A hazy curtain does raise
Iron shutters be my eyelids
Like globular lead, my pupils –
Pupils that reflect nothing
Why so blank, so bland?
Downcast are my eyes
From left to right it darts
No tug at the mouth
Puckered, like my thoughts
Clad in red
Crossed grasshoppered legs
Fingers haven’t been spread so long
Scratching, spotting, scrambling
Across the sheets.
The walls are white
Four walls – no door
No window – no hole
Large, expansive –
Loud yet deathly silent.
And in the whites
Like a drop of blood
I sit frozen
And pen down my mind
Such mindless thought
Such mindful rot
In the ivory coloured room
With looms of space
The breathing expanse
I sit and jot.
That’s all I need
In whites and reds
I can live myself
I can immortalize –
My brain cells – preserve into words.
Then let me live
In lonely space
Let me breathe & let me write
Between passion & detachment – let me exist
So without regret, I may perish
Become cold & numb, even before I die.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
T'ease' till Dawn
I am like the autumn leaf
Variegated is my existence
Like inconstant fractions
Denominators and numerators inverse
Inverse as often as day and night
Mouth widens
Tears spill
A laughing sob escapes my body
Convulsing – Sometimes in joyous fit,
Sometimes in passionate anger
Despair, disgust, dream, die
Change colours,
Wound sentiments
Turn dust to gold
Turn heart to stone
And then like an autumn leaf.
Detach and drop
Float midair
Swoop in the wind
Touch the ground.
The season has changed.
Variegated is my existence
Like inconstant fractions
Denominators and numerators inverse
Inverse as often as day and night
Mouth widens
Tears spill
A laughing sob escapes my body
Convulsing – Sometimes in joyous fit,
Sometimes in passionate anger
Despair, disgust, dream, die
Change colours,
Wound sentiments
Turn dust to gold
Turn heart to stone
And then like an autumn leaf.
Detach and drop
Float midair
Swoop in the wind
Touch the ground.
The season has changed.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Demons of Denial
There is this fancy sounding word that I recently came across… and have been using it ever since. Is it an attempt towards positivism, an ironical usage or simply another one of those babies of the Greek metaphorical and mythological world that I seem to adopt periodically?
Eudaemonia… the greek goddess of Joy…eudaemonic, the state of being in joy and the derivation that I have been using of late…
But I wonder… do we just use these words to cheat ourselves? To make the apparent surface of our lives better?... like one of those self-help books, that ridiculously ask you to wake up every morning and like a buffoon look into the mirror and reiterate your own positivism to yourself…I have always found those books full of glossy frog crap, if I may put it that way. And then again, every day, I log onto my account, and watch the fancy word “eudaemonic” appear on the screen – as if sometimes indifferently watching me, sometimes mocking me in its noiseless expression.
How often do we tell ourselves that we are happy? How often do we desperately want to believe that we are content? So have we climbed onto that branch, from where, we only have one perspective of ourselves, and we end up assuming that, the view from up there is the only view that there is?
And this vague question now makes my stream of thought, take a leap into another random track …how powerful is the art of self conviction? Can you look into the mirror every morning and repeat a lie, so much so that the lie turns into the truth for you? I have heard of people living in self denial, not acknowledging their shortcomings, their faults, their lacks and blacks. Of late, I have also seen some of those… who, for fear of coming to terms with their wrongs, refuse to acknowledge and admit it in the first place… so as to live in a joyous illusion of virtuosity.
It is a human phenomenon I think… to believe in what makes life easier… but an easy path isn’t essentially the correct one… and then again, you can turn around and say – who defines correct and incorrect, moral and immoral – they are all constructs – more societal than personal – so what maybe terribly heartless for me, may be absolutely acceptable to another. But I think that humanity is the touchstone to human behaviour, to compassion and concern – the abstract feeling of hurt defines right and wrong – not society, not a personal weighing scale, not a moral conditioning – but simply the art of being humane… to consider feelings… and even if inconsideration has already been perpetuated, then the self realisation and consequent apology must follow. I believe that denial is cowardice, those are the brave ones who admit to their fall only to rise again
It would be judgemental on my part to make such statements on others…to demarcate the line between being courageous and an escapist, to define the two in the first place – for definitions is what limits us, as human beings - to stop thinking beyond our convinced selves and look beyond the little world of denial that we constantly build and live in… it would be narrowing my view to that branch that I may have climbed once, but then again, a few steps beyond and I am another iota closer to the zenith, and instead of looking down with one perspective, may learn to look around and beyond. And then, eudaemonia may be a sight, a vision, a feeling that may permeate in me – than just be that elusive, deriding word, demonically sitting on my screen.
