butterfly cinquain

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2009 TO ALL, DEAR FRIENDS.
MAY IT BE FILLED WITH CREATIVE SPIRITS.

As our blogs play such an important role in our lives, I offer this one, the first verse for 2009. I have written a lot of cinquains. This is a butterfly cinquain. Buttefly Cinquain has nine lines. The fifth line is taken as first for the second one. Both have to be related in one way or the other.

weblogs
electronic writing
expressing anything, everything
to the unknown world
e-journal
personal diaries
containg random thoughts
pertaining to varied issues
blogging!

Posting it for Totally Optional Prompts, which offers creative prompts each week. Do check it out.

packets of love

with a glimmer of passion
with a sweet wish in her heart
nearer to him, she moves,
softly whispering into his ears

"this isn't a poem
about dinosaur bones
or bones buried against clay
but this is my map of you
loving warm and gentle
which no degrees of separation
can take away"

all the while feeling him-
his pockets, for that matter.
barely listening to her
but knowing her intent
he moves away
whispering back-

"our house is gone
which you burnt down
out of jealousy, you ought to
say thanks that the money hasn’t
gone somewhere else
but wisely invested with your sister
you accused me of having an affair with her"

pausing significantly,
he doggedly goes on, walking away

"previously I wasn't but now I do wish to"

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

Many of the lines have been taken from the Read Write Poem title collage collaborative work. It was fun doing it. To use the titles in the form of a poem is a mighty task. Do check it out.

playing for pleasing the moon

sprinkled into vast darkness
stars peep out, dusting themselves
from the dirt of the universe
squeaky clean, they proudly preen
in front of the moon
wanting to please her
some even dare to press into her
few twinkling stars tinklingly taper,
playing around her in the night

when her rugged surface
scratches their smooth faces
the stars tumble into the black hole
hiding behind its darkest soul

only the impish sun remains
his wooing going full swing

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

Just don't forget to board the poetry train. Every Monday or thereafter. Do check it out.

guts wrench out in the open making a spectacle for all

I believe that at times one just needs to write about love, irrespective of everything. I don't know where it came from but it just did....


not knowing how to flaunt my passion
i flounder at showing it to you
if you only gave me a chance
the gates would open up wrenching us both
how do I tell you about this constant craving
this deep sated need for you
which eats at my guts and fills me with longing
words cannot convey my loneliness to you
yet I know you sense it
although you would rather not acknowledge it
how do I pour out my love for you
your very thought heightens my senses
I wish I could reach out to your very soul
and submerge myself within you
at oddest of times tears fill my eyes
unknown to me visible to all
my minds speaks to you
yet I know I can't reach you
walking away is easy for you
just let me know how do I do it
nonchalantly, just the way you did

yes, I will live but barely so
for a long time to come or never

symmetry in poetry or what?

fl
..ut
......te
.........ri
...........ng

leaves
of
my
journal

wh
.....is
........per

softly
to each other

t
h
e

sec
......rets i poured

i
n
t
o

them.

st
...ai
......ns of my sweat

&

s
..m
.....u
.......d
.........g
...........e
.............s

of my tears
unquestionably underline
my faith in
.....................po
....................... wer

of words

when I touch a tiny hair of
eyelash in between the pages,
I marvel at the symmetry

"isn't
..........nature
....................... in
.............................itself
.......................................a

miracle of

....................cr
.......................ea
...........................ti
.............................on?"

all in a days work

i pick my mails from my old home
shocked to see a few of my cheques
with expiry dates. no wonder
i was short on the finances
blaming recession, for my fault
i forgot to send out mails
for change of address
no, my money is not lost
revalidation of the cheques would
take care of all that but certainly not more

alas, i could have spent it cosying up
to you my love but you wait a while
before i pick you up and devour you
with relish from front to back,
not forgetting the middle
i suppose i will spend a winter's day
writing out impersonal letters
to all those stupid companies for
change in my residential address,
sticking stamps on those envelopes

"you do understand, i need the money
to buy out more of you, don't you"

book of myth or reality?

