Pygmalion and Galatea

I spent my evening
making a list of all the books
I have to complete,
all the books I started, never ended.

But as the tip of my pencil
scrubs itself feverishly on the paper,
the only thought that haunts my head
is yours, quite feverishly too.

Among the names of
Marquez, Rhys, Bukowski, Sartre, Orwell, Rand, Sexton, Hemmingway,
is not yours.

I admit that I cannot turn you into poetry.
I have tried
to string closely all the
metaphors and abstractions
that existed in my head,
to no avail.

I once asked you,
if you can be poetry and poet,
for poets cannot save us,
but poetry can.

I think I know
the gap between
Pygmalion and Galatea now
for you can be both:
the sculpture and the sculptor,
the one in the making and the one already made,
the one I couldn’t complete and the one I did.

-Taru Gupta

I wrote this poem a few nights back, a night after I made a list of all the books I never finished writing. That action drove a domino effect and ended up with me appreciating my lover, for he is someone I did not just leave midway.

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268 Kilometers

I have seen you
evolve in the corners
of my mind,
held you in my arms
as you slowly grew and then grew again.

I have poured myself
a glass
every time
a spec of your detail changed.

I have moulded and shifted
in my bed,
crouched in my seat,
held my neck closer to the speaker
of my phone
every time
a feather turned over.

I have seen you
move from
a brooding male,
thinking himself irresistible
to the opposite sex,
to a child shivering in
his mother’s warm embrace
at 4 in the morning,
to a father who holds my hand
until I fall asleep.

And every damn time,
I pour myself a drink,
thinking, perhaps,
your dreamy phases
are a thread of my drunken reality,
perhaps, my dreaming reality,
or perhaps, nothing at all.
Nothing more than
soot, dust, cement, half-dead trees,
sunrise and sunsets,
the colour orange and green,
and everything in between
268 kilometres.

-Taru Gupta

For once, I did not write poetry out of my own misery. My muse keeps shocking me with self-discovery. First, I write him a poem on jealousy and now I wrote him a semi-sad, appreciation poem. I won’t call it a love poem, but perhaps an admiration piece? Who knows? This one for the person who is separated by 268 km, but united by everything else.

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The sight of her
carves my guts out,
hold my esophagus tight
and makes the veins in my wrist dance
to the sound of my jealousy.

For once, I resonate with the
succulents in my room,
the ones I don’t water
but still shine boastfully green.

I feel as if I am swallowing green,
or perhaps, it is accumulated in my
tough, knotted throat,
inching towards the opening of my mouth,
yearning to spill out of me.

When I told you,
‘I would only ever paint you out of horror’,
the colours that I assumed were,
red, purple, orange, black,
for they represent you and me;
little did I know
that I would begin
immortalizing you in green,
a colour just as primary as the rest,
but just as undiscovered as gray and me.

-Taru Gupta

This is the first time I wrote a poem about jealousy for I never thought I was capable of feeling attachment, much less jealousy.

It makes me want to crawl out of my skin right now, I hate it. But I guess the best way for me to accept it is to share it.

So, here is a poem about jealousy. It is about a guy who was more orange than any other colour, but I wrote him in green ink.

If you like this poem, please like, share, comment your thoughts and follow my blog for more.



I call it Art

There is something terrifying
about pale, disinfected walls.
So, I spend my free time
colouring it black and red,
rubbing the wax off the crayons
to fill out the void in the wall,
to perhaps, transfer some of my chaos
into it.

There is something choking
about silence.
So, I spend my walking hours
creating noise.

I like to call it art.
The click-click
of my heels,
the one’s that
turn my feet blue and red
the very night.
The thump. thump.
the wavering of my breath,
the tremble of my hand,
and the noises inside my head.

I was route taught,
it’s better to feel pain
than nothing
so now I take my dad’s razor
and shred the blank canvas into pieces.
and call it Art.

-Taru Gupta.

This was my snip off on the quote “It’s better to feel pain than nothing at all”. Tell me in the comment section what you think about it!

Thank you for reading. Please like, share, comment your thoughts and follow my blog for more poetry!





Finding Poetry

“Step out of your skin to find poetry.”

I have been going around for weeks
jumping puddles, with no care of the path I follow.

I have seen sunrise merge into sunset,
red, yellow and blue melting every day;
felt the breeze kiss my cheeks,
thunder clean my sins,
and rain wash me away.

I have been writing on and on
about unrequited lust,
killing my hatred with
an arrow dipped in vodka and salt,
trying to find poetry in people,
sending kisses without a full stop.

But my notebook is empty,
so are my sheets and my inbox.

My hours echo with cacophony,
my ears ring with silence,
as time plays the fool on me
and passes away
and I sit and listen.

-Taru Gupta

Hey! I have no excuse for not posting but that I was simply out of content. This piece is fictional but inspired by a man who recently told me “Taru, stories are found when you step out of your comfort zone”.

Thank you so much for reading. Please like, share, comment your thoughts and follow my blog for more poetry.




She stands in the hurricane eye,
he reaches inwards through
the slapping winds,
gushing water,
and some dust.

She lives in stand-still,
time hauled.
He walks in between breaths,
that even his compass loses sanity.

For him,
she is in the eye of disaster,
for her,
he is just in the making.

-Taru Gupta

So, this one is basically about how sometimes you have to go through a lot of crap in order to finally understand things and be at peace, like the analogy of hurricane and its eye (with the latter being peaceful)

I hope you liked my poem. Please like, share, comment your thoughts and follow my blog for more poetry.