Eudaemonia… the greek goddess of Joy…eudaemonic, the state of being in joy and the derivation that I have been using of late…
But I wonder… do we just use these words to cheat ourselves? To make the apparent surface of our lives better?... like one of those self-help books, that ridiculously ask you to wake up every morning and like a buffoon look into the mirror and reiterate your own positivism to yourself…I have always found those books full of glossy frog crap, if I may put it that way. And then again, every day, I log onto my account, and watch the fancy word “eudaemonic” appear on the screen – as if sometimes indifferently watching me, sometimes mocking me in its noiseless expression.
How often do we tell ourselves that we are happy? How often do we desperately want to believe that we are content? So have we climbed onto that branch, from where, we only have one perspective of ourselves, and we end up assuming that, the view from up there is the only view that there is?
And this vague question now makes my stream of thought, take a leap into another random track …how powerful is the art of self conviction? Can you look into the mirror every morning and repeat a lie, so much so that the lie turns into the truth for you? I have heard of people living in self denial, not acknowledging their shortcomings, their faults, their lacks and blacks. Of late, I have also seen some of those… who, for fear of coming to terms with their wrongs, refuse to acknowledge and admit it in the first place… so as to live in a joyous illusion of virtuosity.
It is a human phenomenon I think… to believe in what makes life easier… but an easy path isn’t essentially the correct one… and then again, you can turn around and say – who defines correct and incorrect, moral and immoral – they are all constructs – more societal than personal – so what maybe terribly heartless for me, may be absolutely acceptable to another. But I think that humanity is the touchstone to human behaviour, to compassion and concern – the abstract feeling of hurt defines right and wrong – not society, not a personal weighing scale, not a moral conditioning – but simply the art of being humane… to consider feelings… and even if inconsideration has already been perpetuated, then the self realisation and consequent apology must follow. I believe that denial is cowardice, those are the brave ones who admit to their fall only to rise again
It would be judgemental on my part to make such statements on others…to demarcate the line between being courageous and an escapist, to define the two in the first place – for definitions is what limits us, as human beings - to stop thinking beyond our convinced selves and look beyond the little world of denial that we constantly build and live in… it would be narrowing my view to that branch that I may have climbed once, but then again, a few steps beyond and I am another iota closer to the zenith, and instead of looking down with one perspective, may learn to look around and beyond. And then, eudaemonia may be a sight, a vision, a feeling that may permeate in me – than just be that elusive, deriding word, demonically sitting on my screen.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
I like an unlike verse...
Just when i begin to steer clear of every little particle and word that even distantly smells of the word called 'love', i open some old dusty poetry books and within the yellowed pages, come across something like this and cant help but want to share it with the world... even in the false emotion of love then, there is some inexplicable beauty, that, if in not life, can atleast be an expression in words...
If You Forget Me
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon,
at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
- Pablo Neruda
If You Forget Me
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon,
at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
- Pablo Neruda
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Hug me Tight
It is just another morning thought…one of those soul searching sort of questions that pop in your head once in a while…however these questions seem to have been popping in my head too often for comfort – it may be a good thing though, for then I give a few minutes of silent consideration to some issues that I subconsciously grapple with in my life and don’t even know about… some questions that make me the complex person that I am…some questions that makes me the cynic that I am, the critic that I can be…
I woke up this morning and thought about the same time last week and the time before that…then my mind traveled like a port-key to the time much before that too…weeks, months… time seem to collapse like a castle of cards in front of my very eyes and images, flashes, words, conversations, touch, smell, feel…everything of the past just seemed to touch by me again – like that humid wind that just whiffed past my face- it was like a movie and I was the protagonist and I wasn’t smiling…I was one of the two main characters and I wasn’t happy…and then some droplets, some sobs, some breathless sniffles seemed to zoom in front of my eyes…big huge brown eyes – soulful sad hurt eyes… and then in another flash of a second, it zoomed out and the face was mine…and I wasn’t happy. How important is happiness in one’s life? We live – we don’t die – I may be an existentialist and yet I don’t live in the worthless abandon of one – yes, it is an interesting theory that I keep telling people for I find it extremely fascinating and remotely believable – that how can we say that we are living if each day we travel closer to death…so aren’t we dying…what is life then, if we started dying since the day we were born – and then again, I see sad movies where unrealistically the dying protagonist talks about dying with a smile, about living each day – for tomorrow is a distant hope and today is the only gift we have – so live, smile, let joy wrap its arms around you and let a hug envelop you – and then I look at the movie that had just flashed in front of my eyes… and I only saw a depressive sight of me – and then another question began to nudge me every minute – do we live to love, that love which is a skewed up theory with no particular definition – comes in all shapes, sizes, ages and stages – that we share with a friend, a family, an ideology, a passion…a person?? And then if love is a phase that makes me the protagonist of this story then I’d rather not love – for if we live, we must live to smile, we must live to experience each day and squeeze that last dreg of happiness – to be hugged and to hug with all our might. This morning I couldn’t remember the last time I was truly happy – and when you reach that stage and its cause is some sort of inexplicable love, then you know its time…the day you cant recall your last unadulterated moment of joy, it is then time to let go of that futile unrequited love – it is then time to let some happiness seep in and some bitterness ooze out – it is then time to go back to loving, but only loving your life…it is then time for that tight hug – and I need a hug again.
