The Renewal-----Sunday Scribbling

The End sounds so final. It gives us so much to ponder about. Love ends, relationship ends, life ends. On a more mundane level, the things we do in a daily basis, terminate at some point. Certain thoughts close. Certain feelings conclude. Emotions cease. We feel the pain for a few of those endings. Elated by certain others. We welcome it too. End need not be sad.

What we call “The End” is it really that? I would say, no. It is a new beginning, a new direction, a renewal. That is necessary for the growth of our minds, nature renews itself, and life is born yet again.

After every calamity just when we think, everything has wrecked; the Earth renews itself creating new life apparently out of nothing. With that instinct of endurance, the indomitable human spirit always survives. Nothing can keep it down for long. If we lose something or get lost, we find other things, we find ourselves. We might not be able to know that just then. After a while, the meaning of it can be fathomed, it is not buried but comes forth. Our weaknesses are overtaken by strength.

The End, in reality, is a reinforcement of faith, belief, and spirituality. It is a beginning, a restoration of life. Whenever I have thought it is the end of the world for me, I have emerged stronger and a better person, almost reborn.

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

While you are at it, do not forget to read "Bard's Dilemma" which reflects any poet's dilemma.

(Self-promotion never harmed anyone!!)

Bard's Dilemma----Sonnet----[Friday] Fiction

This week, [Fiction] Friday asks us to pick a famous fictional character (for our purposes here it can be any character from fiction, mythology, legend, comic books…whatever) and give them a secret vice—at the very least it should be distasteful if not outright illegal. Now give the character’s rationale in their own words.

Bard's Dilemma----Sonnet

Otherwise known as bard, I have written plays-
tragedies and comedies, along with some sonnets.
My repertoire is vast, as I write nights and days-
poetry does not pay well, empty are my pockets.

Asking for money, I am somewhat always in debt
friends and foes both shun, when it is me they see
I feel like a heel but a man has to survive: dead set
to earn more, I found a way. Stress gone I feel free,

I have not given up composing, that is in my blood,
I write for the masses under another pseudo name.
There is no dearth of words, which can only flood
my mind and flow from my pen- on paper they tame.

Varied writing helps me eat more than baked beans-
as I churn out romances with explicit steamy scenes.

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

As there is a no edit rule, it is but a rough draft. I will polish it later on.

window view of silhouetted dawn-----Poetry Thursday

The last prompt by Poetry Thursday tells us to make use of the line "an open window" anywhere in our poem.

This is another of my rare love poetry. Maybe the last one. Who knows? Who cares?

window view of silhouetted dawn


sitting by an open window
staring at the silhouetted dawn
i can still see your jerky movements

togetherness by the sea
unfolds in my mind.
each particle of gritty sand
imprinting firmly on my body

reminds me of unanswered
communication between us which
had no need for those so called words.

absently tapping the rosewood table,
uncrossing my feet at my ankles
i grow still with nameless
anticipation for what I know not.

i brush strands of hair from my face
wetness of it surprises me. with
sad allure I wipe away my tears.

“with you gone, beyond time and space has no meaning.”

Click an open window for more....

real world.....?!------3WW

Forgotten
Hotel
Obscure

an obscure place,
tender with morning sun,
the smell of tea and ripened fruit
wafts towards the hotel window.
sounds of life outside drift in amid old concertos.
chirping birds, buzzing bees beckon me outside
to steel warmth from the sun.
work forgotten, i am tempted.
slowly coming back to life
i prepare for yet another day.
picking up my laptop, i walk out
into the streets to my car,
to face the “real world.”

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

If you are so inclined to be scared, do read my review of Frankenstein by Mary Shelly on my Reading Room blog..

scattered cinders-----Monday Poetry Train

grey dust from the wooden table
coats his sleeve. he wipes
it on his trousers
barely aware of it.

he is in the midst
of making a point to her
by his never ending tirade.
opaque dust depicts

their non-existing relationship.
irritating screeching sound
gets to her fragile nerves.
dry old flowers enhances

the drab way their life is going.
his droning voice makes her sleepy.
closing herself with open eyes,
she feels a pang for lost love.

only for a moment.
she fingers her name
on the thick dust
setting herself free-

to touch the untamed cinder
of sun streaks scattered on the dusty floor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To read more poetry on a busy Monday, click poetry train..

