Poem: Resuscitating a Corpse

So, this thing called love is dead, while I am still alive. So, what is the point of seeking immortality? Yet, I am trying to resuscitate a corpse, called love.

Poem: Resuscitating a Corpse

Image Kelly from pixabay

If I thought —
My love would last
Beyond my lifetime
I was mistaken

A love that is not loved back
Is a once-worshipped deity
That turned into stone
Or a corpse that never lived

If I wrote about love
Then it meant heartbeats
A sign of life somewhere
Somewhere, yet beating

The autumn leaves turn green
A whittled flower blossoms again
Silence turns into melody
Deserts turn into meadows

But if it was dead for good
What is the point of immortality
Yet, I shall write as long as I live
Call it, resuscitating a corpse.

There is always a dawn
After this love is gone
Call it the first day of the afterlife
That my words shall live to see.

~Ashok Subramanian © 2025

This poem produced an inevitable response from my friend Priya Patel.

Priya: Love is never dead; it beats well into a memory that never fades, a scar that reminds you that you once lived!

Inspired by my friend Ashok Subramanian

Poem: Memories of a Heartbeat

I’ve seen the many shapes
of the way you love,
your many heartbeats;
even the beats that went unheard
I wonder, however
if they are truly just beating
in the empty air;
or if perhaps, all your poetry;
all your tears you recently
let spill through words
on this very screen;
is read by another set of heartbeats
You don’t know that, not really
That love is very much alive,
otherwise this poetry would not exist
Let it live within you
Do not be so quick to bury it
Let the very few memories you have
beat like a thousand drums
in your eyes, heart, and fingertips,
so that we too, can share in your love

~ ©️ Priya Patel 4.26.25 🕉

So if I have to write beyond the death of my love, it has to be for my own sake, or because somebody like Priya can understand it. Welcome, co-poet.

Poem: Just for you, my friend

( inspired by Priya Patel)

Soothing words
Bring wistful solace
A balm over wounds
That could never heal
But…
a friend in need
is a friend indeed
Life makes sense
I live on hence
Your words treat
With respect to my heartbeat
Just for that
I shall carry on
Writing verses of love

~Ashok Subramanian © 2025

So she makes dried tears count. I forget the intended recipient; she knows where I cut and bleed.

Poem: Dried tears

I know your pain
I can see the blackened scars of it,
and can feel it in the crimson words
that bleed into your poetry;
but somehow, you have managed
to turn your pain into something
so casually relatable
May the soft spoken words
between two friends,
who have deep dived
into the murkiest waters of love;
be the balm to soothe our heartaches
I will always read your tears
with the greatest of care
and understanding;
but then — the tears will have dried,
and you must let the pain
slowly drift away
I pray for that day my friend

~ ©️ Priya Patel 4.26.25 🕉

Well, see, the suffering is a choice. I chose to suffer because happiness is in the sorrow. So I write back to her.

Poem: The Happiness is in the sorrow ( to Priya Patel )

Between those who like
the sweet positive nothings
And can’t bear to listen
To the language of the lament
The greatest music that was ever made
Was out of mindful melancholy
The strains of the heart
Seep into this universe
Through wistful verses
and sorrowful notes
A human heart that never yearned
Is like a human life never earned
Ask those who ever fell in love
The wait for that moment
is sweeter than the moment itself
For when the moment arrives
It is the death of the waiting
If letting go was all good
I would have, long ago
The longing of the past is gone
makes life worth living
It is like the period
Between Good Friday and Easter
Once the happiness is restored
the beauty of sorrow withers.

~Ashok Subramanian © 2025

Priya: Where melancholy lives (to Ashok Subramanian)

She is the queen of melancholy. I am just a wannabe.

Poem : Where Melancholy Lives

I have danced in the streets
of melancholy;
worn all the familiar costumes
of sorrow and loss
and had all the colorful masks
to show for it;
you know, the ones with the
pretty smiles to hide the scars
I was comfortable there;
made a bed with sheets
of sewn together memories
I was once penned
the queen of melancholy
for the hundreds of poems
woven out of loves sorrow
For years, I slept and woke
to the beat of heartache
Did I let it go? No, no I did not
It’s still there, buried deep
within my skin, beneath the scars;
but it’s there; memories
I refuse to let go
I get it,
there is a certain happiness
in our sorrows

~ ©️ Priya Patel 4.26.25 🕉

Hers is the last word. So I rest for now.

Poem: The final word, yours.

( to Priya Patel)

You have the final word
The master of melancholies
A wannabe like me
Just meanders into melancholy
Once in a while —
Prolific and profound, you are
But I truly benefit
As your words, timely and timeless
Heals me a bit, every time
Indeed —
there is a friendship of faraway poets
mangled in melancholy.

~Ashok Subramanian © 2025

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.
From an Irish headstone”
― Richard Puz, The Carolinian