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Saturday, April 07, 2007

This moment (march 21st)

What is it that I ask of myself? I know not of the agony of words that I impose upon myself. It is not the mystery of darkness that calls me this night. It is the feeling of loss that catapults as a gain. It is not the trifling sadness in life that I talk of. It is the word life that I think of. The loss of direction is where I corner the stones of memories. The way back, the life that I have led, the situations that caught me meek, the reasons most illogical to be labeled as “mean” by this world. Half of the life seems to have been lived with the right and wrongs charted by the society.

The discretion of self will and self considered righteous rights of birth, life and death seem to be controlled not by the giver, but by the manipulator. Where have the delicate strands of my life been caught? My life resembles the tombstone that is adorned with the wreaths of moss and bugs. My past, an epitaph of my present grave.

This moment, seems to stand long and still. This very moment makes me cry and laugh as well. I can’t figure the mistakes rated high with the society as my tools of regret. Where has my instrument of reason vanish? Why do I write words dictated by my mind, the mind that is guided by the will of writing? The will of writing, a weak slave of the motion of desire.

Where can my stripped body find faith? My ideas seem washed in the carpet of love. My thoughts blur in the concept of pragmatic society. Where is my happiness locked? Where am I heading with the burden of imposed past and regrets on my shoulder? Lest this sound as a worry for future, it’s the least that a mind as lazy as mine would ever think of. It’s the present. It is this moment. It is this very life that has stood still in the present, making me ponder over the realm of nothingness.

To swim in this stillness, is to invite an end to the moving time of life. It is not cowardice that you shall label this moment with. Neither is it the work of the idle weird mind. It is the art of perceived silence, this moment beckons. It is the silence amidst the retrospection offered when standing alone at the beach, waves sloshing over my feet, my eyes lost in the width of the horizon and the mind wandering an aimless journey to a unseen known goal.

I cherish this moment. This moment that I do not wish to let loose. This moment that might put an end to the joy of life. This moment that raises its enigmatic voice, appealing to me of the sadness of death, I so name as peace. Peace in a piece of moment.

crap, crap n more crap

i know not what to write. very confused in mind and sad at heart. the best thing in the world is to be blank. it answers everything best.no thinking, no thoughts--silence of blankness, that's what i call heaven.

Monday, November 14, 2005

an artist or a writer??

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Emotional Stability70%

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Thursday, August 04, 2005

' his love, i realised at age 65'

on the lust in me, i pledge
your song was nectar to my ears
your whispers were the tunes,
i had danced to.
your voice vouched of
the existence of a superhero.
i am done to you, as i couldn't
have been to others.
your caress was all;
i could have asked for.
you dwelt in my dreams
and you coughed in my conscience.
your love had bound me;
your soul swept through my being.
my body had learnt
the contact of thy skin alone!
your breath caught me in nostalgia
you were everything,
i dreamt of....

but, now.....
lying on the same bed
that has washed you away....
i swear....
you whispered in my deaf ears
you moved the viel of blindness
you nurtured all possible pleasure
you showed me
the last gasp of death....

you have killed me
in the sweetness of your love.

Sunday, July 24, 2005

eyes and tears...

This is one of MY favorite poems by andrew marvell. He's an outstanding poet and i just love and adore his pieces. Here's one of his very best.....

Eyes and Tears.

How wisely Nature did decree,
With the same Eyes to weep and see!
That, having view'd the object vain,
They might be ready to complain.

And since the Self-deluding Sight,
In a false Angle takes each hight;
These Tears which better measure all,
Like wat'ry Lines and Plummets fall.

Two Tears, which Sorrow long did weigh
Within the Scales of either Eye,
And then paid out in equal Poise,
Are the true price of all my Joyes.

What in the World most fair appears,
Yea even Laughter, turns to Tears:
And all the Jewels which we prize,
Melt in these Pendants of the Eyes.

I have through every Garden been,
Amongst the Red,the White, the Green;
And yet, from all the flow'rs I saw,
No Hony, but these Tears could draw.

