an unsighted leap
from the caverns
of land and sea
to the chills of a city
conceited skin-deep
and what lies in between
are trenches,
alternatively replaced by
thick and thin memories
a hybrid lemonade
a glassful of hybrid lemonade
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 20, 2009
a rain
the sky spreads open like an umbrella
to the star that predicts
a season of uncertainty
to the tree,
that awaits golden zephyr
to the bees
that have no place to nest
to the soil
that witnesses a cremation day after day
to the wind
that's lost in transit
to the toys
that fancy other eyes
to the autumn
that carries burnt maple leaves
to a heart
glistened in soulless memories
to the star that predicts
a season of uncertainty
to the tree,
that awaits golden zephyr
to the bees
that have no place to nest
to the soil
that witnesses a cremation day after day
to the wind
that's lost in transit
to the toys
that fancy other eyes
to the autumn
that carries burnt maple leaves
to a heart
glistened in soulless memories
Dec 16, 2009
finally
Chennai,
A city that reads before it speaks
A sea that treats fish-breeder and eater equally
A rain that wets all but quenches none
a road that's safe even for a beautiful blind dame
a bus that greets politely to the beggar
a language that befuddles you but seldom belittles you
a dish that can be tasted only on sweaty fingers
a beach that storms you with aspirations
a jasmine that makes you sneeze until you wear it
a sky that undergoes frequent mood-swings
a crow that replaces pigeon in tamil films
a book that is categorically artsy
a dance that is performed till you retire
a raga that one learns in mother's womb
a drink that filters you from the mediocre
a film that is whistled more than its watched
a cosmetic-shop that only stocks fairness creams
a vehicle that is designed to rob you of your money
a tree that births weighty coconuts but seldom tires
a temple that has more shrines than devotees
a map that makes you lose your sense of direction,
particularly north.
A city that reads before it speaks
A sea that treats fish-breeder and eater equally
A rain that wets all but quenches none
a road that's safe even for a beautiful blind dame
a bus that greets politely to the beggar
a language that befuddles you but seldom belittles you
a dish that can be tasted only on sweaty fingers
a beach that storms you with aspirations
a jasmine that makes you sneeze until you wear it
a sky that undergoes frequent mood-swings
a crow that replaces pigeon in tamil films
a book that is categorically artsy
a dance that is performed till you retire
a raga that one learns in mother's womb
a drink that filters you from the mediocre
a film that is whistled more than its watched
a cosmetic-shop that only stocks fairness creams
a vehicle that is designed to rob you of your money
a tree that births weighty coconuts but seldom tires
a temple that has more shrines than devotees
a map that makes you lose your sense of direction,
particularly north.
a fallen leaf
a fallen leaf,
sicken yellow.
singing prose and lulling rose
asleep on earth's torso
worry-less, penny-less
hanging indifferently to breeze
like wax on the candle
like bubble on the soap
dying tomorrow, dying now
sicken yellow.
singing prose and lulling rose
asleep on earth's torso
worry-less, penny-less
hanging indifferently to breeze
like wax on the candle
like bubble on the soap
dying tomorrow, dying now
Dec 15, 2009
Coffee and me
At the street
as the wind rustles
the banana leafs
a motion complimenting
tyre and wheels
he puts me out of gear
served in an earthen ware
to the road that leads
and road that bleeds
to the moments of rush
people sipping hush hush
while the world leaps forward
i lean back,
reminiscing with my bean bag
At work:
Amidst the cloud of sounds
a chuckle or a frown
he kick-starts my refuge
to the oblivious deluge
of matters that never matter
and words that aimlessly flatter
of curses that never cease
from mouths that pretend to be at ease
while the world brainstorms
i switch off,
to the music that enhances
the sound of sips
On the bed:
as the bats takeover
tumble and hover
proclaiming another end
to the daily fend
he opens my eyes
and heavies my vice
to brew words that mean
and stir focus to the screen
as the world sleeps
in the world of darkness
i colour my dream
to the brink of dawn
i colour it cream.
as the wind rustles
the banana leafs
a motion complimenting
tyre and wheels
he puts me out of gear
served in an earthen ware
to the road that leads
and road that bleeds
to the moments of rush
people sipping hush hush
while the world leaps forward
i lean back,
reminiscing with my bean bag
At work:
Amidst the cloud of sounds
a chuckle or a frown
he kick-starts my refuge
to the oblivious deluge
of matters that never matter
and words that aimlessly flatter
of curses that never cease
from mouths that pretend to be at ease
while the world brainstorms
i switch off,
to the music that enhances
the sound of sips
On the bed:
as the bats takeover
tumble and hover
proclaiming another end
to the daily fend
he opens my eyes
and heavies my vice
to brew words that mean
and stir focus to the screen
as the world sleeps
in the world of darkness
i colour my dream
to the brink of dawn
i colour it cream.
Nov 30, 2009
Adyar Footbridge: a descriptive
A sentinel of human speed, this bridge never sleeps as he bears the burden of his daily pedestrians and their baggage, both physical and mental.
The kind of company he keeps has a lot to do with his shabbiness; from paupers to rag-pickers and hobos who hovel in the stairway that leads up to his torso.
Wallowing in dollops of fresh breeze, he bears the distinct musk of wet-wrought iron and sports a grubby look. An occasional growth of lichens on his skin adds to his texture. It seems he only bathes when it rains.
Things always look stunning from his perspective The sun retires in a golden haze; soon, the bohemian birds of twilight race against the tinted machines in a neon world, painting a reverie that can bewilder the hoi polloi who trudge across his expanse; the silken moonlight falls upon the trees; the echoes of the husky engine throb in his metallic chest.
He is aging rapidly. He wobbles with every step, and every roll; withering away into a diaspora of rust. A lonely sentinel, he stands in the midst of two crowded roads.
The kind of company he keeps has a lot to do with his shabbiness; from paupers to rag-pickers and hobos who hovel in the stairway that leads up to his torso.
Wallowing in dollops of fresh breeze, he bears the distinct musk of wet-wrought iron and sports a grubby look. An occasional growth of lichens on his skin adds to his texture. It seems he only bathes when it rains.
Things always look stunning from his perspective The sun retires in a golden haze; soon, the bohemian birds of twilight race against the tinted machines in a neon world, painting a reverie that can bewilder the hoi polloi who trudge across his expanse; the silken moonlight falls upon the trees; the echoes of the husky engine throb in his metallic chest.
He is aging rapidly. He wobbles with every step, and every roll; withering away into a diaspora of rust. A lonely sentinel, he stands in the midst of two crowded roads.
Nov 26, 2009
A little tribute to ECR*
there is innocuous charm in running away. so what's if it's a half-day get-away for an academic assignment. The sweaty bus-rides of chennai have become my latest fancy. The thrill of getting to the destination in the most absurdest of ways. It calls for handsome cliches but the irony lies in their actuality; wind in your hair resulting into exorbitant goosebumps that succeed.
It is an interesting feeling to be leered by locals while forming their queer assumptions about you, ranging from being a foreign national to a local hippie(how i revel in these). Their juvenile giggles and in your face stares. My encounters have so far been ingratiating in multiple ways. Whoever defined communication in the diaspora of language needs to be sleep-shaken.
I board buses riding on my instincts but often aided by locals who swell with pride in helping a pseudo distressed traveler. The bus-conductors ensure you don't sneak into privy slumbers through jarring Tamil videos that trail in your memory like fancy-dress ghosts. The village women do it subtler ways which means an overdose of jasmine injected in to your laryngitis and the passage beyond. I seek unimaginable comfort in the male fraternity that dare not ogle at you in a women-dominated vehicle(whoever talked of Tamil nadu being a matriarchal society)
In such good-willed environs one can't help dropping his guards. All the reasons that make my solo-trips a refreshing piece of memory every individual time. Today after my trip to crocodile bank which is some 42 km away from chennai, I felt enormously well-suited for roads. The roads that guarantee a bounty of experiences. The ones that lap you after adopting thousands before you. The roads that defy the purpose of gigantic buildings and redefine living all together.
* East Coast Road connecting Chennai all the way to Cuddalore.
It is an interesting feeling to be leered by locals while forming their queer assumptions about you, ranging from being a foreign national to a local hippie(how i revel in these). Their juvenile giggles and in your face stares. My encounters have so far been ingratiating in multiple ways. Whoever defined communication in the diaspora of language needs to be sleep-shaken.
I board buses riding on my instincts but often aided by locals who swell with pride in helping a pseudo distressed traveler. The bus-conductors ensure you don't sneak into privy slumbers through jarring Tamil videos that trail in your memory like fancy-dress ghosts. The village women do it subtler ways which means an overdose of jasmine injected in to your laryngitis and the passage beyond. I seek unimaginable comfort in the male fraternity that dare not ogle at you in a women-dominated vehicle(whoever talked of Tamil nadu being a matriarchal society)
In such good-willed environs one can't help dropping his guards. All the reasons that make my solo-trips a refreshing piece of memory every individual time. Today after my trip to crocodile bank which is some 42 km away from chennai, I felt enormously well-suited for roads. The roads that guarantee a bounty of experiences. The ones that lap you after adopting thousands before you. The roads that defy the purpose of gigantic buildings and redefine living all together.
* East Coast Road connecting Chennai all the way to Cuddalore.
Nov 19, 2009
If one believes in the correlation between epidermis-blisters and guitar skills, i deserve to be inhabited in the hall of fame of rock n roll. In the past 72 hours i have developed sores akin to shoe bites. Now my fingers and toe-nails look like brother and sister born to same parents, unlike previous lengthy differences between the two.
it's true, sheltering yourself in someone's music composition in inexorably easy than building your own. It's only when you do music, you feel feverishly intimate with it. Yes, i experienced laughter spasm when my teacher spelled out "fingering-exercises" for me. Only to be shadowed by exultation of dancing notes on the fingers.
it's true, sheltering yourself in someone's music composition in inexorably easy than building your own. It's only when you do music, you feel feverishly intimate with it. Yes, i experienced laughter spasm when my teacher spelled out "fingering-exercises" for me. Only to be shadowed by exultation of dancing notes on the fingers.
