The Shape of Light - By Vishnu Raj Rajendran

Written By: VISHNU RAJ RAJENDRAN

Category: POETRY

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Vishnu Raj Rajendran graces the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 with his poignant poem "The Shape of Light." In this evocative piece, Rajendran weaves a narrative of love and loss, exploring the haunting corridors of memory and the delicate interplay of light and shadow. Set against the backdrop of nature's ever-changing landscapes, the poem invites readers on a reflective journey through the depths of human emotion and longing.

About the Work

"The Shape of Light" by Vishnu Raj Rajendran captures the essence of longing and remembrance with a lyrical grace. The poem is imbued with rich imagery, from the "ghost sea" to the "obedient stone," each line echoing a deep sense of melancholy and beauty. Through its exploration of grief and yearning, the work speaks to the universal experience of holding onto memories while navigating the tides of time and change.

THE SHAPE OF LIGHT

Original Submission by VISHNU RAJ RAJENDRAN

The Sunsets No Longer Spread Their Golden Hands

The sunsets no longer spread their golden hands

to cradle the long-lost sea.

The woods have grown narrow and cold,

remembering her bridal green gown,

the flowers once tangled in her hair.

The merry bird who sang from the ancient tree

has gone mute;

her song survives as echo-

thin wings trembling in the dark air.

But my dear,

the cruelest irony hums like glass:

the deeper I wander this labyrinth,

the more my mind drifts toward

you,

searching the drowned corridors of this unknown sea.

I no longer know

whether to polish this dim world

in the hope of your return,

or brave the stone path to your grave-

or worse,

to go on loving

the ghost who will never return.

The Red Walls You Loved

Here I am, adorning the home, waiting for your footsteps.

The shirt you once wore

is stained with red paint-

I've painted the walls you loved.

My nails ache,

but the ache feels holy

as I plant your tulips again,

dreaming them pinned in your wavy hair.

My fingers bleed

as I hang the painting you adored

back in our room,

hoping you would find it.

Each night, I stand by the veranda-

your favourite haunt-

listening for your voice,

the thousand stories you left unfinished.

But dear,

the agony has turned me slowly.

The room I sealed for you

breathes with rust now,

begging for the warmth of your touch.

Even nature keeps changing her dress,

believing she has lost her finest one.

The tulips are gone-

crushed by the cruelty of time.

Weeds have taken their place,

your favourite tree is dust

now, your favourite shirt- void.

The red walls have paled into silence.

And still, my love, here I am-

my youth surrendered,

My black hair greeting the greys,

my skin lined with waiting.

Yet still, my dear,

I hold the key to our room, hoping one day

I'll turn it for you-

These hands will again

remember the warmth of your touch.

The Obedient Stone

The water, soft as memory,

finds me still-tunneling through sand, through the hush of six obedient feet. It hums like a prayer, or oblivion.

Once, your warmth was the season I lived in.

Now cold is my companion

its fingers, gentler than yours, and they never lie.

A moth, pale and blind,

has risen from the quiet earth beside me.

It carries what I could not:

the rumor of light.

My hair

once your tangled worship-

has loosened into dust.

The shirt you gave me

blooms its worms and stains,

each one a syllable of your name.

The eyes that once sought you

are hollows now

two moons chewed to nothing.

Still, they dream of your amber eyes.

And in this dark theatre of my skull, maggots perform their tender work. I whisper to them:

take the mind,

but leave the heart-

it is the only faithful thing,

the red lantern that will not go out.

But who listens in the soil?

Even silence forgets its duty.

Beloved, I wait for you

beneath this obedient stone,

beneath the name carved clean and final.

Come - unbury me with your touch,

the same hands that planted the dagger,

that sowed me in this sleep.

Bring the dawn with you. Even a ghost remembers the shape of light.

The Anchor

The stars begin to fade in a distant corner of the sky. The melancholy robin calls from a tree -

a final hymn for the night,

who turns her departure into an elegy.

And I, still galloping through this wild forest.

You said, "Come save me."

That plea is the spur in my horse's flank - the only compass I own in this uncharted land.

I see you in the far, dissolving clouds.

I feel you in the breeze that finds me now.

I hear your voice among the birds,

and sense you in the leaves that touch my skin.

But my dear,

grief has coiled around my neck,

fangs bared, tightening

until I cannot look back.

Sadness digs into my heart-

a dagger twisted, merciless.

My mind has been chewed to nothing

by the teeth of agony.

Yet I must go on, for you, my dear,

even when these limbs scream in agony.

And now, look at you

once the girl who cried, "Save me,"

now a silent weight behind me on this horse,

a cold anchor in the galloping storm.

Even in death, I will save you.

I will carry us both

to the end of the world.

As the promise I kept,

For you, with you.

The Labyrinth of Suffering

And here I am

chained in this dark, cold room, pressed against the metal ribs of this asylum.

The rusty fan speaks to me now in a language of cycling grief.

The shattered window whispers

a name

a name I can't remember.

Empty medicine bottles watch from the table;

their hollow eyes filled with ghosts

ghosts of those

who once believed in redemption.

