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.

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....

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

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"

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



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?