I woke up this morning and thought about the same time last week and the time before that…then my mind traveled like a port-key to the time much before that too…weeks, months… time seem to collapse like a castle of cards in front of my very eyes and images, flashes, words, conversations, touch, smell, feel…everything of the past just seemed to touch by me again – like that humid wind that just whiffed past my face- it was like a movie and I was the protagonist and I wasn’t smiling…I was one of the two main characters and I wasn’t happy…and then some droplets, some sobs, some breathless sniffles seemed to zoom in front of my eyes…big huge brown eyes – soulful sad hurt eyes… and then in another flash of a second, it zoomed out and the face was mine…and I wasn’t happy. How important is happiness in one’s life? We live – we don’t die – I may be an existentialist and yet I don’t live in the worthless abandon of one – yes, it is an interesting theory that I keep telling people for I find it extremely fascinating and remotely believable – that how can we say that we are living if each day we travel closer to death…so aren’t we dying…what is life then, if we started dying since the day we were born – and then again, I see sad movies where unrealistically the dying protagonist talks about dying with a smile, about living each day – for tomorrow is a distant hope and today is the only gift we have – so live, smile, let joy wrap its arms around you and let a hug envelop you – and then I look at the movie that had just flashed in front of my eyes… and I only saw a depressive sight of me – and then another question began to nudge me every minute – do we live to love, that love which is a skewed up theory with no particular definition – comes in all shapes, sizes, ages and stages – that we share with a friend, a family, an ideology, a passion…a person?? And then if love is a phase that makes me the protagonist of this story then I’d rather not love – for if we live, we must live to smile, we must live to experience each day and squeeze that last dreg of happiness – to be hugged and to hug with all our might. This morning I couldn’t remember the last time I was truly happy – and when you reach that stage and its cause is some sort of inexplicable love, then you know its time…the day you cant recall your last unadulterated moment of joy, it is then time to let go of that futile unrequited love – it is then time to let some happiness seep in and some bitterness ooze out – it is then time to go back to loving, but only loving your life…it is then time for that tight hug – and I need a hug again.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Marmalade
A rumble at my feet… and a quiver in me… like frames per second…the sights pass me by… so many familiar views… huts covered with dung…bamboo shoots… rice fields submerged in water… sand mounds… dry ever stretching yellow fields… looming peepul trees…some destitute naked children…bricked houses dappled along the way… and I sit and watch in silent wonder and a gloomy face…
I have just left my utopia…stepped yet again on the paths of hell… only this time, with a slight hope to make inferno less charring…
Again a wistful me…makes her way into the paths that have been charted out for me by my most unkind mother fate – for I would give an eye and a leg…I would kill…I would have done anything to spend the next 3 months in the world I existed before…
A single day here was beautiful… maybe fed me with enough memories to last a week…and then what…like always would I have to depend on dipping myself in my revitalizing storage of memories that I have carefully preserved in my head?...