First tumble down and then fly...Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings tells us to use the phrase "I get that sinking feeling."

This is such a familiar feeling. We all get in one tie or the other. We get it when we are afraid of something and when we are angry too.

At certain point of time, one has to make specific decisions. When that time arrives, one gets a sinking feeling. Whenever I had to change the course of my life, I have felt that low down feeling which lasts for a while. That must be because we fear change. Any kind of change. We feel cocooned by routine mundane way of life. Change means deviation from that all too well known path for some time to come. That sinking feeling has no rhyme or reason; it comes at most inconvenient times. I may be feeling at the top of the world one moment and down in the dumps in the next one. Most do not realise that change is the only constant. Hence it scares us. If we see in a broader sense, every moment is a change. It can never be monotonous as such. Life can never be that. That sinking feeling prepares us to face it. To look squarely into it.

I too feel that like goose pimples, this sinking feeling too helps us in dealing with that impending change called life, better. I suppose it balances our outlook to an extent. I feel that these are nature’s way of preparing the human mind for the bigger picture. It is in my inherent nature to look at things in a positive way. I try to see that in that sinking feeling too. May be the sinking feeling is really the flying out feeling.

Right now I have that sinking feeling because I walked away. Although, I had to.
This is going to last for a long time….

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

**Update: Nowhere in this post, I said, I do not welcome/enjoy change. People who read me regularly know that I dabble in new things and I need new challenges all that time. I think the post title too speaks out.

In case you have not read it, don't forget to read my poem, blood in the streets.

You can read my review of tuesdays with Morrie too, on my other blog, reading room.

visions of damage----[Fiction] Friday

This week [Fiction] Friday asks us to create a character in a genre one would normally avoid. I am not too sure about it. For now I can't write anything other than free verse!! Blame it on my recalcitrant muse!! On second thoughts, I write a lot of structured poetry, so maybe this is different..:D

Hence I take it forward from my previous FF work, Waiting....

carved knife under
her pillow, was only
a defensive measure.
nothing could prevent
ghosts of memories to escape.
least of all, a weapon.
logic defies mind when
faced with threats
of own-making.
imaginary fears sap away
strength, same way as real ones.
visions of damage are
round the corner.
little knowing-
the assailant
is none other than self.

she did not need
any one else to harm her.
She was not doing too badly-
self-destructing all the time.

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

**Disclaimer: This isn't about me as a few assume. I am trying to write an entire series of poems for FF. This is the third one.

Don't forget to read my previous post 'blood in the streets.'

blood in the streets---Poetry Thursday

After a long summer break, Poetry Thursday has come up with an idea of "taking one of the poems we’ve already written and use the last line of that poem as a jumping-off point for an entirely new poem" or "why not (with proper attribution, of course) use the last line of a published poem as the first line (or even title!) of an original poem.." i.e. last lines, first lines.

I have taken the last line of Neruda's "I'm Explaining a Few Things" and used as the first line for the following poem.



come and see the blood in the streets-
bodies severed, tangled, unrecognisable
spilt red fluid ties them as nothing else did

your fight has gone too far, don’t you think?
children orphaned, revenge is in charge
yet another generation pulled into it.

a lone man holds his head in his hand
pictures of horror embedded in his mind
knowing not what was it that hit.

sirens of doom foretell unheard terror
ignoring the dead, picking the severed;
sound of a child’s cry fills the street.

come and see the blood in the streets-
although, why would you even think of it,
it is not your blood trickling, is it?

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

This goes out for all those who think that violence can solve all problems ailing this world--- world leaders, Religious fanatics....you name it, they are at it.