Nov 12, 2009
blackhole
a canyon of sorrow
your eyes,
in the abyss of nicotine
floating across,
the ocean of milky-way
bereft of emotions,
but full of life
humming but noiseless
as you draw,
the curtains of your gaze
a gaze that consoles
my previous sores
your eyes,
in the abyss of nicotine
floating across,
the ocean of milky-way
bereft of emotions,
but full of life
humming but noiseless
as you draw,
the curtains of your gaze
a gaze that consoles
my previous sores
Nov 9, 2009
the storm of afterstorm
The skies are clear, the sun peeps through the ambush of perspiring clouds. The tree stands still in the resilience of its docile shadow. Has the morning arrived?
The toads bid goodbye in their thankless croaks, to and fro in their naked embankments. Some aspirational ones choose to stay back. Is the show not over yet?
The frozen windows exchange melancholic glances. Longing for familiar squark, in the glistened memory of raindrops. Any chance of recurrence?
coffee seeds brew and spill in the (now) black mugs of derision. Its nebular fragrance makes a quiet exit. Any takers here?
The road is thick, vociferous like an industrialist. walking hastily with a heavy briefcase and a squished umbrella. no looking back?
The heart of the lake is gelid, in fond remembrance of zephyr. Indifferent to thirsty cows, who flock over his meaty chest. a wistful wait, perhaps?
The storm harks back to the desert of quietude, in an unnoticed foggy departure. borrowing boats from it's past. gone already?
The toads bid goodbye in their thankless croaks, to and fro in their naked embankments. Some aspirational ones choose to stay back. Is the show not over yet?
The frozen windows exchange melancholic glances. Longing for familiar squark, in the glistened memory of raindrops. Any chance of recurrence?
coffee seeds brew and spill in the (now) black mugs of derision. Its nebular fragrance makes a quiet exit. Any takers here?
The road is thick, vociferous like an industrialist. walking hastily with a heavy briefcase and a squished umbrella. no looking back?
The heart of the lake is gelid, in fond remembrance of zephyr. Indifferent to thirsty cows, who flock over his meaty chest. a wistful wait, perhaps?
The storm harks back to the desert of quietude, in an unnoticed foggy departure. borrowing boats from it's past. gone already?
Nov 8, 2009
on a rainy day
the maverick wind brushed my lips,
like goblet of ice devouring the shore
the moment froze, in the rivulets of reverie
drifting me to an anonymous lure
the snarling storm held me by its fit
and i trembled till i forgot to tremble
before trespassing into the lanes of fear,
in my pursuit of relentless ramble
while the sands that bred cactus upon
dejecting the naked prospects of sun
thumped my back and left me alone
is this how battles are won?
like goblet of ice devouring the shore
the moment froze, in the rivulets of reverie
drifting me to an anonymous lure
the snarling storm held me by its fit
and i trembled till i forgot to tremble
before trespassing into the lanes of fear,
in my pursuit of relentless ramble
while the sands that bred cactus upon
dejecting the naked prospects of sun
thumped my back and left me alone
is this how battles are won?
Nov 3, 2009
skylark
who am i to you?
thickets of sun,
moist by cool wind
in the heart of a crammed shore
with two curious eyes
and two deranged toes
yet you smell familiar,
petals of antique,
where lichens grow
greens that feed maggots and more
a caravan of sights
i couldn't love you more
-mahabalipuram, November 1st
thickets of sun,
moist by cool wind
in the heart of a crammed shore
with two curious eyes
and two deranged toes
yet you smell familiar,
petals of antique,
where lichens grow
greens that feed maggots and more
a caravan of sights
i couldn't love you more
-mahabalipuram, November 1st
Oct 31, 2009
tales from the animal farm
in herds we die,
battling fate
of a destitute
cry and more cry
sniffing blood
in the cage-hound
in herds we die,
by callous hands
that bow before man
seeking charity
to buy expensive knives,
slitting us pin-drop
in herds we die
gradually sometimes
eating fleas,
that come to visit
saving us from disgrace
of throwing up every meal
in herds we die
snorting faeces'
of brotherly love
as we huddle
to exchange sorrows
and sometimes sleep
in herds we die,
weeping in one corner
at the corpse,
of our comrade
cursing him who jabs
pain through sterilized needles
in herds we die,
jostling for space
in our wrongful notions
of mankind
they-who built us shelter
and forgot to build us home
in herds we die
at night and dawn
because life behind bars
drags like toothache
forever,
in dingy thoughts
of escape.
- a bunch of dogs
battling fate
of a destitute
cry and more cry
sniffing blood
in the cage-hound
in herds we die,
by callous hands
that bow before man
seeking charity
to buy expensive knives,
slitting us pin-drop
in herds we die
gradually sometimes
eating fleas,
that come to visit
saving us from disgrace
of throwing up every meal
in herds we die
snorting faeces'
of brotherly love
as we huddle
to exchange sorrows
and sometimes sleep
in herds we die,
weeping in one corner
at the corpse,
of our comrade
cursing him who jabs
pain through sterilized needles
in herds we die,
jostling for space
in our wrongful notions
of mankind
they-who built us shelter
and forgot to build us home
in herds we die
at night and dawn
because life behind bars
drags like toothache
forever,
in dingy thoughts
of escape.
- a bunch of dogs
Oct 22, 2009
semiotics of solitude
why do rivers meet
did you ever think?
o wanderer of infinite space
travel beyond the horizon
the claws of humanity
savage only the meek
open your eyes and seek
"the hoarse of their voice
disturb me most
through the daily ritual
of their uncanny vice.
they growl and tether
and feast upon me"
and you hark back
to dooms in ache?
pronouncing victory for them
dumbfounded in extravagant tears
employing mercy-plea
oh is this how solitude is defined
in your vocabulary?
did you ever think?
o wanderer of infinite space
travel beyond the horizon
the claws of humanity
savage only the meek
open your eyes and seek
"the hoarse of their voice
disturb me most
through the daily ritual
of their uncanny vice.
they growl and tether
and feast upon me"
and you hark back
to dooms in ache?
pronouncing victory for them
dumbfounded in extravagant tears
employing mercy-plea
oh is this how solitude is defined
in your vocabulary?
Oct 19, 2009
wandermusk
a musk so raw,
a fume so rich
like gravel of sand
clutched in peasant's vow
nothing spectacular,
no heavenly blow
whirling familiarity
that is yet to be known
a musk so raw,
a sense so bright
like nebula of dust
hugging hurriedly the moon
reminisces of bygone
an epic? a legend?
devoured by saints
in the tricks of modern men
a musk so raw,
a sight so rare
like wet geraniums
in the wings of unicorn
look how it escapes the naked eye
like ashes settled on the quay
heeded by none, in the hourglass of time
yet a musk sets in, forever in the mind.
a fume so rich
like gravel of sand
clutched in peasant's vow
nothing spectacular,
no heavenly blow
whirling familiarity
that is yet to be known
a musk so raw,
a sense so bright
like nebula of dust
hugging hurriedly the moon
reminisces of bygone
an epic? a legend?
devoured by saints
in the tricks of modern men
a musk so raw,
a sight so rare
like wet geraniums
in the wings of unicorn
look how it escapes the naked eye
like ashes settled on the quay
heeded by none, in the hourglass of time
yet a musk sets in, forever in the mind.
Oct 18, 2009
un name
It all began from christening. A name, a superlative, an alibi!?. Trekking all the way up to the canyons of knowledge in search of that befitting syllable. A Shakespearean character is too mighty for him while a song can barely capture his essence. A poem is subject to varied interpretations for him who's sparkling clear in his otherwise construction of conundrums.
days ran in frenzy,fudging anagrams to arrive at a tailor-made sobriquet.
puzzled, riddled, quizzical, were all the words she could decipher. The wrecks of previous attempts were too impressionable to stray and the phonetics of victory were no where in near sight.
The popular voices reckon that journey defeats the destination, in her case it was words that had cast a spell. The hours of play stretched up to dawn-break.The verbatim gradually translated into a bond that evaded vocabulary, in dumbfounded ruminations.
Her struggle is not confined to christening him anymore and words evade her like never before.
days ran in frenzy,fudging anagrams to arrive at a tailor-made sobriquet.
puzzled, riddled, quizzical, were all the words she could decipher. The wrecks of previous attempts were too impressionable to stray and the phonetics of victory were no where in near sight.
The popular voices reckon that journey defeats the destination, in her case it was words that had cast a spell. The hours of play stretched up to dawn-break.The verbatim gradually translated into a bond that evaded vocabulary, in dumbfounded ruminations.
Her struggle is not confined to christening him anymore and words evade her like never before.
Oct 17, 2009
home-away diwali
I revel in the solitary trenches of my burrow on the festive night.in thick contentment, i animated my teeny-gesture of lighting lamps in the room (and walking 4 km-s hunting for silly diya's). The radiance which apart from glorifying the i-don't care-mess, induced a sense of calm. while there was pompous display of lights and sounds in the make-belief celebration of a home-away Diwali, i stumbled upon the association between family and festival. A new definition, a new symbiosis, i maneuvered.
Yes it is rife to say that festival is synonymous to family, like it or not. After talking to half-a-dozen of relatives, i felt a strange gush of affection towards them. Good to know that the idea of society persists in the black corridors of my solitude. The entire experience of being away on one of the crucial celebratory days, was undeniably unique.
tripped on Mj's videos just for the heck of doing something different today. Shared sweets with my pooches, bought some tit-bits for friendly-people(note the word usage please!), called up grand-parents(even though i went mute after 180 seconds).Noticed a long, marble-finish candle standing like a recluse and felt happy(diwali).
Yes it is rife to say that festival is synonymous to family, like it or not. After talking to half-a-dozen of relatives, i felt a strange gush of affection towards them. Good to know that the idea of society persists in the black corridors of my solitude. The entire experience of being away on one of the crucial celebratory days, was undeniably unique.
tripped on Mj's videos just for the heck of doing something different today. Shared sweets with my pooches, bought some tit-bits for friendly-people(note the word usage please!), called up grand-parents(even though i went mute after 180 seconds).Noticed a long, marble-finish candle standing like a recluse and felt happy(diwali).