when i got to the book of myths,
i hesitated as i was scared to open it
my utmost fear being it might be truer
than what i had envisaged till date
still i had to open it
i loaded the camera
put on the awkward mask
with rubberised gloves
i flipped it open

a sweet smell hit my nose
almost gagging me
i saw ladders beyond the doors
within the book, which
beckoned me. i climbed down
each rung with care
yellow light surrounded me
following each of my movements
in the cold moist air

although i do feel a warmth
coming out of nowhere
a paradox in midst of snowy
hills, yellowy light dimming
fading away completely
a green aura is visible
my camera capturing it all
i see a broken glass
picking up i see my life enfolding

which had been lost in the sea
of neglected human sounds hurled
from the top of the vastness
of the sky. jealously i guard
my secret hiding the glass in my pocket
wherein i find my lost knife
which cuts deep into my palm
my blood spurts out almost pleasing me

out there in the open,
my funeral is celebrated followed by
a great feast. No wonder I smile
from my book of myths,
did I not know it would come true?
come watch all the fun
captured in my camera.
would it be too much to say
i relish the show that came out of my death?

Diving into the Wreck by Adrienne Rich inspired this post. It is a rough draft. However, that is ok with me.

Monday Poetry Train Revisited

I NEED PUBLICITY. PLEASE HELP SPREAD THE WORD.

All those who missed poetry train and all those who did not know a thing about it, are welcome to post at Monday Poetry Train Revisited on Mondays and thereafter. Mind you, it does not have a prompt as such. It only concerns writing...poetry, prose poetry or anything creative. Write about anything that takes your fancy and post your link there. And don't forget to visit others, but be polite about it. Don't play the critique unless specifically asked for it. Come on, lets rebuild and run our poetry train again. We never can have excess of poetry or any kind of creative writing, for that matter.

mundane meanderings

sorting through laundry
she set about ironing out
those crinkles, singing softly
keeping in tune with
beethovan wafting out
from the next room

her fingers itched to play
yet her hand smoothened out
wrinkles out of clothes
creating more in her mind.
distractions of mundane chores
did nothing for her frustration

"bawling of her infant brought
about an instant smile-
her face glowing like thousands of lights"

I knew instantly.....

When I came across Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay in the book blogs I visit, I knew instantly that I have to read it. I tried to find in the bookstores I visit often but couldn't. When I requested a copy from the author, her publicist was kind enough to send me one. I am very glad I read it.

Title: Sarah's Key
Author: Tatiana de Rosnay
ISBN: 9780312370848
Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin/2007
Pages: 293/Trade Paperback

Sarah's Key opened up facts I had not known before. That the French police being responsible for rounding up thousands of Jews in Paris and sending them to Auschwitz to die. Those included more than 4000 children between the age of 2 to 12. Those children were citizens of France. But it did not matter a fig for the police. And the people too turned a blind eye. It seems that France has kept it well hidden from the world.

It is July 1942, Paris. Sarah is a ten year old girl, who is taken away from her home along with her parents, in the middle of the night. Meanwhile, she hides her 4 year old brother in a cubboard which is not visible. She promises to come back for him. Her parents are taken away from her and unknown to her, sent to their death.

After 60 years, Julia Jarmond, an American journalist settled in Paris investigates the roundup. She stumbles upon certain secrets which almost rips apart her life. But she knows she has to find out what happened to Sarah Starzynski. And she keeps doing it no matter what. The past and present run in parallel. It keeps the reader rivetted till the end. It stays in mind long after reading the book. We cry with Sarah, for Sarah. We need to know what happened to her. Where did she go? Did she survive at all?

I am glad I got to know about the French connection. It is fiction but it is totally based on facts. And this has made me look up more material on that period of time. What I want to know why did the French keep it all hidden? Even now not much is known about it.

As it is said in the book, Remember. Never forget.

