Hello Friend,

You might want to talk and not!

Sunflower

Nothing, nothing can be as close to the joy of being around and with the one you love. Where else would you like to bud like a rose, lily, orchid, or gerbera?

Sake

A year went by, and so did Pete.

Tingling

"My poet!"
"My Poem!"

Gossamer

Speak to him.
He will move mountains
like poets of yore.
Stop the subways,
like radicals of now.


And every like will be--
the first bite into cotton candy.
Sweet and fresh as you want it to be.




Naïveté of the eyelash,
stop holding lies from the future,
speak now.

From the posse of a poet from the past, rose the Scientist.
Wide and strong;
who gave stones for a song.


-

'Precious?,' I asked.
'I picked them at a jamboree.'
'Nevertheless.'
'Precious?'
'Yes.'
...
...
...

Want a battle?

Try the mind;
and not fields of the blind.

Reader: (Rhetorically) Which would you hoot for? A battle of the mind or one on the field? Which, oh, which?

-

Only to show what it is like once on Tiersen's music.

Remember. The hardwood is only a layer firmly covering and holding a bed of cotton and a million butterflies. Only because it'd be chaos otherwise.

--

(Corniness apart) *wicked glee**the pretending to be haughty smile, tone and eye roll* Do we need reasons, really, to celebrate, loves and lives?

A Pray'r

I wish you were around; like God all the time and a Godsend during these trying times.

I should have almost finished my coursework and started on the lab by now.
Whatamidoinghere. Whatamidoinghere. I want to go yelping around like a kid who is waiting to go to school (grad, in this case!).

Tainted ~~~~

Sitara told herself, "And one day, you will continue being the poem, painting, and music of my life." Such was she for the man in her life and such was his nimble love for her. And such was their art that now precipitates from the mêlée of the hard world.

There will be time ~~
there will be time.

--

I know there's not been anything much to my writing of late apart from its theatrics. It's just a limbic phase. Just.

So, don't wash any of your linen in public. But of course, you can dry them out there later and get all those jaw-dropped, jealous stares.

Each of our hippety hoppity lives.
Waltz.

-

I forgot the original line (which sounded much better and was killed by an unintentional interruption by Harini) and had to post this as a compromise.

From an evening,
woven
through thick and thin,
trodden
with time,
forgotten.

Ha, but who remembers? Who bets on such a past for a future? Who is that loser?

--

Who wants to be like those poets who write silly stuff like the stuff above and bear the smile of a wise, senseofhumoured man when they say it was the stole they use each winter or some such entity they were referring to.

Well, you don't have to raise your hand.

Bred from flesh, and incepted orientations, your love is far away.
Dying its death, spinning a web, it's a catch away.

What, then, holds your mast?
Who, then, is your steward,
chief mate and boatswain?
Do you need the fishing net, or
do you need an anchor for rest?

Like two people standing back-to-back on the proscenium stage trying to break the fourth wall.

Beating around the bush

May be I like the Nazis,
and not the jews.

When you work, whyinthename, is it that you get stuck with a culture.

Will aymaR last it out?

Build

In business, you don't look at the days, you look at the dates.

I've had my fair share of Khadi apparel and bag-wearing, hovering-rover days. I may have to wait until this December to relive them. It's not so much about the wearing as it is about the free spiritedness.

It may be white this time, over the oranges and reds of yore. Crisp, freshly starched, and pressed. It may not sync well with my brown self, but I am allowed relaxations then, or even a complexion change meanwhile.



(I'm bored of my few-line posts, too. But I guess it's the selfish me not wanting to kill the thoughts just so they're brief.)

You know what the surge would do? Make Rome roam.

-

Like the double-edged swords that why and why not can be in independence.

Is this a day of space?
or one from?

-

To view Medina from a Mecca,

-

To watch a crowd that sways in unison from an altitude with just you and no other person.