Oct 16, 2009
ode to cuckoo
spun in mahogany,
she greets me,
in her friendly scents
and uncanny snouts
like a long-lost companion
-she, a maverick,an errand
whistles
and pooches
and coochie-coo's
her only language i know
fanning my sweat
with her own grime
and ants that
thrive on her tail
she jumps on to me
in her petite frail
i look at her
with an eye of sympathy
for she's often
dejected as stray
but to me she's beautiful
like a butterfly may
she greets me,
in her friendly scents
and uncanny snouts
like a long-lost companion
-she, a maverick,an errand
whistles
and pooches
and coochie-coo's
her only language i know
fanning my sweat
with her own grime
and ants that
thrive on her tail
she jumps on to me
in her petite frail
i look at her
with an eye of sympathy
for she's often
dejected as stray
but to me she's beautiful
like a butterfly may
Oct 14, 2009
we learn
the mist of his gait,
pierces the hallway
hallway; that is
sullen and sore
in its mundane bowels
of false answers
to fake questions
of battling yawns
and twitching moans
he walks like dust
on the flesh of absurdity
seen, heard, felt by none
like carcasses of
ash,forlorn
at the chimney dorm
the mist of his gait
in sepia of solitude
the fading footsteps
that occasionally gate-crash
run,run,run
he soliloquies
no, sings
a rhapsody,
birthing an identity.
(perhaps!)
pierces the hallway
hallway; that is
sullen and sore
in its mundane bowels
of false answers
to fake questions
of battling yawns
and twitching moans
he walks like dust
on the flesh of absurdity
seen, heard, felt by none
like carcasses of
ash,forlorn
at the chimney dorm
the mist of his gait
in sepia of solitude
the fading footsteps
that occasionally gate-crash
run,run,run
he soliloquies
no, sings
a rhapsody,
birthing an identity.
(perhaps!)
Oct 10, 2009
chimes
the chime of your eyes
run through my nerves
noiseless,
filling empty vessels
through silent glances
the chime of your eyes
exhibit tales and toys
lost,
in the the embers of
grizzly adulthood
the chime of your eyes
perfumes desire
soiled
in purple lilacs
and purple rosemary
the chime of your eyes
sing every night
soporific
in pillowing dreams
of valleys and woods
the chime of your eyes
becomes sunlight every now,
blinding
infernos and black-holes
of lesser societies
the chime of your eyes
vocal and vibrant
disquiet
even when you turn back
and walk backwards
the harmonious hushes
in the metallic glimpses
hear would you ever?
the chime of your eyes
through my very own pair
run through my nerves
noiseless,
filling empty vessels
through silent glances
the chime of your eyes
exhibit tales and toys
lost,
in the the embers of
grizzly adulthood
the chime of your eyes
perfumes desire
soiled
in purple lilacs
and purple rosemary
the chime of your eyes
sing every night
soporific
in pillowing dreams
of valleys and woods
the chime of your eyes
becomes sunlight every now,
blinding
infernos and black-holes
of lesser societies
the chime of your eyes
vocal and vibrant
disquiet
even when you turn back
and walk backwards
the harmonious hushes
in the metallic glimpses
hear would you ever?
the chime of your eyes
through my very own pair
Oct 2, 2009
old and new
In the repository of silence, I hear words flowing out of my body like bells voicing out of the rustic corridors of the neighborhood church; unstrung, unheard, enchanting(?) sinking into an internal vortex of unchained syllables. let lose; sliding through the magnum of old structures. old structures that reckon new smells, like a freshly preparation from the daily molasses of same, stoned bakery. savoring freedom so to summarize.
The purpose of a vacation is to reverberate sight and smell of newness in your thoughts, which amusingly i attain here. In the absence of human dystopia, the tic-tac clamor, of herd and heard.
Solitude redefined, painted in fine absences of brightly red and flashy pinks. and grey strokes inked in dotted whites of silvery clouds. This painting is devoured by no intellectuals in their salty criticisms and sour presumptions.
'change must come from within', triggered by changing skies perhaps. my babels lay conciliated in pleasant exchanges with the vocal wind. As i holiday in the old structures, feeling anew, afresh and aroused.
The purpose of a vacation is to reverberate sight and smell of newness in your thoughts, which amusingly i attain here. In the absence of human dystopia, the tic-tac clamor, of herd and heard.
Solitude redefined, painted in fine absences of brightly red and flashy pinks. and grey strokes inked in dotted whites of silvery clouds. This painting is devoured by no intellectuals in their salty criticisms and sour presumptions.
'change must come from within', triggered by changing skies perhaps. my babels lay conciliated in pleasant exchanges with the vocal wind. As i holiday in the old structures, feeling anew, afresh and aroused.
Sep 18, 2009
Aug 24, 2009
Aug 16, 2009
stage freight
Yes she speaks through the veil of anonymity
as the world around her revolves in their chaos
in their untimely exits and uninterrupted cues
screams of pleasure and pangs of discomfort
soaked in pathos of everyday trifles
they hear but seldom listen,
they talk but barely speak,
and silence?
How they never understood!
Raindrops tickle only the naked flesh
And not cloaks stitched out of expensive gifts
Shadows form light of their own
Emanated from the holy light of oneself
oh how they muster it
Though closed fists and careless glances
And laugh- that mocks its own dissonance
The stage is lit once again
-provided she gets to perform-.
as the world around her revolves in their chaos
in their untimely exits and uninterrupted cues
screams of pleasure and pangs of discomfort
soaked in pathos of everyday trifles
they hear but seldom listen,
they talk but barely speak,
and silence?
How they never understood!
Raindrops tickle only the naked flesh
And not cloaks stitched out of expensive gifts
Shadows form light of their own
Emanated from the holy light of oneself
oh how they muster it
Though closed fists and careless glances
And laugh- that mocks its own dissonance
The stage is lit once again
-provided she gets to perform-.
Aug 12, 2009
Amelie poulain
A butterfly flew out of the screen, scattering crimson hues of the lambent sky. Her magic potion transcends you to a celestial orchestra, performed by a zillion enthusiastic stars. You’re serenaded in their craft; you’re soaked in her colour. But it only lasts for 122 minutes. Ask Jean Paul Jeunette why?
The fabulous destiny of Amelie Poulian offers a boulevard of sights and sounds. Its strength lies in its incredible ability to move the audience in extravagant frames of simple nuances. An ordinary tale becomes a fable as an ordinary girl plays the role of a neighborhood cherub. Incidentally that is.
Amelie is brought up in the grief-struck environs of her nonchalant father. She is forced to spend her life in the confines of loneliness, just when hope meets her in an unsolicited treasure box. She gives in to her instincts and decides to trace its bearer. The spirit of mankind beguiles her to help the needy around. Amelie then finds her smiles floating on the ebb and flow of universe’s woe. She is rewarded with love wrapped in joys of companionship.
The music of the film intensifies its sensual experience. The piano impeccably gauges the mood of the film. Mellow in few scenes, gregarious in some. The soundtrack by Yan Tiersen brews a plethora of emotions. Dull yet reflective, gentle yet powerful, it compels you to plunge into the realms of the character. It’s when her conundrum becomes yours and her strife begins to taste mildly sweet.
It’s not the first time when the director has left his audience quivering in awe. The film bears the subtle tone of his earlier works Delicatessen and City of Lost Children. He cleverly uses the comical device he introduced in his film Foutaises; a sing-song narration of he likes/she likes. The editing unfailingly transforms vital scenes to a set of individual artifacts. Cinematographic dexterity gleams through the introductory scenes of the primary characters, including an angora cat.
Life and its complexity whispers through simple yet eccentric imagery. Eccentric being the operational word here. “A sperm with an X chromosome belonging to Rapheal Poulain made a dash for an egg with his wife Amadine and Amelie is born”
Audrey Tautou(playing Amelie) carries the weight of the film in her elfin eyes, setting a sky-high benchmark for her acting prowess. In her foreign syllables she appears profoundly familiar, sketching the character through per plum cheeks and facial lines.
The film overall is a multi-sensorial indulgence. It induces us to see the world through a fair dash of fantasy, soft strokes of imagination and a lot of hope. voila! A recipe for la vie en rose.
prologue
One look at all those stern, disapproving eyes and he froze,gripped by panic. He felt a chunk of coal burning in his pocket one after another. Drops of sweat tricked down his forehead like beads of a necklace pulled out effortlessly. He was drenched in the conscience of his own crime. But it was too late. Very soon, the jaws of justice would wither him into the abyss of absence.
Anticipating death is hugely different from looking it in the eye. Kazoo realized it today. Wasn’t it so much better to have been shot by the black commandos, having left no time for guilt to back-fire? He had known the answer. The visuals of the ravaged building, which had dodged him for long, were being played repeatedly now. A terrorist has somewhat began to feel the terror…
Anticipating death is hugely different from looking it in the eye. Kazoo realized it today. Wasn’t it so much better to have been shot by the black commandos, having left no time for guilt to back-fire? He had known the answer. The visuals of the ravaged building, which had dodged him for long, were being played repeatedly now. A terrorist has somewhat began to feel the terror…
Aug 11, 2009
my first week in ACJ
He greeted me through a pair of rusty eyes, with the panache of a seasoned steward. He was warm but hardly affectionate. Without wasting time on the conventional introductions, he frisked towards the college building. Meanwhile I poked him with a set of questions on how he found the place, are people rude to him, how nasty are the professors. He remained skillfully silent. As we passed a faintly resembling eatery, I asked him if he had adjusted to the food. He looked back and barked.
He is Cuckoo, the college-residential dog who is now a great pal or do I say the only great pal I have. We became friends whining about our daily dining. He told me he looked garishly suave four-months ago when he absconded from his place of birth. To me, he looked multiple shades darker than the dogs I had been with in Delhi. He was severely lanky for his age and breed. He told me he had lost 7 kg’s since then. i obviously believed him.