The calendar on the wall

no longer holds meaning-

only numbers now,

fading,

like the ability to see through time.

My only roommate - once an eight-legged friend -

rests as a skeleton in the corner.

His eyes, hollows.

My pen bleeds red upon the page; my books have forgotten my touch.

Here, in this labyrinth of whispers, my screams still scream

though my tongue has worn itself away beneath the shock

of their electric mercy.

My eyes ache,

stitched shut by trembling hands. My legs, once dancers of sunlight,

lie broken like glass across the floor.

My hands still dream of the pen,

but they have forgotten how to write.

And so, I wait.

My heart, stubborn and slow,

still dreams of an angel -

one who will pass through this iron door,

a vial of toxin trembling in her hand.

Only then, perhaps,

will I escape

this labyrinth of suffering,

-

this asylum built not of walls, but of

memory.

The Cliff

The sun's shadow

falls across my face.

The stillness of this cliff

haunts me.

Here I cling to the edge,

holding your hand-

terrified of falling.

My fingers scream in silence.

My mind -

a frantic animal in thought.

Still, I hold on.

First,

your hand turned to ice.

My fingers froze against it,

and so did I

hanging here,

waiting for the warmth

I once knew.

Days passed in vain.

Second,

your hand became

scorching lava.

My skin charred

with longing for comfort-

yet still, I held on.

Third,

it shaped itself

into ruthless glass

a fist of broken spines.

Even then,

I clung to it,

craving the memory

of its warmth.

But the sharper the glass,

the more I saw

your fingers flinch

beneath my touch.

And so, for you

because the pain was only mine-

I released your hand.

And fell, quietly,

into the depths

that waited, for my breath.

And still, the Seasons Turned

And still, the seasons turned- each one dissolving into the next, like memory into mist.

Days drifted by,

their faces smudged with longing,

their hours soft with your name.

Once, the sunsets burned in your eyes,

the waves sang your shape,

the woods ached with your echo.

But now-

the light falls differently.

The waves speak only to the shore.

The woods hum their own old hymns. And I, somehow,

no longer wait for you within them.

As now the shape of light

no longer resembles you

The Boat and the Shore

I watched the sun return to his home

after its long, gold-brown embrace with the sea.

The birds, weary from a day of roaming-

thinking they were free-

have now returned to their nests, finding their comfort.

The playful dolphins,

who danced upon the waves, have sunk back into the deep,

to the quiet of their home.

But I-

here in my lonely boat,

tired from paddling toward a shore

that no longer seeks me.

Oh, my dear-

this ache of loneliness has hardened into stone; the path ahead no longer calls my name. Perhaps I do not wish for home,

for I no longer see myself within its frame.

The stars now look down to watch me; the moon and I share the same still spot. My boat drifts, untethered.

I do not know if I am too tired to paddle,

or have simply lost the knowing of where to go.

Still-

I hope, my dear,

that the winds and waves may carry me to you,

and that wherever I find you,

that shore will be my home.

The Station of Waiting

The train went by,

but here I remain-

Still, in this station with you,

counting the spaces between departures.

You, my dear ghost,

whisper your old command: wait.

But my heart has cooled

from all this waiting,

unsure now which train is mine.

The first came-

a blur of colors I once craved.

You said, remember the hues

of the day we met.

So, I sat, obedient,

while the light passed through me.

The second came-

its carriages full of laughter,

the kind I used to wear.

You said, wait-remember joy.

So, I did,

and joy rotted quietly in my hands.

The third came trembling with love.

You said, don't go.

But as my eyes met hers,

I heard your silence splitting.

I must go, my ghost.

You have made me still too long;

I must betray you

now or fade beside

you.

Once, you were my window-

my color, my laughter, my light.

Now you are only glass,

and I must step through.

And when I held her-warm, breathing-

I said softly,

"My dear, you were part of me.

But my love-

I must go on."

Alive Enough to See the World Again

I have travelled so far.

Summer has burned itself out.

Alone bird, heat-struck and thirsting,

found a trickle of water at last―

its song joined by the rain's small elegy falling through dust.

The hidden things surfaced again:

worms stitching the soil,

roots drinking the dark.

The tree that had lost its youth sprouted a green thought.

My heart no longer kneels to the past; color has returned to my blood. The nails of sorrow have rusted,

the blindfolds flaked away.

I see the world's slow pulse-

green and water-bright.

Nature has changed her dress-

from ash to emerald.

And so, have I.

The journey of a thousand miles

rests now behind my ribs.

Here I stand,

alive enough to see the world again.

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar offers a platform for writers to showcase their talents in a prestigious setting. This annual event celebrates diverse voices and creative expressions, inviting participants from all over the world to share their stories and poetic visions. It is a testament to the power of words and the vibrant community of writers who continue to inspire and engage audiences globally.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Vishnu Raj Rajendran for sharing "The Shape of Light" with us in the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. His evocative exploration of love and memory enriches our understanding of the human experience. We look forward to more of his literary contributions and wish him continued success in his creative journey.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.