Selene

Rotund moon,
as the one in the sky today;
nights of the full moon,
(clear, & without the chariots!)
the backyard of the hostel,
and the beach campus.

Paul Valkens was one of them; flipping open the sacred veil, private to, well, whoever it concerned, each time he saw the need; leaving the wounds, essence and other such guarded territories open, to the skies, and vanishing a day before the full moon. The whoevers bled for him after. They did not know what to do with their stripped selves. They poured themselves to others, resorted to fighting their hitherto battles of the mind, verbally with others, chanted for him to come back so they could divulge themselves to him alone and did other such things of expressed instability and desperation just so they don't lose the ground to their selves.

He only did good, but he never knew, or perhaps, wanted to finish up, Paul. Valkens.

They were never grateful to him, the whoevers.

Monsoon Retreat

In the hills,
by the sea,
our home.

What evens out patience lost to anger and patience lost to insecurity?

A flying kiss laden with a wish for You each night.
Dare a gentle touch or brazen breeze wake you from sleep.

For what end?

What am I holding on to?
A butterfly?
Should I let it free?
You don't have the heart to.
But I should; for the one month it gets to live a life of its own.
It always did.

---

The plea in the eyes are not being seen. Not being. Should the sockets be emptied? The soul killed? The head rationed?

The moon summoned?

I read that butterflies taste with their feet and there was a soothing breeze in the head. It did get me lighter.

-

I see the horizon, my love. Oh yes, I do now!
It's not too far.

How long should one wait? :|

Shadows of ourselves,

Short, long and oblique, we are

shadows of ourselves.

"Strangers in the night

Two lonely people, we were

strangers in the night."

I heard a theatrical voice saying "I don't care, do I?" "I don't, do I?" just as indifferently.

-

Ah, the feeling of the sun and ice on my eyes;
Orange juice.

Ooh, how refreshing! I just need to pack and leave on my trip now!

Is this why I am a child of the Tropic of Cancer?

After you.
'fore your dreams.
and this bovine day!

-

Get it straight.
I'm not after imagery for their
ohdearLord, beauty, etc.
But the game of it.
(Only for this moment.)

Experiment V - Zebra Love

Conjure up your love and romance and stir it with the one who wants or has to be charmed for however long.

Who needs a match, oh Wizard?
Who lights your love?
You, right?


Why don't you stir it up.
Stir it up for you and her
or Him.

Heh, why do you need to?
You don't want to, grumpy.
Just like sweet and sticky nectar.

Don't wire me your life. I need to know every detail. No, I will never get bored; unless you do.

-

I met you in the evening today; just after the rains while you were smoking by the lamppost on one of our commonly favourite avenues. You only saw me as a ghost.

The dark brown beads knit by tribal hands, worn for a little over a year now, spluttered. Oh, the portentous action of cleaning the nape.

Experiments III & IV

I'm here this night. Leaving the pen to the table and eyes to the sockets.
I'm still shaken. Yes.

-

So, all of life is one bizarre cardiograph, huh?

I want to toil with an artist too. See the work through days and nights, watch-keep the exhibitions, if not sell and sleep sound on my bed each night.

If not, can I direct my scenes and not movies? Please? I promise they will be as good as a photograph and the "a picture is worth a thousand words" adage. They're going to be gorgeous, mind you!

I'll have a lot of ground rules for the shoots. Starting with - The artists will have to have to bear real relationships with one another (I can't bear the thought that they will only be acting the intensities of the scene). It wasn't my inspiration but, something like how the Miranda July film, "You and Me and Everyone We Know" was done.

---

My blog is like a Sony Ericsson phone!

(I have absolutely no basis for this thought. I was thinking about another post - the one above this) and this struck out of no where. I like how it sounds :D)

Why. This life is boiling down to questions and answers.
Why. Don't you make an effort to think over the science.

I need a Godfather. The thought of dying without letting anyone know what my mind was capable of. I need to tell him all when I find him. He will smile at the end of it. And make me feel bad, by passing away right before my eyes after the only time I'd ever spoken to him.