Such books should be read by ALL of us. That is one reason I am posting this review here along with posting it on my other blog, Reading Room.

one fourth of a poem

vague movement
of the enemy
registers only when
splintered bodies fly
shattering lives

pictures stare, curves are drawn

smooth black surface
darker than sin,
blankness for it
is absolute slight

that darkness
has such a soul-
shining bright,
never to be sold

it comes to life
when words form,
pictures stare,
curves are drawn.

eloquence speaks
with fluency of letters
smoothing over flat
surface, pausing a while

"darkness shines only when
it belongs to a blackboard,
much bruised with chalks"

tradition doodles

cowering within the shell of soul
tradition loses out on meanings
absentmindly the pen doodles
on that blank page trying to
fill it in with the past events
which have to be recalled
out of cold numbness

"if only it was that easy"

#Update on Dec 7, 2008: This is NOT about writers block.

keep it burning, keep it alive

this time I will keep it burning within my soul
whatever is left of it,
I will not let the balance of my thoughts tilt
forgetting and moving on is not what I need, we need.
anger is being kept alive with calculated move and resolve
human spirit, what of it?
it lost its meaning giving way to numbness
I will not let you, the powers that are, to dictate me
like the way you always did, always do
calmness that you see now hides a volcano
invisible to you as yet.
when it hits you, you won't know where to run
I will not let my mind wander
I will not wash the blood
I will not brush anything aside
I will keep it right in front
to look each day to remind me, they are gone
to remember, to keep all those who lost their innocent lives
and I am alive by sheer chance or timing or place
colour of the blood, no matter from where, is always red

time that you- our esteemed, so called worthy leaders-
shed yours to save us, who make you come into power
remember, we can kick you out too, similarly

I have not been online for the past one week. Two days my server was down. Then the Mumbai attacks happened. That has deeply saddened me. It was more of a war than a terrorist attack. For three days, our lives were on hold and spent in front of the television. It hardly mattered that I live in Delhi. Around 200 lives were lost, inluding our commandos. Has it ended? No. As long India has a soft approach towards terrorists, it is not going to change. The power that are, bicker amongst themselves, putting the blame on each other. Our intelligence failed. Need I say more? My heart is kind of dead.

How do we recover from it? I have no clue....

Writing/Reading does not give me any pleasure any more...


Yes, I thank you all for your love, concern and prayers via comments, emails and smses...

Mumbai attacks

Will it ever end?

I am too distraught to write anything right now.....

alpha and omega

howling winds almost rip at ears drums
day hides into startling night of doom
complacent gone, I listen to love songs
of the gusts of wind to swaying pines.
envious of those, assailed by melancholy
I kick out at the table stubbing my toes.
howling like the wind, I hobble around
giving a loud voice to choicest of curses.

my eyes fall on a ragged doll long forgotten
discarded now, a silent bystander to all
alpha and omega of my early years. now it
offers comfort. I hug it close to my heart,
smiling at its smugdy one-eyed twisted face.

'turbulent weather is perfect to revisit childhood memories'

# From my archives, dusted and .....

And do join in the Train every Monday.

splash of colours on dirty scraps of paper

since school closed
mornings are empty-
despite the heat
I miss the sounds
of chattering girls
shoes dragging in the corridors
in stiffly ironed uniforms.
streets seem so empty
parents are so harassed
and here I was thinking
vacations are cure for
stressed minds.
when I see those
splash of colours
however dirty,
on those scraps of paper;
these make me long
for school to reopen.
when you do come back
I can only hope
you would be wiser
now that you are taller.

"I would still welcome you even if you are not"

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

I wrote the above during the summer vacations. I missed those brats and I had to pen my thoughts!

Life in general

What are the areas closest to your heart? What aspects of your life in general do you find yourself sharing in writing? Do you enjoy reading/writing personal essays? Who are some of your favorite essayists?

How do I answer this? I put a lot of myself in my poetry but I seldom reflect on what is going on with my life. Frankly, it is not to keep myself out of bounds but I think my life is too mundane to interest anyone other than myself. A lot of what goes on around me interests me. I feel strongly about many issues, say for one religion, or injustice, child abuse, women empowerment and such.

I write about those in my poetry. I also deal with any tension or my emotions by writing poetry about that, which at times tends to get dark. Without darkness, light has no meaning. I used to read personal essays. Mostly by J Krishnamuthy. It did good to my intellect but it also made snob out of me for a time being.