To read more poetry, click here...

until inevitability----3WW

Corridor
Linger
Subtle

Why have I started thinking of it again?
I thought I had left all that behind.
Why has it come back?
Subconsciously I fear it.
Yet I am fascinated by it.
It feels so familiar.
Like my best friend.
Who knows me the way I do not even know myself.
I thought I was well past that illogical thought.
Seems not.
Will I get over it again?
Will I push it aside?
Into that unseen corridor of my psyche?
Where it will linger for some time to come.
Give in to it?
With a vengeance yet subtle?
I watch it with enthralling revulsion.
Where the mind covets and yet repels.
Why do I fight?
Why don’t I give in?
So easy to do that.
What holds me back?
Isn’t it better to finish with that than face it again and again?
May be it is I.
It must be that.
I cannot take the painless way out.
I have to traverse the most difficult of path.
Where there is stimulation, adventure and challenge.
Please retreat.
Do not come back.
I will not embrace you now.
Come later when it is inevitable.
For now, I have to live.
Let me wake up...

Until inevitability, goodbye death..

stringing lines----Monday Poetry

looking at the keyboard-
frantically, I try to catch
hold of the escaping words.

they have been playing
truant too long, for comfort.

purposeless, words hit out
at each other, battling for
supremacy, self-centred to hilt.

gentleness underlying steely
firmness, I organise them.

in an instant, all gets precise-
chaotic lines coordinate in order,
making sense yet once more.

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

To read more poetry on Monday, click here...

Notes from a Diary---Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings prompt is Diary Writing.

I am writing this from the perspective of my Dairy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dearest Gautami,

I know, I know. I should not write to you. You are the one who writes on me. I look forward to what you write each day. I have been with you for long that at times I think I am you. Well, almost.

My leather bound cover is tattered but you love me as much as you love your own self. You get paranoid when you cannot find me. I have known you to panic and wanted to tell you not to. I can look after myself for you. I always am at the same secret place. However, you are forgetful and look for me at other familiar places.

We have been through so much together. I am privy to all your secrets, your despair, your joy, your thoughts, your feelings. Sometimes your sadness has cut me to quick and your joys have lifted me up. I have wanted to hug you through that darkest phase of your life but you with your head held so high, never let anyone erode your protective covering. I admire you for not letting go of your dignity, not giving in to it. Your ability to get going under any circumstances has made me proud of being your diary. I know I am your outlet to all your thoughts. You write so haphazardly sometimes, but it is so lucid and clear to me.

I am saddened too when you try to articulate and no words come out. You stare at me blankly, anguish writ large on your façade. Then I do not know how to reach out. I wish so much to dispel your fears, your glooms but I cannot. I am only your diary. I want to be your diary for eternity.

As always,
Your dear diary

Waiting......[Fiction] Friday

This week, [Fiction] Friday asks us to pick an adult character (it can be a new character, an established character, or even a famous character from fiction) and write a scene where the character demonstrates one of the following child-like habits:

Drinks chocolate milk when (s)he has a bad day
Sleeps cocooned in bedsheets or blankets
Constantly twists hair around finger
Pulls the crust off of any sandwich they eat
Often makes sound effects when talking to themself
Must sleep with a particular stuffed animal or blanket
Stomps foot when angry
Overuses Ketchup (both too much, and too often)
Hoards personal belongings (books, CDs, etc.) in their bed
Loudly, and badly, drums on books, tables, etc.

Continuing from where I left off last week, lured into lord's lair:

she stomped her foot,
loudly drumming on that side table
asking for food.
her hunger was ravenous.
when the lord fetched the food,
she pulled crusts off the sandwich,
pouring half a bottle of ketchup on it-
washed it with drinking chocolate
replenished, she fell into the bed.
cocooning in bed sheets and blankets
she talked to herself, trying to sleep,
twisting her hair unconsciously.
she missed her stuffed grey elephant,
turning she found her favourite
carved knife under her pillow.

waiting soundlessly for the lord
in order to plunge it into his heart!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is really fun to write with that no-edit rule. It suits me fine!
As you can see, this character demonstrates all those child-like habits..:D