So the all-seeing Sun each day
Distills the World with Chymick Ray;
But finds the Essence only Showers,
Which straight in pity back he powers.

Yet happy they whom Grief doth bless,
That weep the more, and see the less:
And, to preserve their Sight more true,
Bath still their Eyes in their own Dew.

So Magdalen, in Tears more wise
Dissolv'd those captivating Eyes,
Whose liquid Chains could flowing meet
To fetter her Redeemers feet.

Not full sailes hasting loaden home,
Nor the chast Ladies pregnant Womb,
Nor Cynthia Teeming show's so fair,
As two Eyes swoln with weeping are.

The sparkling Glance that shoots Desire,
Drench'd in these Waves, does lose it fire.
Yea oft the Thund'rer pitty takes
And here the hissing Lightning slakes.

The Incense was to Heaven dear,
Not as a Perfume, but a Tear.
And Stars shew lovely in the Night,
But as they seem the Tears of Light.

Ope then mine Eyes your double Sluice,
And practise so your noblest Use.
For others too can see, or sleep;
But only humane Eyes can weep.

Now like two Clouds dissolving, drop,
And at each Tear in distance stop:
Now like two Fountains trickle down:
Now like two floods o'return and drown.

Thus let your Streams o'reflow your Springs,
Till Eyes and Tears be the same things:
And each the other's difference bears;
These weeping Eyes, those seeing Tears.

Marvell simply marvels at this work. Don't you think so?

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

walk with me,my dearest past..

It looks a little ridiculous to post something new after a hibernation period of two months. but then the vaccation has got my nerves flooded with new tales and gossips and musings that my fingers have started to itch yet again.

It’s a wild road
And I am all alone
Walking the distance of life
On a rise and down the lane
There I land
And here I go
Roving along the narrow path
Pondering over the unspoken trance
working on the balance of life.

I move
In search of light
I walk on and on
to realize the fact
that I m not all alone
Walking in the darkness along with me
With a lonely aura, accompanies my friend
And I lead this loyal mass
Into a death pit..

Strange it is
For my companion
Walks through all obstacles with me
Carrying a satchel of deep memories
Of love, of avarice
Of concern, of greed
Of the evil sins
And of the balustrade of virtues.

It’s a sincere walk
And she’s being loyal
Thriving in her own dark death
Walking along faithfully
To avenge her dark life for my sake.

I seek for the light of eternity
And as I sense its ephemeral warmth around me
My eyes have caught the first streak of parting pain
I see the diminishing soul of my past
My friend—my past, my shadow.
I see her cry for help
But I m malicious to the extent
Of snatching away her ‘light’
I can’t let her with me
For all that I fear
is her loyalty.

Friday, March 18, 2005



Turnaround to see me waiting for you;
I am still at the crossed forks
Still waiting in an unsung glory.
The pebbles have grown to become rocks
The leaves have fallen out….
The roots beneath have rotten…

Turnaround. ..Just..
Turnaround to notice me……
Turnaround to recollect the days of lore….
Your new path might take you places..
But can you run away from nostalgia?
Run away from your own cosmic self?
From a place so endearing...
From people who cared and
Loved you for what you are……..

Turnaround to see the return of the spring…
Turnaround to sense the warmth of love….
Turnaround to just notice…
Me at the forked road…
I am still waiting in an unsung glory……..


Sunday, February 06, 2005

tinkling death bells

Over to the aisles of memories, smeared by the chanting of garrulous talk, past the corridors of winding crossroads evaporated with the husk of a caring voice, the mimics of childish assaults in grungy surroundings, the rampant beat of the gushing merriness…. Unobtrusive innocence is a parody for the sulkiest lot.