I discovered that intellectual stimulation can corrupt our mind, albeit in a different way. Now I only think of humanity being above everything else. That one word is my personal essay. Maybe I am not making much sense. Or maybe I am. What do you think?

foundations of wonder-------unpoem

Come join the train! Click the icon to reach there.

illusion shatters fragile
glass of courage, breaking
foundations of wonder

leaving nothing to ponder
about, other than staring
straight ahead. tactile

feelings are light and agile;
trajectory of which is moving
beyond house of yonder

still foundations of wonder
hold glass of courage, mending
illusions which were fragile

"now as hard, as strong as diamonds"

distractingly disjointed

flowers that
we both picked;
sent to me
warped and stained,

stay unwrapped,
precisely like letters-
as from me to you
time has made you

a stranger. maybe I
pretend that so as to
prevent myself from
a predicament, which

is embarrassingly
embracing me even
when I am trying hard
to escape it by ignoring

illuminated fear susurrates

monster of my expectations
is so loaded that it can pluck
my crisp thoughts from air
illuminated fear susurrates
with a flourish, swishing
around sassily, crunchy smell
of it stops me on my track.
with a resilience born out of
vacuum, I crackle the air with
my words, which zoom about
making no sense to you who is
luminously insensitive to me

"susurrating fear illuminates air
where my expectations sparkle"

warming up to you and lot more!

tenderness of your touch
tickles me to insanity
blush spreads evenly
to each of my pores
I quiver deliciously
in the aftermath.

whispering wind
spirals singularly
near my ears, saying
what I can only listen to
with the help of my skin
senstized to yours, like silk

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

Do you do writing exercises or warm ups? Do you think they could be valuable? Have you found warm up exercises helpful in some other area of your life, e.g. art, music, athletics?


All of us have those moments when we can't write, for one reason or the other. We need some sort of inspiration to continue with our creativity, be it writing, music or anything else. When there is a block of any kind, writing exercises do help. Those make us think and the creative juices do start flowing. At least they do for me. What I post here on my blog is miniscule of what I really write. I do most of the prompts as this way I can interact with others writers and that is one good way of getting inspired. Reading and interacting with other writers also help in the formation of new thoughts.

I have not gone in for warm ups, except perhaps in physical exercises. I have not given it much thought before this. I suppose that too is a good way of making the mind work towards whatever goal we wish for it to achieve.

How do you feel about it? Do you need to be inspired?

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

Don't forget to join in the Monday Poetry Train. Just click on the icon to reach there:

blank page soaked

ink bled from that pen
smudging the paper
skillfully hiding words
which he had written
with much trepidition
for you and only you

oh well, he feels better for it
now that you can't read
all that he wrote for you
those words which split
him apart; now hidden
can mend him somehow

although he is not aware
of it. he is trying to rewrite
it unsuccessfully on a blank
page soaked with his tears
again smugding the paper

"paradoxically in a different way"

Champions of writing and bonding

Are you having a hard time staying the course toward fulfilling your writing dreams? What are you doing about it?


Despite being a teacher, that too a mathematics teacher, I am kind of disorganised. However, writing is the only thing I stick to regularly. Yes, there are days I can't write but those times are not very frequent. All of my writings is for my own pleasure. I have thought of publishing but never got around it. To speak truthfully, I am not a champion of my own writing. I don't set up a goal and write. I do it as and when I wish it. But nowadays I take short breaks during work and pen own something. It refreshes me.

Being on the net too helps me get to know many good writers and we form networks, helping each other out by the way of encouragement. Writing exercises and prompts do make the creative juices flow, which in turn help us in forming bonds of blogging brotherhood/sisterhood between people from diverse cultures and countries.

Lately I have observed a shift in my own writings. I am venturing out of my poetry to write more of of prose. I have submitted a story in a story writing competition conducted by our education department. I have put my best there. Let us see how I fare. Writing has brought about subtle changes into my life or should I say my perception? I have become more observant and I try to think out of box. I let my mind wander and take root wherever it wishes to. That helps in my creativity.