I like to call it my precious marmalade – these memories that I thrive on… every single hour in my utopian land…every single word that my friend Estella has uttered …every smile that my familiar people have showered on me…that crispy brewed smell of Village Café… that old yellowed pole by the road… the coconut-man that has been at that corner forever… its all a part of my marmalade… jellyed into a box… with the sweet smoothness and the tangy bits that makes it so unique… conserved… preserved… jammed in my head… flexible enough to make space for new moments… adjusting enough to squeeze in more bits…and yet, in its congealed state sits in my head, not allowing for my defective present to act like a fungus to its eternal undiluted perfection.
I am allowing myself to soon turn into a Miss Havisham of sorts…and yet, in all consciousness, I take that alternative…for I’d rather be preserved in marmalade than rot in the fungus of my today.
I have just left my utopia…stepped yet again on the paths of hell… only this time, with a slight hope to make inferno less charring…
Again a wistful me…makes her way into the paths that have been charted out for me by my most unkind mother fate – for I would give an eye and a leg…I would kill…I would have done anything to spend the next 3 months in the world I existed before…
A single day here was beautiful… maybe fed me with enough memories to last a week…and then what…like always would I have to depend on dipping myself in my revitalizing storage of memories that I have carefully preserved in my head?...
I like to call it my precious marmalade – these memories that I thrive on… every single hour in my utopian land…every single word that my friend Estella has uttered …every smile that my familiar people have showered on me…that crispy brewed smell of Village Café… that old yellowed pole by the road… the coconut-man that has been at that corner forever… its all a part of my marmalade… jellyed into a box… with the sweet smoothness and the tangy bits that makes it so unique… conserved… preserved… jammed in my head… flexible enough to make space for new moments… adjusting enough to squeeze in more bits…and yet, in its congealed state sits in my head, not allowing for my defective present to act like a fungus to its eternal undiluted perfection.
I am allowing myself to soon turn into a Miss Havisham of sorts…and yet, in all consciousness, I take that alternative…for I’d rather be preserved in marmalade than rot in the fungus of my today.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Camera or Vase
A very disturbing thought has invaded my mind recently and has built a nest there – and every few hours I hear the silent squeaking and the mute screeching in my head...
I was a searing feminist – I was an independent soul ...and the women who chose to objectify themselves were the sort...the type....the category I used to call “victims of society”. But now, my surety in myself sitting at the other side of the fence is slowly shaking, I can feel that fence crumble, can see the shiver under my feet and can feel an earthquake jar my self identity from its very core. A very simple universal and a loud question knocks against my brain and asks me three words...
Vase or camera?...
It is an interesting way we look at both these objects...
A vase ...ornamental, mute body of beauty, holding within itself, flowers of every season, yet sitting in the same corner – stagnant, unchanging, rather boring...growing older... mouldy...and yet becoming an integral part of the household...
And the disposable camera... in new versions, models, makes and colours... an accompaniment of the vacation...a break...a change... makes moments, captures transient joy and then without a second thought, once the usage is over, once the moments have been developed and handed to the owner, discarded as easily as it was picked...
As women, have we become confined to these parameters? To these definitions? To usages and moments? To boring stagnating existences and mute objectifications?
Have we become the vase...have we turned into the disposable camera?
For all my sensibilities and my opinions, for all my individuality and my intellect – I seem to be no different... I seem to have fallen prey to both these definitions...and in a period of less than 6 months...
For one man chose to have snapshots of moments with me... he lives for the moment while he kills every other scope of any more moments for the other – he is the one that knows it all – which is the better model of the camera at what time, what he can have, what he cant have, what he can afford to have, what he cant reach to. But I suppose that is how the market works....that is how the market of consumption goods worked for him – for in his momentary fast changing technological world – there is no word called durability that exists.
And the other – who wishes to exhibit me to the family unit – to make me a pretty vase on display and keep me stagnant at one place and space, to hold seasons and to live a uni-seasonal life...to make me a domestic object.
In both cases, we are objectified...so are we limited to the dual narrow bracket of wife or slut? Virgin or waste? Mute or loud?... in this journey from myself to these two, somewhere I have lost myself...and nowhere have I been happy... I do not wish to be a camera, I wish even less to be a vase – so as a woman where does that leave me and does it even leave me with any options... I had a sea of options holding out its multiplicity to me once upon a time...and now it is time to reaffirm my identity and have a dive into that sea before, in this dual dirt, I lose myself.
Q: Camera or vase?...
A: Neither.