Experiment II - Photographic

Other sand,dust and beings breeze through the streets, museums and monuments that once saw our feet. And how we have no framed memory with us in it, but a few ones (without us) on the 2GB memory chip of the 8MP camera, typifying the place and nothing really more. And how we weren't those darling tourists, scampering about lawns, vantage points and impulsively coordinated places, trying or getting that perfect shot of themselves or others of theirs, knitting a memory woven into all that was not theirs. We still aren't. Doesn't matter, really. Just thought I'd write it down.

Two Mensa Men

One took pride in being a man from the West Coast, and the other in wearing the Iyengar forehead.

Experiments with Sand

Like sand on time,
you stamp your heart with mine.
 

Einstein on the Beach

The semblance of the NITK beach;
its lighthouse
and benches by the rocks.

Liberty, equality, fraternity.

-

The Spaniard said, "You don't think like someone in love, you see like someone in love."

Everywhere there is a fear of humiliation. Deep-seated, overt, covert, some form. It's pretension if there isn't any.
I don't need to bet on this.

Fact

Everybody needs somebody.

S        p      a    c  e.

Why. There has to be magic woven and spells broken.

I want the summer school back. I was slack when I shouldn't have. Mistake.

Yes. There is time. Time for all. Time for revision.

Mirth on the shore,
snow on sand,
songs of yore,
somewhere on land,
hair run through
by another hand.


 

M I T.

There's madness around,
and you run from pillar to post
to save yourself.
Only to find each of them
have been standing
still in madness
since however long
for however long.

Don't chop your other hand,
the only one you can hold on to.

Wicked writers,
I want to be in an asylum
that does not require one of its own.

Each year, there has to be you, who will either not be in a good state of mind or depressed or irritated, on this day. No denials, it has been so, and with valid reasons.

Is it predesigned? Will it continue to be so, each year, moon?

I don't want anything fancy, you know. Some peace and warmth is all I ever want, with this day that splits the year into half as an excuse, each time.

In another web we have
a swirling night with sudden rains
and a man whose hat should never be trusted.

A cliche and a penny

The blame game is the easiest and lousiest.

Im

agine.


-

Where were you when I was burnt and broken?
Why!

Bliss

is somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
Nowhere cannot be a city or a village or a 'humans other than you' inhabited place, by default.

Can I throttle MG and her breed?
Some people spell disaster. They never realise it. They don't have to.
Nevermind. I'm just sore and irritated.

Let's see. Next time!

In a room full of flimsy bohemian crackheads, there is nothing much one can do. Succumb or scoot.
But isn't that the damn case with any socialising activity.

We'll have a gramophone in our house.
You will have to buy a P.B. Srinivaas record for us on one of those special days of the year.

Comfort and a Luxury

Lying down by the window with closed eyes, hands over the tummy, drizzle-filled breeze hitting the face, and earphones playing some healing music makes for such luxury; chorusing with S&G,

I will lay me down,
like a bridge over troubled water.
 ...
I will ease your mind.

Throttle me with anything, you world, I'm back and strong with my essence, the radiance and passion of my aspirations and ambitions and the mirth that, sure as heaven, line them. I've had enough of the judgments, and misconstructions. I've had it! Grow up, untie *yourself* and all your carefully guarded and trusted hard and fast emotions and obsessions and then hop on, if you want. No wasting timing over negatives. No killing people. No crossbowing another's. < Progress, man! >

It's called living light and waiting for the pray'r to be resigned. Simple and easy. "Simple and easy," I tell myself.

`Peace.

+ now.

Just when I was finding my feet,
the teacher gives up on me
gives up on me.

And now if they were to see
it's going to be a moment of glee.
a moment of glee.

-

I felt like a misfit when I was being cynical. I'm positive. Bpositive. Restless, but positive. Homeless, but positive. Incensed, but positive.