Like me, he was petrified of intellectual dogs. And here we found them in abundance, in all shapes and sizes, and fairly uniform colour. Establishing a classroom outside their own, under a lone standing tree. Thankfully, there is only one tree. They talked about the artillery of Che Guevera while we raved about the culinary of colonel Sandlers. They lamented about global pricing of crude oil, we hoped for an increase in the price of coconut oil (we bathed in).
I was more unfortunate than cuckoo when it came to suffering. Dogs were not allowed inside the hostel. Or should I say canine of the IQ equivalent to Cuckoo's. Rules were laid, highly atypical of what one associates with hostel. “kindly flush the pot after excreting” “ensure that buckets are filled with water at all times”, my roomates . People quarreled over the colour of mugs, for it had to match that of the bucket. This fixation with sanitary was to do with the lack of it. We faced water-shortage on the second day and therefore refrained from throwing spitballs at each other.
To prevent extinction of my wits, i entertained my roomies in a funny tamil accent I had unknowingly acquired. aiyaaaoh! free Kandaswamy ringtones by Vodafone to north-indians had a modest role to play. When I din’t sing I sulked. The kitty-parties had mushroomed at every corner and corner on the three floors. Competing against each other at the top of their voices. Fashion sense was critically reviewed by our in-house journalists. Language was improved through flowery-swearing. And dare you call them page three journalists!
I read out Saki to Cuckoo for he felt increasingly lonely amid a class of non-relatable people. He liked it because he could now initiate a conversation with professors out here. The ones who can never run out of time and sarcasm. For feedback, a recorded ‘big-laugh’ SFX would do the job well.
Classrooms compensated for our rickety hostel beds, but that was realized only after a week. This draws me to an end which happens to be the dawn of a fresh range of experiences. Cuckoo, hopefully, would have matured by then.
He is Cuckoo, the college-residential dog who is now a great pal or do I say the only great pal I have. We became friends whining about our daily dining. He told me he looked garishly suave four-months ago when he absconded from his place of birth. To me, he looked multiple shades darker than the dogs I had been with in Delhi. He was severely lanky for his age and breed. He told me he had lost 7 kg’s since then. i obviously believed him.
Like me, he was petrified of intellectual dogs. And here we found them in abundance, in all shapes and sizes, and fairly uniform colour. Establishing a classroom outside their own, under a lone standing tree. Thankfully, there is only one tree. They talked about the artillery of Che Guevera while we raved about the culinary of colonel Sandlers. They lamented about global pricing of crude oil, we hoped for an increase in the price of coconut oil (we bathed in).
I was more unfortunate than cuckoo when it came to suffering. Dogs were not allowed inside the hostel. Or should I say canine of the IQ equivalent to Cuckoo's. Rules were laid, highly atypical of what one associates with hostel. “kindly flush the pot after excreting” “ensure that buckets are filled with water at all times”, my roomates . People quarreled over the colour of mugs, for it had to match that of the bucket. This fixation with sanitary was to do with the lack of it. We faced water-shortage on the second day and therefore refrained from throwing spitballs at each other.
To prevent extinction of my wits, i entertained my roomies in a funny tamil accent I had unknowingly acquired. aiyaaaoh! free Kandaswamy ringtones by Vodafone to north-indians had a modest role to play. When I din’t sing I sulked. The kitty-parties had mushroomed at every corner and corner on the three floors. Competing against each other at the top of their voices. Fashion sense was critically reviewed by our in-house journalists. Language was improved through flowery-swearing. And dare you call them page three journalists!
I read out Saki to Cuckoo for he felt increasingly lonely amid a class of non-relatable people. He liked it because he could now initiate a conversation with professors out here. The ones who can never run out of time and sarcasm. For feedback, a recorded ‘big-laugh’ SFX would do the job well.
Classrooms compensated for our rickety hostel beds, but that was realized only after a week. This draws me to an end which happens to be the dawn of a fresh range of experiences. Cuckoo, hopefully, would have matured by then.
Aug 7, 2009
a tale of 5 w's and a why
in the white rectum of silence, these walls have now ceased to question my existence in it's tall standing on the other side of the puddle.disappointment or out of sheer boredom perhaps. the combined force of agent z's fail to make me talk.
why? because i simply cant relate to them.
"what a horrible meal"
"why can't they hire a north-indian cook"
silent sobs interrupted by high-pitched rambling. each day i choke during breakfast, lunch and dinner and not because of food, mind you!
but then isn't it so much better than daily discourses on
casteism,
nationalism,
humanism?
i wonder.
why? because i simply cant relate to them.
"what a horrible meal"
"why can't they hire a north-indian cook"
silent sobs interrupted by high-pitched rambling. each day i choke during breakfast, lunch and dinner and not because of food, mind you!
but then isn't it so much better than daily discourses on
casteism,
nationalism,
humanism?
i wonder.
Jul 26, 2009
Jul 19, 2009
defininition of good morning
i manage to grasp the first swirl of leaves, a subject of great pride and greater joy, perhaps equivalent to the receipt of first birthday present and first salary for its nature of compulsive exclusivity.
Annihilating the dictates of sleep, i feel mighty in my otherwise aching body.This morning effortlessly paints a gorgeous dream that i was longing for all these days in my minuscule hours of presumptuous rest, dismissing the need and necessity of dreams altogether.
The sky rattles,
the serendipity of sky,
like a sleeping beauty
felt in her lover's touch.
The previous hours were whiled away in the multiple concoctions of existence and similar mind-wrenching thoughts, while the morning waned almost all of them in the stroke of purple dawn. Leaving me and fellow cicadas in equal proportions of awe.
It seems sunshine is born to unravel mysteries of all times, in the flicker of a discovery, like a traveler finding his shell, walking astray on an unsolicited beach in the fathom of mere incidence.
like the prevalence of my monochromatic thoughts as a matter of daily ritual, the clouds today are no different in their cryptic design except they happen to be my muse today.
the jaded eyelids, talk to the sky
through the clamor of bird twitter
while it smiles at my audacity
in a jingle of breezy wisper
i also happen to like this morning for thinning the profound diversity of this place. blurring the much debated political, and socially irreverent key issues, for intellectuals are fast asleep. The kinds who're perpetually stocked with war journals in their pockets, falter to witness peace at this hour of the day.
oh how i forget they're busy dreaming about a lucrative job in the expansive arena of conflict journalism promising the prospects of a good morning to one and all.
Annihilating the dictates of sleep, i feel mighty in my otherwise aching body.This morning effortlessly paints a gorgeous dream that i was longing for all these days in my minuscule hours of presumptuous rest, dismissing the need and necessity of dreams altogether.
The sky rattles,
the serendipity of sky,
like a sleeping beauty
felt in her lover's touch.
The previous hours were whiled away in the multiple concoctions of existence and similar mind-wrenching thoughts, while the morning waned almost all of them in the stroke of purple dawn. Leaving me and fellow cicadas in equal proportions of awe.
It seems sunshine is born to unravel mysteries of all times, in the flicker of a discovery, like a traveler finding his shell, walking astray on an unsolicited beach in the fathom of mere incidence.
like the prevalence of my monochromatic thoughts as a matter of daily ritual, the clouds today are no different in their cryptic design except they happen to be my muse today.
the jaded eyelids, talk to the sky
through the clamor of bird twitter
while it smiles at my audacity
in a jingle of breezy wisper
i also happen to like this morning for thinning the profound diversity of this place. blurring the much debated political, and socially irreverent key issues, for intellectuals are fast asleep. The kinds who're perpetually stocked with war journals in their pockets, falter to witness peace at this hour of the day.
oh how i forget they're busy dreaming about a lucrative job in the expansive arena of conflict journalism promising the prospects of a good morning to one and all.
Jul 18, 2009
Jul 17, 2009
i do
like a lichen grows
on alabaster's skin
growing, decaying,
alternatively
i thrive on moments,
these days
loving, hating,
most dispassionately
on alabaster's skin
growing, decaying,
alternatively
i thrive on moments,
these days
loving, hating,
most dispassionately
Jul 7, 2009
deeparture part 2
The voice of my heart reverberates through the four walls of my mind. sensations amass an enormous chunk of control and equilibrium. clocks are held are as objects of importance while days are being stalked like never before.
'belongings', 'attachments', 'longing' give way to 'anticipation', 'wait'and 'future', looking handsome in their new attire. It's quite a thing to see the whole present-future transition with eyes wide open while all you do is stand in quiet contemplation
'belongings', 'attachments', 'longing' give way to 'anticipation', 'wait'and 'future', looking handsome in their new attire. It's quite a thing to see the whole present-future transition with eyes wide open while all you do is stand in quiet contemplation
Jul 4, 2009
deeparture part1
a melange of thoughts race against each other to approach to the finishing line, which apparently happens to be the 'start'. The arousal of first emotional potpourri was welcomed like the first rain. Thus making it an eventful night. It's fascinating to see cold-hearted shedding their skin instantaneously in the touch of a tear.It induces a wicked smile to my demonic demeanor, capitalising on my pride.
22 kg's in a tan-brown trolly bag.
i begin to collect my belongings excluding time ofcourse.
22 kg's in a tan-brown trolly bag.
i begin to collect my belongings excluding time ofcourse.
Jul 2, 2009
what is the colour of your mind?
yellow,
a pale, faded one.
The one that usually blinds your eye, in it's customary radiance. celebrating despair in a bright lit room. Today i see dollops of yellow in my well-bred grey universe.
An expression of nothingness, yellow stands for a mellowed invoice of the non-conformist.
a pale, faded one.
The one that usually blinds your eye, in it's customary radiance. celebrating despair in a bright lit room. Today i see dollops of yellow in my well-bred grey universe.