Trick of Being Scientific----Poetry Thursday

nowadays, emphasis should more on the scientific-
studies which can be comprehended with proofs
explanations are to be simple with no blatant tricks.

learning process should never make any one sick-
taking all those in a stride, uncaring of any spoofs.
nowadays, emphasis should more on the scientific.

mind to be nurtured with extreme care brick by brick-
stimulation provided for thinking out of the loops,
explanations are to be simple with no blatant tricks.

there is nothing in the discipline no one cannot pick;
knowledge to be paramount, never considered goofs.
nowadays, emphasis should more on the scientific,

which makes commencement of it appealing to click
in psyche, taking child’s intelligence beyond the roofs;
explanations are to be simple with no blatant tricks.

paradoxes prove the rule, learning has to be quick,
certain theories though tricky made easy in groups.
nowadays, emphasis should more on the scientific-
explanations are to be simple with no blatant tricks.

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

* I was not very satisfied with my original post. I have played around a bit. Even now I am not much satisfied with it. As I said once before, villanelles are killers.

**I am feeling very sad about the announcement of closure of Poetry Thursday. I wish all the best to Rob Kistner if he hosts PT or starts a new poetry site.

Bundle of joy----3WW

Burning
Quietly
Taxi

She wakes up with a start and checks on her infant son. His skin is no longer burning. Fever has come down. She falls to her knees, still holding him and sobs quietly so as not wake her husband in the other room. She rains his face with kisses and holds him tight. Tired, she falls asleep again holding him to her heart right on the floor of the nursery.

Next morning, her husband finds her thus sleeping peacefully with almost a child like expression. Without reacting, he turns and talks to someone on his cell phone.

“It can’t go on like this much longer. I will bring her today,” he says and calls for a taxi.

He gets ready, wakes her up, and looks with grimace at the bundle on her chest. Gently lifting it, he puts it on the cradle. Holding her close, he says, “It is time to let go, my love. Today onwards, we will both undergo counselling until you get better. Our son has been dead for four years and we both need to deal with it.”

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

It is a true account. She recovered and has two children now.

expurgation-----monday poetry train

I was dared by within without to write about purging. He probably assumed I won't take it. How could I not?!

**Warning: This might hurt a few sensibilities....

staidly sitting, stance so straight
with a thoughtfully morose façade,
looking ahead at a point in front-

all set to take charge, pondering
he concentrates on the deed to be
done, which is essential although

talking about is deemed uncouth.
sharp shooting pains do not help
the cause. rather hinder, putting

superfluous pressure. he heaves,
huffs and puffs; with a splutter
all gets cleared, respite palpable

on his visage, he gets up gingerly
feeling great deal better. flushing
with much gusto missing hitherto-

purged, he feels relief, unfettered.
emptying his bowels of that clutter!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Check out monday poetry train....

Coping Mechanism-----Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribbling has got Goosebumps this week.

Goosebumps are body’s reflexes. We have no control over those. Listening to certain kind of music or just about something that jolts us. Passion too gives rises to those. Scary situations do bring about Goosebumps.

I have always taken these as signals of the body, which prepare the mind to cope. We can call those as cope up mechanism. When my dad slipped and fell down, his hipbone was fractured. He had to be operated upon but he never recovered from that. He fell unconscious and never regained consciousness. When he passed away, and I was informed about it, my mind went blank. I kept staring at the goose bumps formed on my arms and remember asking my brother why that happened and what was wrong. With no further thoughts, I went about the business of getting our dad home before the cremation. I cannot explain but that state of mindlessness helped me cope with the immediate grief. I still grieve for him but time has healed that to some extent. Five years gone but it seems like yesterday.

i stare at nothing
grieving for you.
goose pimples appear
out of nowhere.

I am happy enough for now as my dad would have wanted me to.

