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Best Poems Written by Sandeep Kulshrestha

Below are the all-time best Sandeep Kulshrestha poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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A Lady In a Red Dress

Her Red coloured dress resembled
a Venetian house
which lay besides the gondola
in an unrealized dream
as the Gondola retreated
through the hazy eyes of the canal
the house kept on getting bigger
painting one part of the lake 
with a mixed coating of 
the red
and the green accumulated piece
of the ubiquitous waters
but still red was the colour
green was the envy

she was herself
with the poets
while a poet
let one more dream die

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Croissant

crispiness of the aroma
churlishness of butter, hidden flavours
of its own fragrance
out of the oven
into my mouth
concealing my pleasure
sinking into the soft cushions of the nibbled layers
the unsuspected tongue
relishing it
with a fervent cup of
hot tea
on a post rainy day
sunny, half dry and half wet
translucent doors of the bakery
the beam of the sun
enhancing the memoirs of the baked dishes
as the aroma reaches the nose
and the body
an autumn morning
page 3 rumors of affairs
bites and bites of bites

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Platonic Lust

It is self tormenting
and arguably a case of poetic voyeurism
I do not like muses
I like them closer than that
no definition, just being there
the style, the perfume
and art of a persona
sitting next to me, talking
while I, for a brief span of a second
close my eyes and reopen
in an intellectual daze

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Wheat Cronicles

The first person who grew wheat
would have been called “wheat”
and hence the local chieftain and village folks
would have given a nomenclature
to his discovery,
honoring it with his name
it would have been his name
or something rhyming with it
like “cheat”, “heat” or “eat”
or perhaps “treat”
there was probably someone called “gehu”
in India, who grew this grain
and there is a resembling treatise of words
“gay hun” (I am gay) proclaiming sexual choice
giving it a contemporary feel
of an alternative orientation 
were they different people who grew it
at the same time, in the different parts of the world?
was it really Mr. Wheat
Or el trigo, blé or weizen
Spanish, French or German
was the wandering original Mr. Wheat
or cheat or heat or the Russian pshenitsy
who propagated this and we missed his chronicles?
and we missed his chronicle of travels
and basic grassroots experiences
of the genesis of rotis and cakes
of flavor stimulants, of bakes
and of the grass of wheat
for a figure conscious succulent lass
wheat and all its ontology
and the first one’s ecstasy
whosoever it was
had a higher calling
than the current day diminution

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My Seven Girlfriends

Out of my seven girlfriends
Six and a half are married
one is conscientiously married
to her inner, juxtaposed situation
the second is married to the innuendos
of a rat race,
sitting all day without a back rest
even on a gloomy dark clouds day
the third has chosen a man
to quench her hunger of joint fallacies
of anger, of greed, of plastic smiles
the fourth has married the contours 
of self obsessed melancholic constructs
fifth is an abstract piece of broken clay
married to her enigma, which shows in her gaze    
the sixth is on an eclectic bond
with her own split self,
a merger of effervescent intellect and a cosmic zombie  
the first half of the seventh is unmarried
lives that part as a quintessential single,
open, vulnerable, desolate, creative
the second half is married
to her traverse past
which insulates her from future decadence

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Pangs of Loneliness At the Grande Elevator Company

The city doesn’t need any elevators
Or escalators or anything to push people up
There are no clouds in this brightened city
no bourgeoisie emancipation, no atypical beauty
silicon bosoms out on the overstretched skies
mechanical tirades of the undiluted selves 
the cubicles at Grande elevators are full of
lowered shallow spaces of begotten lies
should the company now start manufacturing soaps?
or narcissistic pleasures of the condescending physical realm
and illegal sex tapes with real orgasms?
But would any of these have any upsurge
On the emotionless lonely workers
who have thrown people up all this while
keeping a low profile in this profane job
the crowded elevators do not inspire any orgy
or clichéd electricity failure induced seductions
there are just too many of them (not the orgies!!)
the office of Grande, meaning big and great and great as desolate
is densely illuminated with the low intensity money saver bulbs
waiting to die their organic death as they are un-switchable 
the products, by the way, are now “auto maintained”
the elevator which doesn't work well
changes itself
the one which is an escapist shoots itself up,
beyond the last floor, turning into precarious ash
the loneliness in the office, which is on the ground floor
is only equal to a fugitive bird
without a pinch of shelter in this extended, tall, 
gyrating and syrupy city

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Tempting

grains of dew
forming a softening glaze
falling tediously
from your hairline
freshly stocked 
unabashed stare of longing

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It Has Taken a Phenomenal While

It has taken a phenomenal while
or has it?
apparently I have learnt to live my life
or have I?
whatever days I encompass
or nights I rediscover
I presume that I may now live a life
originally, authentically, my own 

Now I have started to decode
what superlative pain means
and what is the real nemesis of happiness
both as people say have the similar threats
we have to accept them both, take them into ours stride,
move on magically, really magically
not altered by thoughts of deceit or defeat

It has taken a phenomenal while
or has it?
apparently I have learnt to live my life
or have I?
whatever days I encompass
or nights I rediscover
I presume that I may now live a life
originally, authentically, my own 
without wet tears and clandestine fears
I am learning to live a life

Now I am trying to decipher
who are the people whom I should be close to
those who may challenge my status quo?
or those who put me on a narcissistic joyous trance-like state
or those few who philosophically argue
that this life is a carriage of sorts, moving on
going on, slow and steady, sometimes faster than a train

If someone has a story to share
of a blurred yet emotionally charged heartwarming past
I am willing to listen
If it makes me shed tears of elation
recalling my nothingness 
hearts embraced by hearts
in a graphic dream
I will move on, embracing these stories
move on magically, really magically
not altered by thoughts of deceit or defeat

It has taken a phenomenal while
or has it?
apparently I have learnt to live my life
or have I?
whatever days I encompass
or nights I rediscover
I presume that I may now live a life
originally, authentically, my own

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The Missing Link

The suburban forest
of dust and fumes
unique species of zombies
in endless love
with their follies

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That Smile

Sparkled kindness
benevolent serendipity 
sordid eloquence
torched succulence
shimmering shift
candid concupiscence