An expression of nothingness, yellow stands for a mellowed invoice of the non-conformist.
a succumbing
i thought i could live
in the illusion forever
where peace of mind
was awarded a middle finger
in a blindfolded journey
i diverged my train of thought
only to cram into wires
which can never be sought
i 'felt' an uneasiness
and that's when the trouble began
in a detached sense of consciousness
how can i ever understand the man
oh, i forgot
i am practical and non-demanding
depriving me of my response
to anything alarming
so i bear this too
on the road to perdition
giving in to their desires
in the acquired state of salvation
in the illusion forever
where peace of mind
was awarded a middle finger
in a blindfolded journey
i diverged my train of thought
only to cram into wires
which can never be sought
i 'felt' an uneasiness
and that's when the trouble began
in a detached sense of consciousness
how can i ever understand the man
oh, i forgot
i am practical and non-demanding
depriving me of my response
to anything alarming
so i bear this too
on the road to perdition
giving in to their desires
in the acquired state of salvation
Jun 22, 2009
tripping on exams
i didn't click a single picture of the two-cities, i trotted in a span of 12 days. because i could see the visuals threatening the independence of my mind. I abstained from the purchase of memorabilia to be carried in the mammoth-sized luggage i was bagging. i instead chose to mutilate the frame and present some factual-made like fiction frescos below:
1. gender equality is best practiced in mumbai(i was the body guard to my 'modestly' good-looking cousin. This when my length of shorts was shorter than his at any given point of time.)
2.babies should never travel by air, because parents are lame at their attempt of psyching them with the "i'll throw you out of the window" threats.
3.you can never lose your way in the locals, because chances are that one out of the hundred heads will be sensible
4.the new entry to juhu beach will leave you at a remarkably dim-lit, thinly occupied place to have some good time.( i assume at this point of time no filth will match your dirty acts at 12 am there)
5.clouds are not making babies, i testified it in the plane(and so it didn't rain in the entire stay)
6."tamil teeliyam"(i cant speak tamil/shutup), is the golden word to be repeated the moment a black opens his zip.(you shouldn't think pervert coz they were dhotis and not jeans)
7.do not buy a power-vodka, no matter how much you feel like boozing,(contact my roommates for further details)
8.kanzivaram sarees clad with bata chappals is the look for the season(hurry limited stocks, order now)
9. pudhe station -bay of bombay( next station was always abhay. in his bland taste of life, he spiced up my entire trip)
10, oh, it reminds me. i have a cure for maggi mishap under the patent name of me and abhay(how to cook your maggi in the absence of a tastemaker)
11.the amount of sweat released in one hour of dancing equals to spending one minute in mumbai. and hence i missed dancing
12. collaba causeway is a must-visit. it boasts of some egypt style restaurant under a hardcore indian name 'bade-miyan' and shops which are too true to be fake. (for instance you will find under colours of benetton-a brightly lit up store standing proudly next to the United colors of Benetton.
13. a rare sight of beautiful people can be grabbed at theobroma's. it's because they are all tourists.
14.back home, i received the best welcome of my life. my pet came running down the stairs and refused to back off for the entire day
15. i am willing to take exams all my life, if they promise such a trip everytime.
1. gender equality is best practiced in mumbai(i was the body guard to my 'modestly' good-looking cousin. This when my length of shorts was shorter than his at any given point of time.)
2.babies should never travel by air, because parents are lame at their attempt of psyching them with the "i'll throw you out of the window" threats.
3.you can never lose your way in the locals, because chances are that one out of the hundred heads will be sensible
4.the new entry to juhu beach will leave you at a remarkably dim-lit, thinly occupied place to have some good time.( i assume at this point of time no filth will match your dirty acts at 12 am there)
5.clouds are not making babies, i testified it in the plane(and so it didn't rain in the entire stay)
6."tamil teeliyam"(i cant speak tamil/shutup), is the golden word to be repeated the moment a black opens his zip.(you shouldn't think pervert coz they were dhotis and not jeans)
7.do not buy a power-vodka, no matter how much you feel like boozing,(contact my roommates for further details)
8.kanzivaram sarees clad with bata chappals is the look for the season(hurry limited stocks, order now)
9. pudhe station -bay of bombay( next station was always abhay. in his bland taste of life, he spiced up my entire trip)
10, oh, it reminds me. i have a cure for maggi mishap under the patent name of me and abhay(how to cook your maggi in the absence of a tastemaker)
11.the amount of sweat released in one hour of dancing equals to spending one minute in mumbai. and hence i missed dancing
12. collaba causeway is a must-visit. it boasts of some egypt style restaurant under a hardcore indian name 'bade-miyan' and shops which are too true to be fake. (for instance you will find under colours of benetton-a brightly lit up store standing proudly next to the United colors of Benetton.
13. a rare sight of beautiful people can be grabbed at theobroma's. it's because they are all tourists.
14.back home, i received the best welcome of my life. my pet came running down the stairs and refused to back off for the entire day
15. i am willing to take exams all my life, if they promise such a trip everytime.
Jun 8, 2009
at the end of the day
The stillness of night brings immense fulfillment to my locomotive thoughts(and limbs these days). This particular hour draws the final curtain that leaves my bones bare, before a nascent flight to dreams.
some days i read
some days i watch
while mostly i think
The sharks and frills(of the day) don't bother me much, as i proceed towards an end. A happy or deviant from it. Over time i can coherently say, that this form of end encapsulates both hope and aspiration in the most subtle form. Gradually releasing all the pent-up emotions, in it's no- stain(of that stinking memory),no-dirt claim.
some days it's enchanting
some days it's bitter
while mostly it's soothing.
some days i read
some days i watch
while mostly i think
The sharks and frills(of the day) don't bother me much, as i proceed towards an end. A happy or deviant from it. Over time i can coherently say, that this form of end encapsulates both hope and aspiration in the most subtle form. Gradually releasing all the pent-up emotions, in it's no- stain(of that stinking memory),no-dirt claim.
some days it's enchanting
some days it's bitter
while mostly it's soothing.
Jun 2, 2009
strange new melodies seem to strum the unfamiliar territories of my mind today. anticipation, anxiety or accretion? i hold divided views on that. stranded at the end of the tunnel i gait backwards to redeem a fresh daisy hope. Traveling backwards can take you places. and i am curiously waiting for this phenomena to jolt my neutrons.
On a rolling stone, i experience rampant doldrums beyond the scope of generic perplexities of human mind. Like a final thwart prior to that much sought equilibrium. It will either destroy all or flourish the prospects of an inner societal peace.
CALM.
one two three
CALM.
On a rolling stone, i experience rampant doldrums beyond the scope of generic perplexities of human mind. Like a final thwart prior to that much sought equilibrium. It will either destroy all or flourish the prospects of an inner societal peace.
CALM.
one two three
CALM.
Jun 1, 2009
.JPG)
May 31, 2009
the walk
leaping into
that other-world
is now more of a habit
almost noiseless
in our steps.
maps are drawn
fiercely
into each others head
while straying
into our individual thoughts
witness the mortals
and immortals alike
how a journey
transcends
in those tiny steps
that other-world
is now more of a habit
almost noiseless
in our steps.
maps are drawn
fiercely
into each others head
while straying
into our individual thoughts
witness the mortals
and immortals alike
how a journey
transcends
in those tiny steps
The musk of rain-moist earth hypnotizes my senses, in concurrence to floyd's crooning in the backdrop. "And aaaai, i become comfortably numb". i am almost static in my being save my mind which is catapulting in a flock of incoherent thoughts.
For some reason i can breathe life, even through a key hole today. While the aching belly is struggling hard to dampen my hydraulic muse. it seems it's going to be a long night, perhaps pleasantly long.
For some reason i can breathe life, even through a key hole today. While the aching belly is struggling hard to dampen my hydraulic muse. it seems it's going to be a long night, perhaps pleasantly long.
May 28, 2009
hope is survival
if i were to define life, i would think of cast away. If i were to define hope i will steer my thoughts to a football-face. And if if i have to define love i would ascertain both life and hope(in chuck noland's girlfriend).
Simplicity of this film is magical in it's colourful manifestation of thought-voyaged in to the plot. The dimensions of survival are procured endearingly in a single-location, single-shot actor with no background score and intermittently-heard monologue.
stuck in a rudimentary living, Noland's sorrowful four years belittle infront of his everyday achievements(lighting up a fire, breaking a coconut, humanizing the football. And that compels your mind to find strong nuances of discovery's bear Grylls.
a fiercely insinuating love for nature is subjected to adverse disgust as it bleeds into the nerves of one-man Chuck. If notorious tides weren;t enough, the sinister rains drown his happiness to a permanently inhabited abysmal.
As an advocate of solitude i found this setting hugely melancholic. Being stranded by choice is vastly different from being stranded by compulsion. desertion in it's callous form is a heart-wrenching experience, where the question of survival is preceded by the will 'to live or not to live'.
The prescription for survival is identifiably hope and a little bit of determintion just adds a pinch of salt to it.
as the greeting says, The best thing about this world is the world itself.
May 26, 2009
the glory of infinity
ever seen raindrops multiply,
at the brush of silvery clouds
performing a ballet
in the feverishly blue sky
the cooing cuckoo's
in the Garden of Eden
on hundred birches
singing sweet odes
and the whistling leaves
in their left-right sway
on a breezy evening
felt upon the traveler's sleeve
one two three?
no fifty,
and a hundred
was it that simple to be?
and what about
the flexing of your lash?
at my heartbeat
visible on your snow-white snout
calculate , come on
the doubling joys,
as hours trickle
by heaps and tonnes
at the brush of silvery clouds
performing a ballet
in the feverishly blue sky
the cooing cuckoo's
in the Garden of Eden
on hundred birches
singing sweet odes
and the whistling leaves
in their left-right sway
on a breezy evening
felt upon the traveler's sleeve
one two three?
no fifty,
and a hundred
was it that simple to be?
and what about
the flexing of your lash?
at my heartbeat
visible on your snow-white snout
calculate , come on
the doubling joys,
as hours trickle
by heaps and tonnes
May 15, 2009
homecoming
and pain knocks my courtyard,
most subserviently this time
without a bang
with much fervor
numbingly,
almost tantalizing
in its incoming
and i fell multiple times
in my little home
like a bunch of nest
that splitters infinitely
pain, which is generally sweet
wretches your bones
when it gets into you
and today i let it enter
most subserviently this time
without a bang
with much fervor
numbingly,
almost tantalizing
in its incoming
and i fell multiple times
in my little home
like a bunch of nest
that splitters infinitely
pain, which is generally sweet
wretches your bones
when it gets into you
and today i let it enter
May 7, 2009
bed time stories
ever stared into the moon
pervading into the stillness
of night?
it talks to me silently
through it's sheen:
'of fantasies, experienced by open eyes
of hymns and chants soaked in wine
how artemis neared her m
while hermes watched her infectiously'
how easily darkness vanquishes,
in his pearl-like embrace
as ursa performs it's divinely ballet
to honour his tenderness
'glistening the sky,
draped in its ivory white,
ethereal in it's touch
to beasts and birds alike'
i see it at a comfortable distance
as it crashes straight into my land
without disturbing it's equilibrium
ceasing not to enhance it's high.
