Sunday, 18 November 2007


Cafe Writing Option Two: Poetry

Human life, old and young, takes place between hope and remembranceFranz Grillparzer

hands locked into each other so hard
that it ceases to hurt after a moment.
the instant fingers untangle, blood
surges into palm, pain being almost
a relief. with that, lines disappear
from visage as if all was well again.

brushing the burden aside, taken as
imaginary crumbs of food particles,
that man straightening visibly, gets
up, walks out jauntily, now a smile
playing on his lips. out of anguish,
we observe rebirth of hope and life.


  1. A fine poem; well done.

    Michele sent me.

  2. Beautiful work. Absolute testament to the fact that life cannot be lived alone, that we are all interdependent to a certain degree.

    Dropped in from Michele's. Thanks for continuing to inspire.

  3. Hand holding is one of life's great comforts and I pray there will always be someone to hold mine.
    Thank you Gautami. Popped in from Michele's

  4. Hi gautami, Michele sent me to see what you've been scribbling...

    Hands held is the last hope of the drowning man - and something we should never take lightly.


  5. Michele sent me back again to read your lovely poem. Im love the quote also. Very Proustian.

  6. Hello, Michele sent me to say that I enjoyed your poetry today. I know more about hand holding in these last few years as when Mother and I walk somewhere she is always hold on tightly to my hand! Almost like I am her strength and support. Scary at times...

  7. 'the instant fingers untangle, blood
    surges into palm, pain being almost
    a relief. with that, lines disappear'

    More jewels, Gautami!

    Pop by my place for the partay...

  8. well done again. love the hope appearing...

  9. Hi... a very nice poem.

    Not only humans hoard things. I think of ravens with nexts ornamented with strips of aluminum foil. It makes me smile. ;-)

  10. oops... nexts=nests

    I am having a typing slippage. :-)

  11. Hand-holding is so special. It can be romantic, or just affectionate, but always intimate.

    I loved this piece (and it's finally linked - sorry it took so long.)

    Is there an Indian version of You're the winner of the November prize.