Positive is ! an emotional belief. It's a Goddarn conviction. Conviction. And a strength. Strength.

I'm telling myself all of this. I've always told myself all of this.
Repeatedly.

I don't want to become or seem like a lie, you know?

And I don't want to isolate from my writing as before, you know?

I'm in love like Granada is with Spain, or Equador with the Equator and a Spring there, or elsewhere, to the Earth.

The Enfield will swim like a gorgeous young river, leaping and meandering through Chile and Peru.

War Poetry

Walk me through Rome,
Tell me a story unknown,
Let the Freedom grow.

Visual Resumes could also be slighta corny like this, huh? Whatever it is, the mind map-ish idea, more than the presentation, is tempting. I'm going to work on quite a few. For the kicks and for the corporates. Ooh, yea.

-

I doubt there's anything worthy that I can offer as poetry. At least now.

-

It's only a man, only a man who can embark on a voyage and discover new lands, off tumultuous seas.
Only a man can dream beyond wordly ties. Only a man can have a dream spread across the vagaries of his open eyes. Only a man can sleep in peace, like a child, with all of these.

:)

#Inspiration: The "Storms at Sea" edition of Raging Planet. #dimensional

-

Boy are there people who find Kafka depressing, absorbing and even 'identify' with his characters (fine, I was one long ago, but hey, I'm over that)! He sure was having a whale of a time out of the 'existentialists' that existed then. His works have such seasoned crabby humour.

Am I missing something, or is this why people actually like him? Or is this why he is an existential writer? :|

Nigh

Lying down beside my window,
I saw
Two sparrows circling about
just a little over the coconut tree;
way below the now placid skies.

Welcome!

My word

I love you (too).

I haven't been letting you down. Will not.
*You* would now say result =1. Assuredly Update: Not yet.

The disappointed idealist.

We live real.
Flesh and blood.
You may stay ideal
for all I care about.
There's only you for an offering
and nothing for surviving.

Chapter 18: Pride

He can be the only artist in my life.
And as he sings these verses,
or another of his choice,
at a concert again,
it will rain.

I will probably:

- Have seated myself with the ticket I bought the day I heard of the concert. Listen with the palms alternating between the cheek and chin and after the performance, tell the stranger on my right, "He was mine," nodding in delight, not thinking about the ensuing questions that have to be met. Later, watch him sign autographs.

-  Be seated in the first row with the families in the one behind, rapt in the singing; smiling to myself at all the things past. Waiting for him to come back after all the 'thanking people for their appreciation,' and heave a sigh of relief. I should give him the bottle of Minute Maid then.


Or,

-  Stand backstage, and be anxious about how it'd go (although there is nothing to worry about), even with the one on my left constantly bugging me about her issues with the event management company. And off stage, stay by him as his, for the after show. Proud, as ever, while people walk up to congratulate. Satiated with the rightful recognitions.

And then at home, just before retiring, hum:

Tu Jo Nahin to Aisay Piya hum

Tu Jo Nahin To Aisay Piya hum

Jaisay Soona Aanganaa

Jaisay Soona Aanganaa

Nain Tehaari Rah Neeharey

Nain Tehaari Rah Neeharey

Nainnan Ko Tarsaona

Nainnan Ko Tarsaona

Mora Saiyaan moh Say bolay Na

Mora Saiyaan moh Say bolay Na

Mein Laakh Jatan Kar Haari

Laakh Jatan Kar Haar Rahi

Mora Saiyyan Moh Say Bolay Na

Mora Saiyyan Moh Say Bolay Na

Pyar Tumhain Kitna Kartay Hain

Pyar Tumhain Kitna Kartay Hain

Tum Yeh Samajh Nahin Pao gay

Tum Yeh Samajh Nahin Pao gay

Jab Hum Na Hongay to Peharwa

Jab Hum Na Hongay to Peharwa

Bolo Kya Tab Aao gay

Bolo Kya Tab Aao gay

Mora Saiyaan moh Sey Bolay Na

Mora Saiyaan moh Sey Bolay Na

Mein Laakh Jatan Kar Haari

Laakh Jatan Kar Haar Rahi

Perhaps even -

nee daya rAda rama ||

kAdane vAreva ru kalyANa rAma ||

nanu brOchE vADani nADE teliya

ina vamSa tilaka inta tAmasamA ||

anniTiki adhikAri vani nE bogaDiti

manninchitE needu mahima ku dakkuvA ||

rAma rAma rAma tyAgarAja hritsadana

nA madi talla Dilla gA nyAyamA vEgamE ||

forgetting that it is the morning Raaga;

Sleeping eventually.


With none but ourselves to say 'touchwood.'

Lilt.

An ode to you

The after thought:

You have been right (minus the warrant for certain deeds).
I surrender.

Smoking, smoking, and smoking.

The Lord is in his cosmic slumber
Parvati says, "I hope he wakes up soon."
And then adds, "But let him not just yet.
My poor. How wearisome it must be for him."

Fresco

Lying down
in that 10X20 room
listening to Imagine in one ear
and gentle hearts beat in another,
was surreal.

And now,
a state not that,
or more exhilarating,
seems like a facade.
Untrue and woven.

Tending

Fill the years and the ears, oh Moon.

Celestial

Warm gentle images, slowed by us,
waft across our kaleidoscope.


I, with some occasional bashfulness,
deflect onto you,
the colored mirror's shine.

And you, shield your sparkling eyes,
letting that rare coughy laugh
in the close mood of the light,
with vintage wine on the table,
and the night that surrounds our backs;

when there is a tingly smile, (hah)
on me, and joy on us.

Oh, could Lennon be singing then?
(Not Imagine - although it is near divine)
Perhaps something you, or I, could tell
when there will be time.

< Overdoing Eliot's line? >


- Whatever fate decrees.

And there is no such vein
that got written here,
for inspiration.

It is, like the Volkhov.
Waltzing inside me.

Laughing and smiling,
unabashedly at this irrationality;
these forced metrics and rhymes.

Winter wore well
its spread wings
against the cold of the skies.

Live with yourself. See how sore and bothered you can be.

Hollow

Is it Rhythm or a poem that the heart chugs on each day?

What is it?

An impure vein
dying its death.

Listen to the beat,
frisking about
like a frivolous beat.

In the lilt of the Nox,
lies a dead prayer,
a king and a queen,
raw silk, magnolia,
and the poems of poets.

Consciousness, decide between metaphorically adopting Newton's Laws and metaphorically vegetating.

-

A lord,
in Venice.

-

There is a wanderer in town.

A weekend of no music.

And now, the Moonlight Sonata
has the onus of sand;
steading by my sleep
and this night.

Somewhere, there is regret that I hadn't made it for the course in Phenomenology.
I should pen up. I should get back to Cog Sci. I could; even with the corporate wall behind me.

Fragile

As fallen yellow leaves
swept away
by the evening breeze.

Incomplete

Fragile and vulnerable
in silence,



falling back on our cigarette pack.

What has to be an elaborate dinner

If writing had to be with a mood and movement, I would consider myself to be a hypocritical writer waiting to edge myself from hypocrisy.

Like lettering a butterfly dream without any qualms.

Eliot!
Why don't you come back
alive and sprightly,
with hair so black and curly.

Can analysis be worthwhile?

Fresh!

Hoo, is that an incense, you blind-folder?

Tudoo - One tight slap-stab

The old tricks to keep one's blood boil threshold intact like counting ten - down or however-else, lettering words like 'tis cool, tis cool, tis fine, fucking fine, yea, it's alright' to the self, etc. actually work in anger, irritation, coldness, indifference and other assorted emotional atyachars.

Illati, iizuthu, oru arai araianum. Matter over. Ah, adukapporam anda silence iruke. Aanandam.