I was a searing feminist – I was an independent soul ...and the women who chose to objectify themselves were the sort...the type....the category I used to call “victims of society”. But now, my surety in myself sitting at the other side of the fence is slowly shaking, I can feel that fence crumble, can see the shiver under my feet and can feel an earthquake jar my self identity from its very core. A very simple universal and a loud question knocks against my brain and asks me three words...
Vase or camera?...
It is an interesting way we look at both these objects...
A vase ...ornamental, mute body of beauty, holding within itself, flowers of every season, yet sitting in the same corner – stagnant, unchanging, rather boring...growing older... mouldy...and yet becoming an integral part of the household...
And the disposable camera... in new versions, models, makes and colours... an accompaniment of the vacation...a break...a change... makes moments, captures transient joy and then without a second thought, once the usage is over, once the moments have been developed and handed to the owner, discarded as easily as it was picked...
As women, have we become confined to these parameters? To these definitions? To usages and moments? To boring stagnating existences and mute objectifications?
Have we become the vase...have we turned into the disposable camera?
For all my sensibilities and my opinions, for all my individuality and my intellect – I seem to be no different... I seem to have fallen prey to both these definitions...and in a period of less than 6 months...
For one man chose to have snapshots of moments with me... he lives for the moment while he kills every other scope of any more moments for the other – he is the one that knows it all – which is the better model of the camera at what time, what he can have, what he cant have, what he can afford to have, what he cant reach to. But I suppose that is how the market works....that is how the market of consumption goods worked for him – for in his momentary fast changing technological world – there is no word called durability that exists.
And the other – who wishes to exhibit me to the family unit – to make me a pretty vase on display and keep me stagnant at one place and space, to hold seasons and to live a uni-seasonal life...to make me a domestic object.
In both cases, we are objectified...so are we limited to the dual narrow bracket of wife or slut? Virgin or waste? Mute or loud?... in this journey from myself to these two, somewhere I have lost myself...and nowhere have I been happy... I do not wish to be a camera, I wish even less to be a vase – so as a woman where does that leave me and does it even leave me with any options... I had a sea of options holding out its multiplicity to me once upon a time...and now it is time to reaffirm my identity and have a dive into that sea before, in this dual dirt, I lose myself.
Q: Camera or vase?...
A: Neither.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Angst
In my existential state of incompletion...
Like a mechanical corpse...
I breathe yet not live..
Unless you call existing, life.
In my affections unguarded...
I give in, give up...
Leave no scope for redemption...
Until you call existing, death.
Like a mechanical corpse...
I breathe yet not live..
Unless you call existing, life.
In my affections unguarded...
I give in, give up...
Leave no scope for redemption...
Until you call existing, death.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Sarcoma-cised
If there must be the heart…
More than just a fist-sized organ…
If there must be sensitivity…
More than just the contracting siphon…
Then why must such butchery…
Of the soul come so easy…
Why then must a man…
Slay a belief with such apathy…
And if then such a massacre…
Of trust must transpire…
If for such carnal gaffes…
The body needs perspire…
Then let me be a cadaver…
A carcass must I be…
For humanity once touched me…
And then did he…
And in the eternal wait…
Affections turn ephemeral…
A convenient turn of the hour…
A verity so belatedly he did cull…
For never shall I now permit…
A healing to my tainted bed…
For love is a cancerous perjury…
To enervate, assail and then shred.
More than just a fist-sized organ…
If there must be sensitivity…
More than just the contracting siphon…
Then why must such butchery…
Of the soul come so easy…
Why then must a man…
Slay a belief with such apathy…
And if then such a massacre…
Of trust must transpire…
If for such carnal gaffes…
The body needs perspire…
Then let me be a cadaver…
A carcass must I be…
For humanity once touched me…
And then did he…
And in the eternal wait…
Affections turn ephemeral…
A convenient turn of the hour…
A verity so belatedly he did cull…
For never shall I now permit…
A healing to my tainted bed…
For love is a cancerous perjury…
To enervate, assail and then shred.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Estell'awe'
Like a slender fern…
She floats in a bemused languor…
Thoughts stroll through the inroads of her mind…
Words strewn around like petals in spring…
And tawny leaves dotting the earth in autumn…
Mould into astute sentences…
Articulating into speech…
Her cherubic mouth does part…
Trickles the words now ordered…
That erstwhile speckled the terrain of her mind…
Engaging and enlightening…
New theories. Novel philosophies….