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

Get more goose bumps......

lured into lord's lair...[Fiction] Friday

I found another writing prompt known as [fiction] friday.This week's prompt is to use as many words from the following:

barge flare harsh ordinary sore
bore floor hoard rare torch
carve folklore lair scorn tore
fare gorge lord snare unicorn
flair hare marvelous soar warn

*****************************

lured into lord's lair

sore from sitting all day
on the floor,
heart tore to bits,
harsh reality flares
in deep gorge of her mind.
she rues the day, she was snared
by his false charm.
lured into his lair
facing scorn from all.
one of those rare times, her
family had tried to warn her
about how ordinary people
like them should not
dream high. as time passes,
darkness prevails, her lord barges in
with the torch, his eyes boring
into her downcast head.
she ignores his marvellous profile,
her flair for dramatics intact
in case he decides to
torture her further.
studiously ignoring her, he retreats
after serving her delicious
pieces of cooked hare,
hunted, carved and hoarded
from last summer.
somewhat satisfied
she falls asleep with soaring dreams
of an unicorn flying in to save her
like in folklores she reads.

Does she wish to escape?

*********************************
There is a no editing rule. So under the circumstances, this was the best I could write. I will write another part of this story next week trying to tie the lose ends.

tarnished green sheen----poetry thursday

veined with an antique
design, turquoise stones
alternated with amethysts,
links entwined delicately,
bluish tarnish enhance
green sheen, glistening
with orange radiance
with a purplish tinge.
charms tinkle with
jingling reverberation.

sold in a by-lane
veiled from prying eyes,
silver bracelet-
blackened by time
(or is it oxygen?)
portraying character-

awaits a wrist worthy of it.

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

I am not much of a silver person. Recently I bought an antique silver bracelet with amethyst. I have not taken it off since. It looks even better with the oxidized look it has got now. I think tarnished silver looks much better, maybe I am biased.

psychedelic pajamas-----terza rima----3WW

Determined
Pajamas
Yield

psychedelic pajamas

those summer months added to woes-
quenching that thirst, eating until sate,
nothing much to do in hunger’s throes.

enhanced girth cannot be taken as fate;
image faithfully mirrored brings lows-
sense of unworthiness has added to hate.

much loved printed, psychedelic pajamas
do not fit any more. determined I yank
those up with a huff, looking like a llama.

jolted out by that representation akin a tank-
pictures in my mind move in slowly; drama
enacted of other unknown horrors. frank

self-appraisal does yield results. vigorously
i start exercise regime. one hour jogging,
half hour yoga, dietary habits rigorously

changed. with good metabolism, dogging
is not too bad. better that than self-flogging!

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

This is somewhat true-to-account terza rima apart from the pajamas bit...:D

Snake and Mongoose-----Sunday Scribblings

Hello folks, it is good to be back. This break was enforced upon me. First, my server was down due to the rains. Then someone stole the telephone cables which made the ADSL broadband redundant! When that was set right, my modem went kaput and needed to be replaced. Today everything seems ok.

Good thing was, I read like mad!! Now I am going to catch up with all of you.

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

I wrote this one in the period of my enforced break. But this suits the Sunday Scribblings prompt, decision. This works at many levels. I must not forget to mention Monday Poetry Train.

Snake and Mongoose

slithering smoky snake
suspended to strike
slips and spins over

on smooth surface
self-respect in shreds

massive mongoose
with malicious eyes
materializes

out of nowhere
meanders towards

that hissing snake
to strike that huge
reptilian head.

eternal enemies from
eons gauge each other.

mongoose pauses
with a non-committal
gaze, turns around

to go the other way
leaving snake alone.

with no fight left,
reptile breathes easy
closes its eyes relieved.

just as the mind eases
mongoose strikes for kill.

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

I was awarded by scarlett.

This was started by Christy Z:

"For those who answer blog comments, emails, and make their visitors feel at home on their blogs. For the people who take others feelings into consideration before speaking out and who are kind and courteous. Also for all of those bloggers who spend so much of their time helping others bloggers design, improve, and fix their sites. This award is for those generous bloggers who think of others."

Thanks scarlett and Christy.

I will get around nominating for this in a few days.