Photo by Inja Pavlić on Unsplash


poem: Noise of life


The last autumn leaf now falling 

               And drifting towards alien lands, 

Barren boughs of the maple tree 

               Shivering in the wind’s cold clasp, 

Besotted moths still chasing flames, 

               Days seeking nights pursuing days, 

Man-made motors moving everywhere, 

               People searching for nothingness, 

And even you, moving on now, 

               Away from the canvas we dreamt! 


Through windows you left open, I see, 

               The universe is moving, 

Parading this motion in each whit 

               Of matter in its vast kingdom, 

Prodding me to unfreeze my soul 

               At the edge of this cliff of pain 

And let it fall, thunderously roar 

               For every whit of matter here 

To listen, celebrate and dance to 

               The sheer noise of my life, again!




poem: Bloom


Just like that 

You set me free. 

In a snap. 

No scarred iron bars, 

No defaced walls, 

No tired, muted chains, 

No maimed locks. 

None of that coldness, 

That throbbing silence 

That hurt us both. 

No more drama 

No more farcical struggles. 

You gave me 

What I always wanted, 

Dreamed, sought after. 

Freedom. It’s here now 

In full bloom. 


I inhale it all – 

Clear blue skies, 

A smiling Santa-like sun, 

White feathered wings, 

An always perfect breeze, 

All gardens in bloom 

In all seasons. 

Yet, something’s amiss here. 

In this wallpaper 

Ready to rip anytime 

With one touch 

Of a famished hand, 

Like it hides 

A void bigger than 

What we carried. 


I make no movement. 

I still rationalize, 

Hush the vociferous heart, 

And explore directions. 

You are not around 

To seek answers. 

Standing in the middle 

Of infinite space, 

I begin to imagine 

Iron bars, walls… 

And once in bloom, 

These past confines, 

Life, a habit, 

Sneaks back to me.





poem: A Soul’s Wandering


Have you seen me? 


I haven’t returned since we met 

To this home of intricately arranged 

Beams of bones and walls of flesh, 

Artfully done decor of fake smiles, 

Warm civilities and a scent of life, 

State-of-the-art automatons placed 

To sustain the de rigueur chore of living, 

And a leading-edge fog screen that 

Hides the cluttered emptiness inside. 

The home that I inhabited for so long 

Is still here where it always has been, 

Within the fences I built and mended, 

But I am missing now, since we met. 


Have you seen me? 


It was that usual, intoxicated evening. 

Standing on the terrace of my home, 

I was, as is my wont, looking at the star 

That hides behind a thin sheet of cloud, 

Expecting it to throw itself as a lightning, 

Be the spark my dark home and I need, 

It was then I saw you – the star, the spark, 

With hair dyed in the orange of sunset, 

Eyes that seemed to hold the holy grail 

Of all that I can ever need and more, 

And a grace that seemed to permeate 

And engulf the universe spontaneously! 

It was then I was last seen, when we met. 


Have you seen me? 


You are the ocean; you are the sky – 

I must have fallen into the depths 

Where you hide so many worlds, unknown 

To those who only seek what meets the eye, 

Where you chisel the spirits of the to-be born, 

Or I must have lost myself in the heights 

Where you shelter and provide wings 

To those that are broken and yearn to fly 

Across the rainbows of your embrace! 


Have you seen me? 


The cracks in my home are seeking attention, 

The emptiness is beginning to leak, 

A case of missing person is spreading. 

You need to fish me out from the depths 

with the net of your eyes, 

Or pull me back from the heights 

with the touch of your fingers, 

Breathe me back into my home, 

Or allow me to stay inside you forever 

And let this futile home fade away! 


Will you return me or hide me within you? 

The choice was never mine.





Mugu Ganesan is an enterprise operations consultant and an emerging poet based out of Minneapolis, Minnesota. He writes poetry in English and Urdu. He has attended poetry classes at The Loft Literary Center, taken acting classes at The Guthrie Theatre in Minneapolis and has been a portrait photographer. Through his words, Mugu strives to express all that comes with being human, based on his life experiences across cultures, continents and languages.