Sense and sensibility… wit and vivacity…
And in a semi-stunned state…
The stuttering spectators…
Stare at the seraphic form…
Who smiles in silent satisfaction…
And pities the stunted minds…
Of the technical tots and the numerical noughts…
Deprived of the seasons of words…
That to these mulish mortals cannot be taught
And like a slender fern…
She floats in an amused languor…
Laughter sprints through the inroads of her mind…
Estella has dawned into the night.
*Dedicated to my closest friend…my greatest support...and the most beautiful bright-head that I have ever met*
She floats in a bemused languor…
Thoughts stroll through the inroads of her mind…
Words strewn around like petals in spring…
And tawny leaves dotting the earth in autumn…
Mould into astute sentences…
Articulating into speech…
Her cherubic mouth does part…
Trickles the words now ordered…
That erstwhile speckled the terrain of her mind…
Engaging and enlightening…
New theories. Novel philosophies….
Sense and sensibility… wit and vivacity…
And in a semi-stunned state…
The stuttering spectators…
Stare at the seraphic form…
Who smiles in silent satisfaction…
And pities the stunted minds…
Of the technical tots and the numerical noughts…
Deprived of the seasons of words…
That to these mulish mortals cannot be taught
And like a slender fern…
She floats in an amused languor…
Laughter sprints through the inroads of her mind…
Estella has dawned into the night.
*Dedicated to my closest friend…my greatest support...and the most beautiful bright-head that I have ever met*
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
C'wrinkle'd
In me bred happiness…
Joy and glee entwined their fingers…
Revolved in my insides…
Causing goosebumps…
Eliciting a smile…
A toothy smile was mine…
As a brightly-lit rhizome…
Making insignificant creases…
At the edge of my brown eyes…
Furrows of grin…
Crinkles of bliss…
An inexplicable contentment…
That awakened me at dawn…
And sang me asleep in the dark…
For the prophecy hadn’t been said yet…
Toxic words that he said…
A silent hope mouthed…
Struck a deal with my fate…
To happen to me as has happened to others…
And I…
So unaware of his animosity…
So unbelieving of his flaws…
In a delusion of a dotard…
Falling in the quashing palms…
Of fate and of his…
Sitting so oblivious…
Reclining between the palms…
Blinded to an actuality…
That I only functioned…
As a body not a soul…
And then gnawingly and gradually…
The fingers began to close in…
Fisted me in its murk…
Squashed my every essence…
Snipped my every smile…
And then the last move…
To mangle every hope…
And wring out every faith…
Poured over me…
A stream of filth…
A nauseating statement…
And the creases ironed out…
No elation expressed…
The crinkles shifted homes…
From the rim of my eyelids…
To the plane of my forehead…
And if I were to show age soon…
I would rather be furrowed when I smiled…
Than be ironed out into a dispirited flatness…
For I am not a mask…
I am also human…
I do not come with an expiry date…
I am not the “best before 2005” product…
I would also indulge in uninhibited laughter…
That he stole from me…
And now in his yarns of humour…
Distributes it to the world…
And never would he return to me…
What he snatched so callously…
And he will live in joy…
And trash from his memory…
What a misery he unknowingly brought…
And flattened my crinkles…
To gift me with wrinkles.
Joy and glee entwined their fingers…
Revolved in my insides…
Causing goosebumps…
Eliciting a smile…
A toothy smile was mine…
As a brightly-lit rhizome…
Making insignificant creases…
At the edge of my brown eyes…
Furrows of grin…
Crinkles of bliss…
An inexplicable contentment…
That awakened me at dawn…
And sang me asleep in the dark…
For the prophecy hadn’t been said yet…
Toxic words that he said…
A silent hope mouthed…
Struck a deal with my fate…
To happen to me as has happened to others…
And I…
So unaware of his animosity…
So unbelieving of his flaws…
In a delusion of a dotard…
Falling in the quashing palms…
Of fate and of his…
Sitting so oblivious…
Reclining between the palms…
Blinded to an actuality…
That I only functioned…
As a body not a soul…
And then gnawingly and gradually…
The fingers began to close in…
Fisted me in its murk…
Squashed my every essence…
Snipped my every smile…
And then the last move…
To mangle every hope…
And wring out every faith…
Poured over me…
A stream of filth…
A nauseating statement…
And the creases ironed out…
No elation expressed…
The crinkles shifted homes…
From the rim of my eyelids…
To the plane of my forehead…
And if I were to show age soon…
I would rather be furrowed when I smiled…
Than be ironed out into a dispirited flatness…
For I am not a mask…
I am also human…
I do not come with an expiry date…
I am not the “best before 2005” product…
I would also indulge in uninhibited laughter…
That he stole from me…
And now in his yarns of humour…
Distributes it to the world…
And never would he return to me…
What he snatched so callously…
And he will live in joy…
And trash from his memory…
What a misery he unknowingly brought…
And flattened my crinkles…
To gift me with wrinkles.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Sylvia Plath...a mouthpiece for my current state of mind
the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull
and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation
I would not remember you
or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these
and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops
a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight
rots in the hollow of my skull
and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation
I would not remember you
or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these
and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops
a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Feenix
Death is irrevocable
Irreversible…like time
Once a vision blackens
And a shutter is downed
Then the only blaze that remains
Is at the morgue
Ashes born –
Only to merge again
In the elemental whole.