Early spring morning when the birds twittered and chirped their laconic tunes, the sun’s glowing bosom fed her it’s nourishing warmth and the dawdling breeze sang to her the beauty of the dawn. She was told to wake up from the grungy yet a cozy pavilion bed when the sun’s enigmatic lust swept through her tiny body narrowing down the gaps of the chilly night’s numbness with its cemented and mystic heat. She was a perfect disciplinarian, a true disciple of the nature for the past thirteen years and continued to be an assiduous pupil. Rummaging around her worn out clothes, she picked her regular satchel and hoped down the Bi-furcated lane to work. She had been working for the past seven years to feed her seven siblings who were maliciously welcomed into this world due to her father’s ever-hungry groin. Her mother had deserted them when she was six. Since then, her naked body bore rewarding caricatures of burns and itchy scars from diligent labor and her equally diligent drunkard father. She was a rag picker. The dawn saw her moving ahead like a single wave, slow in its approach but shrewd to the extent of gaining perpetual profits while dusk witnessed her being bludgeoned amidst her own flock of ugly geese.

That morning, she woke up as usual and ran to her favorite work place. Behind a cloud of architectural intricacies, her work ground was ceremoniously surrounded by fencing pillars that served as a dumping womb of garbage and ruined diapers. She usually collected diapers for her younger brother, and for the regular loaf of bread, she gathered tins, tequila bottles, newspapers, and polyethene covers. Some times, she was lucky to find discarded food cans, which contained expired food that later served as a spicy soup to her co-mates. Slowly morning drifted its charm toward the fencing pillars and cast strong shadows. The scorching heat plummeted her resistance to work and she couched under the branches of a tree. Faraway, something glittery caught her eyes. A work alcoholic, she was, summed up her strength under the shrouded blankets of curiosity and walked toward the object that caught her attention. Sleek and shiny, it was a safety pin resting on top of a small paper box. Now, it was the picture on the box that popped her eyes out more than the glitter of the pin. She saw nude pictures of a man and a woman. She knew it was something gross not meant for display at her employer’s table. At the same moment, a sudden tinge of eagerness to possess the card took over her and she carefully treasured it in her worn out satchel. After the day’s hectic schedule, she landed back at her pavilion under the green roof. The night under the roof dawned with the regular cries of her drunkard father. According to the routine, she had her share of submittal abuse followed by thick basting for not being able to feed her father with extra “daaru.” But that night, the lady luck of the house, rolled the dice in a more audacious and blatant fashion. The inebriated father suspected his daughter of hornswoggling…. And as lady luck held the delicate strings of this green roof, the man searched her satchel for money and found instead the treasured possession. A mad fit of fury rushed his intoxicated channels turning him red and rendering the poor girl cold and blue. “ Bitch! How long have you been using this thing??? How many men, have you slept with?” ---these questions echoed the tacky house and the cool spring night mimicked the magi in witnessing the death of their diligent pupil.

The sun rose again. The day dawned with its charming stupor but with an exception. The sun now fed its warmth to the next girl in succession. Now, she inherited the family responsibility and had graduated from being a prankster to a rag picker. She now, bore the weight of the walls and roof of her house. Just one week after her acquired insignia, the green roof squeaked in happiness at the snuffed out old hag. The old hag’s colleagues visited the tacky house to pay their last tributes. One of them, a burly man in his early fifties came forward and explained to the older kid that her father had died because of a deadly disease called AIDS. “ Your father died of AIDS. He died because he did not use this.” (He showed the new rag picker, the treasured possession that took their father and sister away from them.). Innocence in all its perpetual glory surfaced back on the tiny face of the rag- picker and she said: “my father died because he did not use this…. But my sister died because she used this…” and then she asked: “what do you think I should do? I do not wish to die like them. Should I use it or should I not?”. A satanic smile slipped from the visage of this burly figure, and all the other six plants planted under this green-roofed house succumbed to the whims and fancies of the devouring men.

The sun has risen again and again…the day dawned regularly and each new day brought with it the glory of basking evil…dark and gray, the peyote’s running in every body ….with death bells tinkling all over, ignorance and innocence have fled….the illumination of goodness remains hazy and ethereal…its presence being washed over by the stupor of malice and greed….evil is hitting us and cowards we are, for we drown ourselves into its gray well…….