Apr 29, 2009
quid pro quo
an exchange of glances
probing an insight
to what seemed known
into the strangest of eyes
a refreshing perception
through cocky observations
in return for a spell
commonly viewed as an oracle
words were traded,
facts were vouched
promises were beheld
as the pulse unanimously fused
a communion had begun
uninvited and disguised
like an active militant
gauged in his dainty form
while the thoughts fought
in gardens of attraction
we germinated, what emerged priceless
in our little quid pro quo
probing an insight
to what seemed known
into the strangest of eyes
a refreshing perception
through cocky observations
in return for a spell
commonly viewed as an oracle
words were traded,
facts were vouched
promises were beheld
as the pulse unanimously fused
a communion had begun
uninvited and disguised
like an active militant
gauged in his dainty form
while the thoughts fought
in gardens of attraction
we germinated, what emerged priceless
in our little quid pro quo
a find
before my words dried up,
i grabbed you
like a falling star
while you remained
a static moon
ever so exhuberant,
in your cold lambency.
you brought this mirror
back it's glory
carving your image
in hues of pale yellow
and you call yourself
colourblind
(how did you feel red then?)
today i walk with you
spotting the berry
and the goose
gyrating in a sense
of belonging
as i enunciate
to have found my muse.
i grabbed you
like a falling star
while you remained
a static moon
ever so exhuberant,
in your cold lambency.
you brought this mirror
back it's glory
carving your image
in hues of pale yellow
and you call yourself
colourblind
(how did you feel red then?)
today i walk with you
spotting the berry
and the goose
gyrating in a sense
of belonging
as i enunciate
to have found my muse.
Apr 18, 2009
i preserve
do you read my silence?
because these days i only converse with me.
it's a chauvinistic thought, but i can relate with only a handful of you, partly because of my obliterated progression(i only grow diagonally these days). Like a buzzing sound in my ear at the night-time, which has no apparent reason to occur.and majorly because of my heightened sense of selectivity in choosing thoughts to construct words.
mediocrity irks me,and society thrives on 'commonness' which transverses into gang rape of individuality.
My mind is not well-stimulated to make an initiative to talk to you. my growing disinterest in life is because of lack of a suitable muse.
where have all the daisies gone?
or a burning blue sky
a quivering hand to hold
at the sea-side.
i reach out to find you
in my altered state of appearance
they call 'invisibility'
and i call it sub- conscious being
My plight is that of an unheard cuckoo, trying to wake up humanity through it's meticulous monologue. Over time I'm losing faith in communication, because the essence of it lies in the fact that the sender and the receiver lie on the same line. the line of thought.
i redeem myself everyday from the clutches of mankind, so grossly proper in their ways and manner.
so here i leap into my zone of nothingness, with a hope of construction and a voice to express
i preserve.
a song which attempts to describe my state:
all around me are familiar faces
worn out places
worn out faces
bright and early for the daily races
going no where
going no where
their tears are filling up their glasses
no expression
no expression
hide my head i wanna drown my sorrow
no tomorrow
no tomorrow
and i find i kind of funny
i find it kind of sad
the dreams in which i'm dying are the best i've ever had
i find it hard to tell you
i find it hard to take
when people run in circles its a very very
mad world
mad world
children waiting for the day they feel good
happy birthday
happy birthday
and i feel the way that every child should
sit and listen
sit and listen
went to school and i was very nervous
no one knew me
no one new me
hello teacher tell me what's my lesson
look right through me
look right through me
and i find i kind of funny
i find it kind of sad
the dreams in which i'm dying are the best i've ever had
i find it hard to tell you
i find it hard to take
when people run in circles its a very very
mad world
mad world
enlarging your world
mad world
because these days i only converse with me.
it's a chauvinistic thought, but i can relate with only a handful of you, partly because of my obliterated progression(i only grow diagonally these days). Like a buzzing sound in my ear at the night-time, which has no apparent reason to occur.and majorly because of my heightened sense of selectivity in choosing thoughts to construct words.
mediocrity irks me,and society thrives on 'commonness' which transverses into gang rape of individuality.
My mind is not well-stimulated to make an initiative to talk to you. my growing disinterest in life is because of lack of a suitable muse.
where have all the daisies gone?
or a burning blue sky
a quivering hand to hold
at the sea-side.
i reach out to find you
in my altered state of appearance
they call 'invisibility'
and i call it sub- conscious being
My plight is that of an unheard cuckoo, trying to wake up humanity through it's meticulous monologue. Over time I'm losing faith in communication, because the essence of it lies in the fact that the sender and the receiver lie on the same line. the line of thought.
i redeem myself everyday from the clutches of mankind, so grossly proper in their ways and manner.
so here i leap into my zone of nothingness, with a hope of construction and a voice to express
i preserve.
a song which attempts to describe my state:
all around me are familiar faces
worn out places
worn out faces
bright and early for the daily races
going no where
going no where
their tears are filling up their glasses
no expression
no expression
hide my head i wanna drown my sorrow
no tomorrow
no tomorrow
and i find i kind of funny
i find it kind of sad
the dreams in which i'm dying are the best i've ever had
i find it hard to tell you
i find it hard to take
when people run in circles its a very very
mad world
mad world
children waiting for the day they feel good
happy birthday
happy birthday
and i feel the way that every child should
sit and listen
sit and listen
went to school and i was very nervous
no one knew me
no one new me
hello teacher tell me what's my lesson
look right through me
look right through me
and i find i kind of funny
i find it kind of sad
the dreams in which i'm dying are the best i've ever had
i find it hard to tell you
i find it hard to take
when people run in circles its a very very
mad world
mad world
enlarging your world
mad world
Apr 3, 2009
the leaf and the dew
quivering in it's chill.
the last dew
of the early dawn
adores the leaf and hates it too
as much as it seeks,
her effortless caress,
the droplet fears
a loss of identity, a loss of life
for one hustle,
is it all it takes
to shed a tear
in it's falling self
trust no protection,
it bears the greatest danger
it when the strongest of bonds
weaken your strength
breaks away the dew
this time from her home
before the leaf corners it,
in her invitation to death
the last dew
of the early dawn
adores the leaf and hates it too
as much as it seeks,
her effortless caress,
the droplet fears
a loss of identity, a loss of life
for one hustle,
is it all it takes
to shed a tear
in it's falling self
trust no protection,
it bears the greatest danger
it when the strongest of bonds
weaken your strength
breaks away the dew
this time from her home
before the leaf corners it,
in her invitation to death
Mar 29, 2009
the flute
in its brisk stagger
across the glistened glade,
a clarion is made,
to the earthy town.
unleashing future
in bounties
of a self-made man
through a pollen shower
of red lilacs
ramming it's path
which leads to his ear
and touches his heart
in the sound of a twilight shower
"o mystic wind,
you smell of my beloved
in your distinct garb,
you brought him here
and embraced me in your breeze"
Mar 24, 2009
i proclaim
1. not to expect anything because expectation is ungratifying
2. to induce a sense of clarity in all my endeavors, because you cannot live in grey forever
3. to see through things for their greater hidden cause
4. nothing can devastate me, as long as i 'think'
5.to acknowledge love in all its manifestations
6. to understand animals better than social animals
7.trust is instinctive and faith is worked upon
8.what can't be reasoned cannot be acknowledged
9.to have no regards for self-depreciating morons
10.that silence is the most beautiful thing two people share, provided they are in love
11.acceptance is survival
12.its good to shed tears (annually)
13.life is best lived in moments and experiences
14.to learn to differentiate between 'impulse' and 'instinct'
15.to value the power of expression
16.to do things only if they interest me
17.defeat is not purposeless
18.its not difficult to understand nature's plan if you see it on a large size map
19. words are a thing of joy as long as they are put to correct use
20.relationships are complicated if you don't know what to seek from them
21.to look for depth in matter and its anti
22. a person who has learnt to be alone has learnt to live
23.generalisations tend to confuse me, because no two people are same
24- to watch closely my thoughts every time i wish to express
25. independence is a necessity
26. i am born to dance apart from what i do
27. yes you can read a person like a book, over and over again provided it;s interesting
28. shadows aren't deceptive. just know yourself well
29. everything has an innate music, pleasant mostly
30. worldly age is deceptive
i believe in i and surrender everything else to it.
2. to induce a sense of clarity in all my endeavors, because you cannot live in grey forever
3. to see through things for their greater hidden cause
4. nothing can devastate me, as long as i 'think'
5.to acknowledge love in all its manifestations
6. to understand animals better than social animals
7.trust is instinctive and faith is worked upon
8.what can't be reasoned cannot be acknowledged
9.to have no regards for self-depreciating morons
10.that silence is the most beautiful thing two people share, provided they are in love
11.acceptance is survival
12.its good to shed tears (annually)
13.life is best lived in moments and experiences
14.to learn to differentiate between 'impulse' and 'instinct'
15.to value the power of expression
16.to do things only if they interest me
17.defeat is not purposeless
18.its not difficult to understand nature's plan if you see it on a large size map
19. words are a thing of joy as long as they are put to correct use
20.relationships are complicated if you don't know what to seek from them
21.to look for depth in matter and its anti
22. a person who has learnt to be alone has learnt to live
23.generalisations tend to confuse me, because no two people are same
24- to watch closely my thoughts every time i wish to express
25. independence is a necessity
26. i am born to dance apart from what i do
27. yes you can read a person like a book, over and over again provided it;s interesting
28. shadows aren't deceptive. just know yourself well
29. everything has an innate music, pleasant mostly
30. worldly age is deceptive
i believe in i and surrender everything else to it.
