numbing the senses senseless

within the ruined castle
behind the colossal pillars
silhouettes on the walls
come alive in the middle
of a dark moonless night

misted glass twist to a timeless
dance of whorling thoughts
making one feel palpable
time lurks in its confines,
standing to a sudden stillness

seeing an apparition coming
out of the opposite wall, I scream
resonance of which tears my ears
icy wind blows out of nowhere
numbing the senses senseless

scared I turn and run, slipping over
I fall into a deep bottomless crypt,
where snakes make a grand feast of me
all that remains are my bones, my soul
having merged with ghosts of past era

speak out

Telephone cables were stolen on Sunday night. Due to which 4000+ lines were affected. I was without net access for two days. It feels good to be back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



damage had been so unyielding
a little girl not even in her teens
mere colours painted on her lips
and so exacting a punishment-
severe beatings, deep knife gashes
on her body told another tale
set to fire by her own great uncle
she lay there for days on the ice
screaming before succumbing to death

"we the silent spectators are the corpse, not she"

Based on a true acount where a 11 year old girl was set to fire for putting on lipstick. She died a couple of days back.

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If you’ve done NaNoWriMo, what was the experience like for you? If you’ve never done it, do you think you could? Do you have a novel residing in you somewhere, waiting to get out?

Last year I signed in for NaNoWriMo very enthusiastically. I had a novel planned and started to write it it. But after 4 days and 7000+ words, I simply gave it up. I think I don't have the patience or most important the discipline to write certain numbers of words in a day. It kind of put a block on my thought process. I write every day, almost every day but when I know that I have to do it, I can't.

I got lots of novels planned in my head. And so they remain there. Wanting to come out. Some are already written in journals. Pages and pages of it. Why constrain oneself for only 30 days of writing?

I am not cut out for NaNoWriMo. Anyway, I find the name obnoxious. As many participants are from outside of US, it should renamed which has to do with internationally. One more reason, I will not sign in this year.

grabbing at the bragging ways

whoever said she has got great gift
of the gab gave her a good back stab

you grab her words with your might
when moon looks askance at night

she burrow herself in deep shadows
hiding herself from her eternal foes

all the while she spits fire from her lips
her cursing words are yours for keeps

afterwards she so wishes to be a good witch
mending your torns parts with tiny stitches

she tries to keep her feet from dragging
Believe her when she says she is not bragging

shrugging her shoulders she will go on
tearing you apart, she will gnaw on your bone

by now you must know, hers is not a gift
of the gab. she is nothing but an old hag

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I began it as a fun poem. Somehow it ended this way...

echoes reverbate

##Update on 24 October: I took Sweet Talking Guy's advice and just placed the lines in the reverse order not making a single change anywhere. You can see that in the italics. It is no longer half a poem. I think, it works! Wot say? Feedback is solicited and would be much appreciated.



when we least expect it
acerbic words
hit out at the thin walls
of our innermost being
corroding it almost-
echoes reverbate long after
retaliation is stopped
right on its track
as mysteriously
aphasia sets in when
words gets stuck in the throat

neither going in nor coming out

words gets stuck in the throat
aphasia sets in when
as mysteriously
right on its track
retaliation is stopped
echoes reverbate long after
corroding it almost-
of our innermost being
hit out at the thin walls
acerbic words
when we least expect it

Don't talk about it, just do it

Ache
Difference
Suffer



Why is it that we always dwell on the darkest side? It is easy to say Humanity has lost forever. Do we ever ask ourselves, why? And have we ever done anything to find it again? How many of us stop by and talk to a child who is poor and is working for his/her upkeep? Do we ever pat him/her on his/her head. I am afraid not. Most of us would think of getting dirty than doing that. Saying that, I ache for him/her is not enough. Make a difference by educating him/her. Start at the grassroot level. Believe me, a person does not suffer from poverty as much as he/she suffers from lack of education. Yes, these are related to some extent. We can give them dignity by the way of education. Only with knowlege, poverty disintegrates. I should know. Because I teach the so called under-privileged children...girls. And I care.

Most of us do. Believe it or not. We just don't say it.

PS: I had written a poem. But this wrote itself. Why? Check it out at 3WW.

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Do you make time to write everyday? Don’t you think everybody should?

In a short answer, yes I do. Even when I am on a holiday, I make it a point to write all that I observe and also about things I feel. When I think I can't write for whatsover reason, I compel myself to do it by resorting to write book reviews. That gives me sense of purpose and direction. And my writing does not stop. However, I have had phases of vacuum, when I can't do anything, let alone write. Thankfully, it is not frequent.

I do think everyone should write, even those who think they can't. Once they see the pleasure of their words, they will continue with it. I also know that not all feel the same way we do. Each one of us is unique and is talented in one way or the other. My advice for them is to strive and excel in whatever they do. It does not have to be writing.

dilemma

Here I offer two short verses, both different from my style!:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
you ask to follow me?
never! ending this
unhealthy liason now

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

in the abyss of darkness
where black holes absorb
all that they can, he got lost-
momentarily blinded by it

yet he senses it has to end
nothing ever is never ending

your undoing

why are you dressed as a tatterdemalion
slyly slinking behind chrome-plated drains
escaping torrential rains hiding in the alleys,
you who lived on the valley in a big villa
are depleting it of memories, sacred to whom save you?

you sold the antiquated doors and now scour floors
sweep the courtyards where even now ghost
of tribal artifacts weep. who really aligned those
in that abandoned house now totally lie untouched.
Yet at night in the moonlight uncivil guards curse

screaming obscenities at you.what do you do when you
are lost in meditation. still your pride resurfaces,
cutting deep into you. meanwhile you try tenuously
to hold on unforgettable words which you only you
scavenged out of rot. Seems like you took a shot

at living life to the full again, unaffected
by your poor, beggarly, ruggamuffin state, which I had
known was fake, a eyeswash to others for your own sake.