As they say, I am thriving in it! That is better than any dream! How/what about you?

ribbons of her thoughts

unseen fall that divides
the soul’s duality
ribbons of her thoughts
tie her down
the radar eyes
scans the forgotten creases

if she carries enough chips
they will become
too heavy to hold
breaking her to splinters

tend the bruise,
the insult, the scab. glue
and mop. restore
and then watch
how the line of her lips
curves into the morning


Collaborative: Taken lines from Rob Kistner, Rethabile, Jeeves, Holly, Nathan and my own.

nameless nuances

gravity gravitates me
tamely towards
something unexplained
nameless nuances
infuses into the whole of me
I feel new and rejuvenated
shattered dreams should
have pulled me down
but hope has kept me afloat

"is it a way of preparing
the mind for a delayed reaction?"

Monday Poetry Train Revisited: Sylvia Plath's Ariel

Instead of poetry, I am posting this review of Ariel by Sylvia Plath for Monday Poetry Train Revisited. As she is one of my favourite poets, I thought this is one way of paying tribute to her.


Title: Ariel
Author: Sylvia Plath
ISBN: 9780060931728
Publisher: HarperPerennial Modern Classics
Pages: 105
Genre: Poetry
Rating: 5/5

Plath's poetry borders on the dark. But it is very real. How does one review it, other than saying I liked it and will read it again and again.

Plath has taken poetry to new heights. These impassioned pieces touch our soul to the core. They speak of turbulent emotions with a brilliancy bordering on the raw side of life. Starknes of her poems enhances the austerity beautifully. The imaginary word comes alive out of her poetry.

Her poetry is so deeply personal yet I connected with it. Her female essence marvellously comes out of the depth of her imagination. All aspects of a woman..charming, witty, acerbic, playful, girlish, sour, fanciful and much more can be found here. She does get a bit repetitive at times but which great poet doesn't.

Each and every poem in this collection is work of greatness. To be read, savoured and read again. A must read for poetry lovers and all those who ought to read poetry.

Monday Poetry Train Revisited

Rhian used to run a train each Monday. Although it was named poetry train, any creative post was encouraged. She seems to be in a hiatus and we all miss the train. So I thought I will run it until she gets back. I have got a new site running for it and have named it Monday Poetry Train Revisited.

Tiel Aisha Ansari has created the following button for it.



All those who missed poetry train and all those who did not know a thing about it, are welcome to post at Monday Poetry Train Revisited on Mondays and thereafter. Mind you, it does not have a prompt as such. It only concerns writing...poetry, prose poetry or anything creative. Write about anything that takes your fancy and post your link there. And don't forget to visit others, but be polite about it. Don't play the critique unless specifically asked for it. Come on, lets rebuild and run our poetry train again. We never can have excess of poetry or any kind of creative writing, for that matter.

entangling

slowly you raise both your hands to
my head gently pulling at the pins
your fingers rub into my scalp
raven black silken tresses spill over
hiding both of us from the world
you untangle from it, entangling
me tightly with my own hair
wrapping it around me like your love
I can't move yet I move closer to you
to hide myself from you, in you
if my hair could gossip, believe me
it would have so much to convey

"I know, you know, my disguise is you"

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.

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



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.

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


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.

I take the dare

It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare; it is because we do not dare that they are difficult. ~Seneca

It is the fear of falling that prevents us from doing many a things. A child when he starts walking does not fear anything. He wobbles, falls, picks himself up and goes on. He cries only when he knows someone is observing him. When he thinks he is alone, falling does not affect him. As elders we are always conscious of what others think of us. That prevents us from venturing out into new directions. We are always concerned about others.

Sometimes I feel that way about my writings. As if it is not upto the mark. What others are going to think reading it. If I can't satisfy my readers, why should I bother to write? However, I have overcome this jaded feelings somewhat. What do I fear next? A writing slump. For me it feels like that as if the world has come to an end. It is like desert. You are looking for words and they are no where to be found. When one does get near those words, they are like a mirage. They seem to run away from me.

