasure
She reads to survive
She reads to distract herself
She reads to thrive
Her words do not collect dust upon the shelf.
She is a devour-er of books
Ink drips from her lips as she tries to
Contain the words that she bleeds
She exhales chaotic eloquence
Her tongue wrestles to wrap around words more
consumed than heard
Her mind races to find that one perfect
syllable to turn her phrase from
biting and bitter to
savory yet sarcastic
Her smirk is merely a collapsing floodgate
Words will soon flood free
Watch her eyes, you'll see
She is not merely a bookworm

perhaps
if there were spaces
     gaps left in the english language

places meant for characters left to be invented

maybe
if there were phrases
     and definitions
yet to be coined

i could finally tell the whole truth
about me
     and the monsters in my head