Mar 21, 2009
Mar 14, 2009
a night well spent
After flipping thirty pages of a stray magazine, fatigue began to hit her tremendously. She is lying on the magazine in a half-dead state, pretending to ignore the marching hands of the wall-clock.
ten minutes to two, eleven minutes to two, twelve minutes to two.
Sleep eluded her from several days and today was nothing different. She is in no mood to track her eye-lid movement. It was fourteen blinks per minute yesterday. So, she decides to track the obscure shadows instead.
By 2.40, she possibly became familiar with all the neighbourhood car alarms. She saw her head tapping to one. In a sudden twitch, her neck began to hurt badly which coaxed her otherwise stiff body to see the night of the day.
Emergency lamp is turned off.
Like a glaring warden, emergency light of the phone commands her tiny pupils to expand. She had flashed her phone at the window after hearing quaint noises. As she began to concentrate, she felt the window at the extreme corner of the room, being smashed by a pointed object. Perhaps a knife or an equivalent sharp object. It induces copious fear in her now fully-awaken system.
She trembles incessantly as she follows the continual low sounds of the abrasive glass.
It's quarter to four and she decides it's time for some immediate action before the robber makes his way through the glass window. Meanwhile she thinks of peeping throught the window but rules it out as it might alert the robber who would in turn injure her.
She formulates a plan or rather two. She plans to get to the kitchen and collect all the dangerous tools of mass consumption. red chilly powder always yields results. She decided she'll blow the red elixir into the robber's eye through the tiny slit betweent he window and the grill. This plan seemed perfect until she realised she will be all alone executing it and it didn't go quite well with her.
So, she decided to wake her mother in the adjacent room instead. She quickly tip-toed and frantically woke up her devilishly sleeping mum.
"Are you okay?"
"You sure it's not a dream?", asked the groggy-eyed mum.
She voiced her fear in the most aggressive manner and convinced her mother of the robber's misdoing. Together they marched at the battlefield, to the adjacent room. On the way she explained how swift these robbers are screeching the glass pane, in order to break it and enter.
Her mum sheds a drop of sweat, while she is bathing in it. She remains near the kitchen, backing up her carefully chosen resources while her mum walks up to the window.
Mother fixes her eye and tries to follow the sound. Her breath is tight and is released in a cranky haul at the window. She lifts the asian- sky- shop excercise rod and knocks it against the window, producing a loud meowwwwwwwwww.
it's 4.25 and she burries her swollen eyes unto the ground, while the mother walks away into her room grumbling .
ten minutes to two, eleven minutes to two, twelve minutes to two.
Sleep eluded her from several days and today was nothing different. She is in no mood to track her eye-lid movement. It was fourteen blinks per minute yesterday. So, she decides to track the obscure shadows instead.
By 2.40, she possibly became familiar with all the neighbourhood car alarms. She saw her head tapping to one. In a sudden twitch, her neck began to hurt badly which coaxed her otherwise stiff body to see the night of the day.
Emergency lamp is turned off.
Like a glaring warden, emergency light of the phone commands her tiny pupils to expand. She had flashed her phone at the window after hearing quaint noises. As she began to concentrate, she felt the window at the extreme corner of the room, being smashed by a pointed object. Perhaps a knife or an equivalent sharp object. It induces copious fear in her now fully-awaken system.
She trembles incessantly as she follows the continual low sounds of the abrasive glass.
It's quarter to four and she decides it's time for some immediate action before the robber makes his way through the glass window. Meanwhile she thinks of peeping throught the window but rules it out as it might alert the robber who would in turn injure her.
She formulates a plan or rather two. She plans to get to the kitchen and collect all the dangerous tools of mass consumption. red chilly powder always yields results. She decided she'll blow the red elixir into the robber's eye through the tiny slit betweent he window and the grill. This plan seemed perfect until she realised she will be all alone executing it and it didn't go quite well with her.
So, she decided to wake her mother in the adjacent room instead. She quickly tip-toed and frantically woke up her devilishly sleeping mum.
"Are you okay?"
"You sure it's not a dream?", asked the groggy-eyed mum.
She voiced her fear in the most aggressive manner and convinced her mother of the robber's misdoing. Together they marched at the battlefield, to the adjacent room. On the way she explained how swift these robbers are screeching the glass pane, in order to break it and enter.
Her mum sheds a drop of sweat, while she is bathing in it. She remains near the kitchen, backing up her carefully chosen resources while her mum walks up to the window.
Mother fixes her eye and tries to follow the sound. Her breath is tight and is released in a cranky haul at the window. She lifts the asian- sky- shop excercise rod and knocks it against the window, producing a loud meowwwwwwwwww.
it's 4.25 and she burries her swollen eyes unto the ground, while the mother walks away into her room grumbling .
Mar 5, 2009
elevation
every step becomes,
a milestone,
in the discovery of
'i'
leading to a pedigree of
unusual
'how and 'why'
the tale of survival,
is inscribed in blood
tearing the myth
of its ceaseless pain
what's forgone,
in the rites of humanity,
haunts you forever
in your bare chastity
swords rattle every
tiny second,
as battles watch them
in their naked closure
'you become the player,
and fall to your fallacies
or become the spectator
in the eye of poised victory'
choices we make, stakes we decide
fate we make, destiny we bribe.
a milestone,
in the discovery of
'i'
leading to a pedigree of
unusual
'how and 'why'
the tale of survival,
is inscribed in blood
tearing the myth
of its ceaseless pain
what's forgone,
in the rites of humanity,
haunts you forever
in your bare chastity
swords rattle every
tiny second,
as battles watch them
in their naked closure
'you become the player,
and fall to your fallacies
or become the spectator
in the eye of poised victory'
choices we make, stakes we decide
fate we make, destiny we bribe.
Feb 21, 2009
proclamation
i was tired of running,
chasing shadows of anon,
like a cryptic verve
surrounding the moonlight
until i saw the design
to man's fury.
his integrity lost in his self-consolation
just before
his reclaim from his chaos.
Feb 12, 2009
The rhyme and reason behind poetry
Words become fodder to a conscious man, fanning his existence in a myriad abysmal of language. If writing poetry is riding on snow, reading it is like floating in the labyrinth waters. And you emerge enormously quenched every time.
For all this while, I have considered poetry to be a gifted ventilation to pent-up emotions but only now i bring myself to believe, that it is a vagina of emotions. Inserting words, pushing words, producing life, through the lubrication of massive reading. Eventually experiencing motherhood, in your upbringing of verse.
Words sown by Yeats and Shelly blossom into embellishments of this other-worldly craft. Reading poetry is both reassuring and reconfirming to the rites of your expanding mind, as it's effect is purely psychosomatic.
It is mystical how a coat or a cat play the protagonist to a breath-taking piece of art, where poetry does it with utmost ease and matching eloquence.
What compels me to read poetry is it's mind-expanding, neural-healing capabilities. A poets takes you on a voyage of muse, culturally rich and historically enlightening. You scale the landscape of timeless beauty, vouching for unsung celebrities of life. It's when clouds become more deary than your folks. Not only you understand the genesis of nature, but also feel it's spiritual association, steering you to the state of divine ecstasy.
With every inkling you develop a faithful bond with your thoughts, revisiting them year after another. Just like a painting, poetry strokes the unbaked slices of your calibre, canvassing a picture of your inner-self. Both vivid and gleaming.
The nature of the medium is such that it allows you to be vocal and reluctant at the same time. Just when you digress in to the galaxy of metaphors, a comma lands you to the earthy finishing. Thankfully, there are no rules or covenants to compose poetry. It's freedom is captivated in your head.
A worthy aspect of poetry is its remarkable sing- a -song fluidity. Like a rivulet it flows across all shapes and forms.
Poetry by all means is an elixir to sky-high imagination and a catapult to massive soul-search or as Byron puts it:
"I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?"
For all this while, I have considered poetry to be a gifted ventilation to pent-up emotions but only now i bring myself to believe, that it is a vagina of emotions. Inserting words, pushing words, producing life, through the lubrication of massive reading. Eventually experiencing motherhood, in your upbringing of verse.
Words sown by Yeats and Shelly blossom into embellishments of this other-worldly craft. Reading poetry is both reassuring and reconfirming to the rites of your expanding mind, as it's effect is purely psychosomatic.
It is mystical how a coat or a cat play the protagonist to a breath-taking piece of art, where poetry does it with utmost ease and matching eloquence.
What compels me to read poetry is it's mind-expanding, neural-healing capabilities. A poets takes you on a voyage of muse, culturally rich and historically enlightening. You scale the landscape of timeless beauty, vouching for unsung celebrities of life. It's when clouds become more deary than your folks. Not only you understand the genesis of nature, but also feel it's spiritual association, steering you to the state of divine ecstasy.
With every inkling you develop a faithful bond with your thoughts, revisiting them year after another. Just like a painting, poetry strokes the unbaked slices of your calibre, canvassing a picture of your inner-self. Both vivid and gleaming.
The nature of the medium is such that it allows you to be vocal and reluctant at the same time. Just when you digress in to the galaxy of metaphors, a comma lands you to the earthy finishing. Thankfully, there are no rules or covenants to compose poetry. It's freedom is captivated in your head.
A worthy aspect of poetry is its remarkable sing- a -song fluidity. Like a rivulet it flows across all shapes and forms.
Poetry by all means is an elixir to sky-high imagination and a catapult to massive soul-search or as Byron puts it:
"I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?"