Lately I have been forcing myself to write. That is the only way I can get over the writing drought. I don't wish for the slump to last forever. The long night of not being able to write has to come to an end. Delicate words put on paper have to shine through. Yes, I dare to write. Even trash.

How do you feel about it? Do you dare?

if you only recycled the coke cans

I tried rhyming after a long time, inluding internal rhymes and alliterations. A very very rough draft....

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global gloom outshines gold
to mere talks I am no longer sold
stocks and bonds now are trash,
no longer do they fetch any cash
if you only recycled the coke cans
you might get some good returns
nevertheless sit tight, do not panic
crashing markets are not bubonic
forget the recession, don't fall in pits
keep up your spirits along with your wits
if and buts never did anyone good
just chill and be cool, won't you, dude

we can't go back in time, why make that wish
come let's have fun eating chips with fish

evil is objectively effortless

evil is objectively effortless

with a face like yours or mine
which is so normal yet
coming from the nether
unspirits roam the world
thrashing at its core
unreasonably vindictive
destructive death is not far
non-action on our part
cuts into it, changing
everything forever
evil is objectively effortless
for a world gone mad
but do we really give a damn
as long as we individually escape

"if only we recognised the monster amongst us"

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Words are a form of action, capable of producing change
~~~~Ingrid Bengis

This has given me food for thought. It can be taken in many ways. Only with words, I come into being, my thoughts materialise out of nowhere. Many a times, writing has nothing to do with it. We might not write a single word but our heart, soul and mind paint a vivid world for us. And words help us put it in perspective. In any way we wish to. As prose. As poetry. Or just disjointed sentences, which makes sense only for us. Or maybe not. Does it make sense? What about you?

serendipity

emerging from the walls
like some Indian God,
pieces of brick sticking
to his balded head
he lands up in the room
which reeks with fried fish
forgetting what/why he
came about in the first place
he takes an offered seat
keeps aside his bow and arrow
picking up a plate piled high
he closes his eyes and gobbles
everything up at one go

"better to be human than try playing God"

Locked in the attic

Suddenly out of nowhere, I started to write this. When my mind said write, I had to. And now I know why..... Poetry, prose, I don't know what to call it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Icicles form on the walls invisible to all but me. I notice because I feel the coldness seep into me. I grab your arm, which is not there. At least not for me. When you speak, I shut myself in savouring the words. Merging it with my thoughts. I have memories of the stupidest things. Like the way you slurp you tea. Or scratch the back of your head. Forgetting the important ones. That is, your plans about our future. Which excludes me.

Regrets. What of it? Words I did say? Or the words you didn't hear? Does it matter? And in what form? Solidified? Out in the open is claustrophobic for me. I can't breath you there. With everything that is beyond me, I did what I could. I did what I had to. Looked at you. With closed eyes. Spoke to you with non-words. Common courtsey compelled you to compromise. If only for a while. You were there talking to me. I was there, not breathing.

In the book I never wrote, you are forbidden territory. Familiarity of it consumes me, splitting my guts. Reality of the imagination is the mirror of my thoughts. Locked in the attic with a rusted lock and non-existent key. Serves me right, wouldn't you say?

How groovy can you get?

Do you find yourself moving too fast through life? What’s your favorite way to moodle and make the mornin’ last? How does slowing down affect your creativity?

Thinking about moving too fast through life right now seems funny. My life seems to be in a standtill. It was not my intention but it slowed down all by itself. I am going through a phase when I simply don't wish to do anything. At times, I feel guilt about the fact, fully well knowing I don't have any reason to feel that way. I am unable to find anything to nourish it with and make it productive again.

Speaking of mornings, I got school from 7 a.m. Hence I can't afford to moodle. I just rush through it and once I am in school, nothing can come between me and my school work. No one can intervene it. Teaching is no cakewalk, believe me.