For we are mere humans
Not characters of mythic proportions
Of clay we are made
Only to fuse with earth again
Never to emerge again
But in stories of the supernatural.
Such is the story of feelings
It will not take rebirth
It is a human phenomenon
Not a creation of the imagination
Or of fanciful hopefulness
Like a phoenix.
For a phoenix dies to rise again
But feelings stagnate into oblivion
I remind you dear sir…
Maybe you spelt it wrong…
It is feelings…not feenix
It isn’t just a blunder of the suffix.
Irreversible…like time
Once a vision blackens
And a shutter is downed
Then the only blaze that remains
Is at the morgue
Ashes born –
Only to merge again
In the elemental whole.
For we are mere humans
Not characters of mythic proportions
Of clay we are made
Only to fuse with earth again
Never to emerge again
But in stories of the supernatural.
Such is the story of feelings
It will not take rebirth
It is a human phenomenon
Not a creation of the imagination
Or of fanciful hopefulness
Like a phoenix.
For a phoenix dies to rise again
But feelings stagnate into oblivion
I remind you dear sir…
Maybe you spelt it wrong…
It is feelings…not feenix
It isn’t just a blunder of the suffix.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Pre-lewd
The empty walls
Dark…stark….
And a shade of fire…
Half light… dimmed light…
Ambered through the space…
Filled in it… a warmth…
Smouldering to fervour…
Shadows splattered on walls…
Like an abstraction…
Stretched out of proportion…
Concealing the truth…
Of two bodies entwined…
Whispers and gasps…
A silent conversation…
Of skin and spirit…
But no definition…no outline…
A haze… a fuzz…
A miasma of desire…
And a soft query…
“What is this…”
For an indestructible faith…
Draped sensibility…
In cloaks of fib…
“A prelude…”
A convenient word…
With a distant hope…
Like the carrot on the stick…
So a semi-conscious trip…
To a callous fall…
In the pit of lust…
Sliding and gliding…
And a thud…
And the sudden interlude…
When actuality strikes…
That “prelude” is such a misleading word…
An overture? A prologue? A preface? ….
A lie?... a deception?...
A way to elude…
Or just to delude.
For I despise…
A prelude.
Dark…stark….
And a shade of fire…
Half light… dimmed light…
Ambered through the space…
Filled in it… a warmth…
Smouldering to fervour…
Shadows splattered on walls…
Like an abstraction…
Stretched out of proportion…
Concealing the truth…
Of two bodies entwined…
Whispers and gasps…
A silent conversation…
Of skin and spirit…
But no definition…no outline…
A haze… a fuzz…
A miasma of desire…
And a soft query…
“What is this…”
For an indestructible faith…
Draped sensibility…
In cloaks of fib…
“A prelude…”
A convenient word…
With a distant hope…
Like the carrot on the stick…
So a semi-conscious trip…
To a callous fall…
In the pit of lust…
Sliding and gliding…
And a thud…
And the sudden interlude…
When actuality strikes…
That “prelude” is such a misleading word…
An overture? A prologue? A preface? ….
A lie?... a deception?...
A way to elude…
Or just to delude.
For I despise…
A prelude.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
Metamorphosise Me Not
Its a cocoon that I've created
A covering. A shield.
Within it contain strands...
Strands of memories
Threaded together are the nights...
Of helpless laughter
Of inhibited tears...
The days i existed
In complete joy
A busied body... like a big eyed bee...
Perching and wandering...