Feb 7, 2009
the interface
pain spirals through cavernous
spaces of universe,
in its hysterical form
entwined in prosperous arms of hope.
dust becomes gold,
gold bereft of its shimmer,
in its eventful surrender to sand
through a perpetual abrasion with rock
and comes a point when suffering
is mistaken for strength,
like a spectacular umbra.
cast upon on a ghastly crest.
'hell breaks lose,
as hope combats it's
outlandish optimism
in it's quest for survival
ravaging its long worshiped gods.'
Feb 2, 2009
unanimously misled
Until yesterday the skies
froze to the colours of grey,
the world may have looked a sundry place
while it drenched
in its visions of dismay.
Beheld, the figurative clouds
tricked and frayed
the horizon
like a whizzler on a sunny day
and a saint wrecking damages to the bay
illusions, delusions, mysteries, what not!
failed to make up for its own discord
just as the silver lining
flung to pieces
as a frail sunshine, consumed it all
lapping sight
from the arms of its mirage
"let there be storm in the guise of gust
or be heaven dressed in absolute crimson."
froze to the colours of grey,
the world may have looked a sundry place
while it drenched
in its visions of dismay.
Beheld, the figurative clouds
tricked and frayed
the horizon
like a whizzler on a sunny day
and a saint wrecking damages to the bay
illusions, delusions, mysteries, what not!
failed to make up for its own discord
just as the silver lining
flung to pieces
as a frail sunshine, consumed it all
lapping sight
from the arms of its mirage
"let there be storm in the guise of gust
or be heaven dressed in absolute crimson."
Jan 27, 2009
comma fullstop
Yes she spoke,
through the veils of
her wisper
as nothingness prevailed in
abundance
like a gaping ant
twice beaten
at the same joint
in recurrence
of her brave attempts
lament is not her answer
and happiness is anyway
redeemed
such is the mercy of life
where,
sweet beginnings are rewarded
happy 'endings'.
through the veils of
her wisper
as nothingness prevailed in
abundance
like a gaping ant
twice beaten
at the same joint
in recurrence
of her brave attempts
lament is not her answer
and happiness is anyway
redeemed
such is the mercy of life
where,
sweet beginnings are rewarded
happy 'endings'.
dare be the truth
ballads are often misunderstood as songs,
lake is often confused with a river
heat is dangerously described as warmth
and reality is repetitively lived as dreams
and one fine day myths are broken, only to elevate to you to a greater realm of truth~
Truth embraces you in it's monotone, where misconceptions are befriended only to be stabbed later. At first it grips you in an endermic pain, for the grief of ' living in misconceptions' is hard to part. But once you're through, truth surprises you by its sheer power. It's when ballad, lake, heat make far more sense as dreams seen with open eyes, than a long cherished fantasy.
Truth is all pervasive, for it sets no standards of good or bad. All it demands is willingness to accept and the valour to confront it. No wonder, dreams of gold is weighed down by pocketful of neighbourhood sand.
Truth is a miraculous healer, it leaves no room for a temptatious escapade. It brings in confirming clarity to steer on unsteady paths. Truth is reassuring, it brings no false promises.
Nomatter how hard it might be, truth is the only way to sail through hardships.
Truth won't conquer, it already is a winner.
lake is often confused with a river
heat is dangerously described as warmth
and reality is repetitively lived as dreams
and one fine day myths are broken, only to elevate to you to a greater realm of truth~
Truth embraces you in it's monotone, where misconceptions are befriended only to be stabbed later. At first it grips you in an endermic pain, for the grief of ' living in misconceptions' is hard to part. But once you're through, truth surprises you by its sheer power. It's when ballad, lake, heat make far more sense as dreams seen with open eyes, than a long cherished fantasy.
Truth is all pervasive, for it sets no standards of good or bad. All it demands is willingness to accept and the valour to confront it. No wonder, dreams of gold is weighed down by pocketful of neighbourhood sand.
Truth is a miraculous healer, it leaves no room for a temptatious escapade. It brings in confirming clarity to steer on unsteady paths. Truth is reassuring, it brings no false promises.
Nomatter how hard it might be, truth is the only way to sail through hardships.
Truth won't conquer, it already is a winner.
Jan 25, 2009
warm and tender love
i was lost in the deep and darkest night
No direction, not a single hope in sight
When I saw a fire burning brightly through
The storm that raged above
In the shadows of your warm and tender love
Love doesn't need a seed to grow, it's the scent of a rose at a distance or a breeze from the adjacent river. That's precisely what this song coaxes you to believe. your world begins to change when you're in love is because you begin to see it with a new perspective.
Yes it is overrated
and most often misunderstood
A complex emotion
simply overlooked
a reason to exist,
and die at the same time
i don't claim to have understood love but like all emotions i acclaim to live it and flow by its grip.
No direction, not a single hope in sight
When I saw a fire burning brightly through
The storm that raged above
In the shadows of your warm and tender love
Love doesn't need a seed to grow, it's the scent of a rose at a distance or a breeze from the adjacent river. That's precisely what this song coaxes you to believe. your world begins to change when you're in love is because you begin to see it with a new perspective.
Yes it is overrated
and most often misunderstood
A complex emotion
simply overlooked
a reason to exist,
and die at the same time
i don't claim to have understood love but like all emotions i acclaim to live it and flow by its grip.
Jan 18, 2009
the incomplete arc
At the horizon,
lies a smile, to shed hundred tears for,
to swizzle like wind,
tickle the golden hair,
oozing into the tiny ear
At the horizon,
lies warmth
sans the ebullient sun.
for the gleaming eyes,
know the trick
to melt an ardent heart.
At the horizon,
promises will be made,lived in every breath,
the fingers may not curl
for lips will be touched
in ballads of nestling love
At the horizon,
the wait for another day,
will be replaced by 'next minute'
spent in fables,
made of tell-tales together
At the horizon,
the sun, the wind, and the day
will see the amount of life
induced in
orange, purple, blue and green.
lies a smile, to shed hundred tears for,
to swizzle like wind,
tickle the golden hair,
oozing into the tiny ear
At the horizon,
lies warmth
sans the ebullient sun.
for the gleaming eyes,
know the trick
to melt an ardent heart.
At the horizon,
promises will be made,lived in every breath,
the fingers may not curl
for lips will be touched
in ballads of nestling love
At the horizon,
the wait for another day,
will be replaced by 'next minute'
spent in fables,
made of tell-tales together
At the horizon,
the sun, the wind, and the day
will see the amount of life
induced in
orange, purple, blue and green.
Jan 17, 2009
i see myself,
getting dissolved in time,
being churned in its uncertainity
at the same time,
pretending to revel in its brevity
through a looking glass,
time is all i have
an endowment unearned,
zoomed to the joy
of seeing another day
it's all and nothing
bred in realms of reality
making space for both
hope and lament
as the seconds trickle by
it eludes me,
the more i offer myself to chase
and refutes this,
when i cease to acknowledge
it's silent passing by
is it the cure to the wound?
or the wound itself
as i realise-it's not about the amount time in life
but
the amount of life in the time.
getting dissolved in time,
being churned in its uncertainity
at the same time,
pretending to revel in its brevity
through a looking glass,
time is all i have
an endowment unearned,
zoomed to the joy
of seeing another day
it's all and nothing
bred in realms of reality
making space for both
hope and lament
as the seconds trickle by
it eludes me,
the more i offer myself to chase
and refutes this,
when i cease to acknowledge
it's silent passing by
is it the cure to the wound?
or the wound itself
as i realise-it's not about the amount time in life
but
the amount of life in the time.
Jan 15, 2009
fear is,
waking up at the middle of night, walking past her in a tip-toed manner. Deluding the sounds emanated from the nocturnal crawlies. The fact that the disguise of a musketeer will fade any moment under the discoloured skin of darkness, hearing her groan in the backdrop.
She will be calm as a falling leave, surrendering herself to her bemusing fate and i will be the giant spectator feeling tiny as the house rodent. My world will topple and shatter mercilessly on my toes. 'What could have gone wrong?', 'i took all the measures', 'i love her the most'
i weep,
i weep more,
until i feel my wet face buried under the pillow, as the alarm clatters violently
waking up at the middle of night, walking past her in a tip-toed manner. Deluding the sounds emanated from the nocturnal crawlies. The fact that the disguise of a musketeer will fade any moment under the discoloured skin of darkness, hearing her groan in the backdrop.
She will be calm as a falling leave, surrendering herself to her bemusing fate and i will be the giant spectator feeling tiny as the house rodent. My world will topple and shatter mercilessly on my toes. 'What could have gone wrong?', 'i took all the measures', 'i love her the most'
i weep,
i weep more,
until i feel my wet face buried under the pillow, as the alarm clatters violently
Jan 8, 2009
fine dining
there are no lilacs growing in the paradise,
but the incense of a fresh scar scattered wide
the violet carves no magic in the sky
it barks and hows and sweetly cries
the grass i plod on,
grabs me by its fawn
as i breathe,
in the hollow compartments of night
i wish not to be seen
through crooked glances,
tearing every inch of my muscle
in the name of fine dining
"the stage is set sans the effigy and fire
in course of your earthly delights
oh my mate now, savour the boiling blood
while i cheer myself to grace your supper"
but the incense of a fresh scar scattered wide
the violet carves no magic in the sky
it barks and hows and sweetly cries
the grass i plod on,
grabs me by its fawn
as i breathe,
in the hollow compartments of night
i wish not to be seen
through crooked glances,
tearing every inch of my muscle
in the name of fine dining
"the stage is set sans the effigy and fire
in course of your earthly delights
oh my mate now, savour the boiling blood
while i cheer myself to grace your supper"
Jan 3, 2009
burnt alive
and you lay there still,
somewhere between ashes and flame
lighting the trenches,
just as i begin to love darkness
your ardent heat melts my indifference
shredding me to sweats
filling the pool with guilt
and defiance.
you grow, as i snub
and disappear when i recall
you are traced when i'm lost
and i lose you when i'm found.
you're the lamp
and the djinn
while i play the servant and the master
alternatively.
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