Slowing down affects my creativity. I can't seem to function. Faster moving thoughts help me write. Slower ones curb it. How do I say it? My mind can't meander through slowly. It shuts itself down. Like it has done for sometime now. I hate it yet I can't do a thing about it. Slowing down by my brain seems to be deliberate somehow. Maybe this is how brain copes with emotional upheavals. I know I will rejuvenate myself and come up on tops. But when?

And how do YOU cope?

Kill Word Verification----rid the world of useless typing

This button was created by Bethany of B&b ex libris. In her own words "I have created a button, that hopefully becomes a movement. A movement for what? Well I am going to call it "Kill Word Verification: rid the world of useless typing."

I am all for it. I am joining this movement from now onwards. Frankly tell me, how many spam comments do you really get? I don't have word verification, neither do I have comment moderation. And truthfully I do not get spams. If I do, those are very rare and in between. I delete those instantly. So what is the big deal? So come shake it, folks! We need hassle-free blogging, i.e, commenting forum. Don't we?

I hate it even more when blogs have word verification along with comment moderation. I think that is being paranoid. However, many bloggers do not know that they have word verification as it can't be seen by blog authors.

If you have it and don't know it, then you should do the following steps:

Go to dashboard---->Click settings---->Click comments----->Scroll down to Show word verification for comments?----->Click No---->Click Save Settings and you are done!

Help spread the word about this movement:

Write a blog post about this and make use of the button. Down with useless typing!!

Feel free to voice your thoughts here. Be nice about it though!

temporal

For sometime now, I have not been able to write poetry. Have your ever thought of words chasing in your mind and you are unable to catch any of those? That's what is happening. Maybe my inner conflict prevents me from writing. Previously words gave me relief by pouring out. Now those very words refuse to come out by hiding, I do not know where. Believe me, I keep searching for those. I can't write anything better than this.

fleeting moments
as yet uncaptured
chased by what?

Weddings and Beheadings by Hanif Kureishi

I was going to give a miss to Sunday Scribblings. However, after reading the following short story, I couldn't resist posting the review here. I felt it goes right with the prompt, Weddings. It might be too dark for some but this is another ugly reality of the world we live in. Let's face it too...

You may choose to read it and write own your thoughts about it or you may choose to ignore it. I leave in on to you.

Weddings and Beheadings by Hanif Kureishi is an interesting title. I found it online in a back issue of Zoetrope: All-Story.

The narrator seems to be a film-maker who is made to video tape beheadings by some people who seem to be terrorists. Although the place is not mentioned, it might have been set in Afghanistan or Iraq or any such place. At least thats what I presumed. It is a short story but makes one sit up and notice. Here the narrator, the place and the terrorists, all remain nameless.

It is dark, deeply sad for the victims as well as their families yet it has that black humour. To quote a few lines of conversation between friends who take such shots:

"Don't bury your head in the sand, my friend. Don't go losing your head now. Chin up!"

"It's too dark, it's not going to come out and you can't do another take."

"You'll get a prize for the next one. Don't you guys love prizes and statuettes and stuff?"

At one point you do feel he is enjoying his work in a macabre way.

"To make the shot work, it helps to get a clear view of the victim's eyes just before they're covered. At the end the guys hold up the head streaming with blood, and you might need to use some handheld here, to catch everything. "

Maybe it his way of being clinical. After all it can affect the mind. This line of work. How did the title come about? It was an idea of one of the writer friends of the narrator to have "calling cards inscribed with WEDDINGS AND BEHEADINGS."

Someday

Posting this from my archives, which I wrote way back in in 2005. Here I have tried internal rhyming along with end-rhymes. This is the only poem where I attempted internal rhyming.

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Photo Credits: Rick Mobbs






















I only want to know,
to dream
how your caress would feel
so dizzy for contact,
making me reel.
unsure how to act,
not good at this game anymore.
but
sure that your love
will seep through my pores
and
expose my soul,
where
now in secret
grows a weedy garden
of needy wasteland.
where
angst and pain
flows like rain
through the dream-cluttered
gutters of my brain.
my mind
screams a silent
refrain of mistakes.
and in
my dreams,
all that I yearn
seems so far away,
on the highest summit,
out of reach.
but
for now
I have to teach
myself to wait,
willing fate to
deliver one day.