Buzzing through evenings
Rendering my soul a fullness
The familiar roads
The unconditional care
The silent comfort
The intellectual babble
Its all still there...
But in private moments - of recollection...
Lik worn out sheets of scribbled images
I turn pages - I flip my past
In my perfect past i stay cocooned -
Refuse to be a butterfly.
A covering. A shield.
Within it contain strands...
Strands of memories
Threaded together are the nights...
Of helpless laughter
Of inhibited tears...
The days i existed
In complete joy
A busied body... like a big eyed bee...
Perching and wandering...
Buzzing through evenings
Rendering my soul a fullness
The familiar roads
The unconditional care
The silent comfort
The intellectual babble
Its all still there...
But in private moments - of recollection...
Lik worn out sheets of scribbled images
I turn pages - I flip my past
In my perfect past i stay cocooned -
Refuse to be a butterfly.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Souffle
My life is life a souffle...
Fluid yet bound...
Melts in the heat...Harmonious otherwise
In all flavours like my masks
For all times like my moods
Seasoned with my mates...
Topped with my present.
I am an indestructible whole
Made of gelatinous chunks
Held together by unison
Bound together by moments
Like a souffle am i...
In exact proportions i am made
You break a part of me
The souffle remains the same
And then when it shall perish
In perfect smoothness i shall die...
A delightful sweetened end...
A souffle am i.
Fluid yet bound...
Melts in the heat...Harmonious otherwise
In all flavours like my masks
For all times like my moods
Seasoned with my mates...
Topped with my present.
I am an indestructible whole
Made of gelatinous chunks
Held together by unison
Bound together by moments
Like a souffle am i...
In exact proportions i am made
You break a part of me
The souffle remains the same
And then when it shall perish
In perfect smoothness i shall die...
A delightful sweetened end...
A souffle am i.
Suspended I Lie
Shimmering and Glimmering...
Sliding and gliding...
Like a firefly...
With blazing eyes...
And molten enthusiasm...
I smouldered in pure joy...
Shone...Burnt...Peaked...Burst...
Like a phoenix I did die...
But always rose again...
Swung around and landed...
On my feet...ready to fly...
Moments that did form...
Untouched by any flaw & petty lie
Evaporated...Collected...
Made clouds in my mind...
And now i won't let the rain
Clear my frozen perfect sky.
Sliding and gliding...
Like a firefly...
With blazing eyes...
And molten enthusiasm...
I smouldered in pure joy...
Shone...Burnt...Peaked...Burst...
Like a phoenix I did die...
But always rose again...
Swung around and landed...
On my feet...ready to fly...
Moments that did form...
Untouched by any flaw & petty lie
Evaporated...Collected...
Made clouds in my mind...
And now i won't let the rain
Clear my frozen perfect sky.
Snip...!
Stop. Rewind. Play.
Like a film is our life.
Memories captured in still frames.
Replayed in motion.
Flashes. Rushes. Hitches.
Life a Film is our life.
Unerasable. Unchangeable. Non-reusable.
Yet you can... Change. Cut. Switch.
Trash bitterness. Tape joyousness.
Just simply edit.
Like a film is our life.
Memories captured in still frames.
Replayed in motion.
Flashes. Rushes. Hitches.
Life a Film is our life.
Unerasable. Unchangeable. Non-reusable.
Yet you can... Change. Cut. Switch.
Trash bitterness. Tape joyousness.
Just simply edit.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Scatterbugged
Months here...weeks there...
Memories haunted
Present distorted
Grappling with that which is gone
Struggling with that which stays visible
Dreding that which will arrive
Sit and anticipate whether i will survive.
The body exists in solitariness
Accompanied by no life
My breath stays suspended
Amid the thousand miles
I'm fragmented
Fragmented and broken...
Scattered into space -
Space of time... Space of thought
Scattered in my life
No emotions relive here
Every tear is for the past
Every joy has lagged behind
Scattered i live now...
Scattered in my lonely mind.
Memories haunted
Present distorted
Grappling with that which is gone
Struggling with that which stays visible
Dreding that which will arrive
Sit and anticipate whether i will survive.
The body exists in solitariness
Accompanied by no life
My breath stays suspended
Amid the thousand miles
I'm fragmented
Fragmented and broken...
Scattered into space -
Space of time... Space of thought
Scattered in my life
No emotions relive here
Every tear is for the past
Every joy has lagged behind
Scattered i live now...
Scattered in my lonely mind.
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