Am I just a conduit
Of fear and pain
Like a stream of gurgling moss
Am I just a guitar
Strummed and stroked
Lovingly and viciously
Am I just part of the sky
With stars and clouds
Wiped clean, illuminated
Am I just a cervix
Lustful, life giving
Wet with tears
Am I just this
Or That I have become
Flotsam of feelings
Am I what you make me
Am I what I make me
Am I what I become ...
Friday, 12 February 2010
Monday, 16 March 2009
Pain (a college time poem)
There is I, there is pain, and there is my soul
Twenty two flashes of moonlight,
Twenty drops of saliva on my parched day.
Naresh, sells chai, hot day, cold night, chai chai,
Twenty cups of Naresh Tea, and ink segues into lines,
Twenty two sets of lines, on a hot parched day,
Twenty two cups of blood, on a hot parched day,
Twenty two smiles and smirks, on my hot parched day,
Quenched am I or thirstier still, more blood, more
blood,
Or just awaiting twenty two flashes of cold moonlight.
Twenty two flashes of moonlight,
Twenty drops of saliva on my parched day.
Naresh, sells chai, hot day, cold night, chai chai,
Twenty cups of Naresh Tea, and ink segues into lines,
Twenty two sets of lines, on a hot parched day,
Twenty two cups of blood, on a hot parched day,
Twenty two smiles and smirks, on my hot parched day,
Quenched am I or thirstier still, more blood, more
blood,
Or just awaiting twenty two flashes of cold moonlight.
The cocktail thrill of an earthquake
(A childhood experience).
------------------------------------------------------------
Simply put, the earth shudders
As if existence has lost its rudders
Seamless howl of buried thunder
Like a steaming cup on an oven, down under.
The run; out of the home, hearth and breath
Smell of fresh air, enjoyed in forbidden stealth
Watch my house sway, like my yellow spring doll:
Cries of martyred confidence, tears in squall.
Life cannot be so short, as the warning of a doom
The lines on the hand are long, there's warmth in the room
A music of muted gongs, rings in my ears
Blooming virginity of thought, my tender years.
Danced the heart to the vile beat, so ominous and so potent,
Like the next sunirse silenced, and no tear would be left to lament
A smile carved into the conscience, etched in amber
hue, with balmy essence,
That a shiver, surmised in measured moments: sunny
days of callous innocence
------------------------------------------------------------
Simply put, the earth shudders
As if existence has lost its rudders
Seamless howl of buried thunder
Like a steaming cup on an oven, down under.
The run; out of the home, hearth and breath
Smell of fresh air, enjoyed in forbidden stealth
Watch my house sway, like my yellow spring doll:
Cries of martyred confidence, tears in squall.
Life cannot be so short, as the warning of a doom
The lines on the hand are long, there's warmth in the room
A music of muted gongs, rings in my ears
Blooming virginity of thought, my tender years.
Danced the heart to the vile beat, so ominous and so potent,
Like the next sunirse silenced, and no tear would be left to lament
A smile carved into the conscience, etched in amber
hue, with balmy essence,
That a shiver, surmised in measured moments: sunny
days of callous innocence
Pyasa Pyala
A very old poem of mine .. rediscovered on the net.... :))
honthon pe aaya hai, pyasa yeh ek pyala
dil kahe door ja saqi, ab jaam bharega pyala
aag lagi jo fateeleh pe, naache pagal pyala
jaam saji jo apne dum pe, to dil bharega hala
aaj aayi hai shaam, to sooraj dhalega nyara
chahat suni hai maykhana ki aahat, kaun bharega pyala
uthti hai sukun ki aahat, to bhadak utha pyala,
fugan jo hui khamosh to, piyega khud saqi yeh pyala
rindon ke beech basa yeh, ek tanhaan pyala,
pyasi hai uski bhi honth, pyasa uska pyala
jaan baaki hai bas jism me, baaki bhar gaya pyala
jaane kab niklega dum, jo chalkayega yeh pyala.
honthon pe aaya hai, pyasa yeh ek pyala
dil kahe door ja saqi, ab jaam bharega pyala
aag lagi jo fateeleh pe, naache pagal pyala
jaam saji jo apne dum pe, to dil bharega hala
aaj aayi hai shaam, to sooraj dhalega nyara
chahat suni hai maykhana ki aahat, kaun bharega pyala
uthti hai sukun ki aahat, to bhadak utha pyala,
fugan jo hui khamosh to, piyega khud saqi yeh pyala
rindon ke beech basa yeh, ek tanhaan pyala,
pyasi hai uski bhi honth, pyasa uska pyala
jaan baaki hai bas jism me, baaki bhar gaya pyala
jaane kab niklega dum, jo chalkayega yeh pyala.
Saturday, 17 January 2009
I want more pillows
Yes. I want more pillows. The ones that I have are either too thin or too maleable to rest my heavy head at night and weightless heads on 'errantedly' relaxed weekend afternoons. So, I need more pillows. But I don't just go and get them. The reason being that I have a back condition.
Pillows are an odd lot. Fluffy, downy, sneeze inducing and suppliant. They are a debilitating addiction. Man's resolve, strengths and fight against sloth - all get sacrified at this soft altar. A bag full of soft, usually, cotton, feather or such like.
Pillows are an odd lot. Fluffy, downy, sneeze inducing and suppliant. They are a debilitating addiction. Man's resolve, strengths and fight against sloth - all get sacrified at this soft altar. A bag full of soft, usually, cotton, feather or such like.
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
distances
one and one are two
a complicated mass of songs
singing through my hair
and a little whistle flows
through hers.
a symphony plays through
the wintry air and orange flowers
flow down in synchro.
miles of aromas, some shampoo
some morning breath, mingle
in still thoughts,an alchemy of colours,
disintegrating into a
monochrome of endless time.
a complicated mass of songs
singing through my hair
and a little whistle flows
through hers.
a symphony plays through
the wintry air and orange flowers
flow down in synchro.
miles of aromas, some shampoo
some morning breath, mingle
in still thoughts,an alchemy of colours,
disintegrating into a
monochrome of endless time.
Monday, 29 September 2008
Travlegoues of an exiled mind - Part 2
Dilema of Duality
The best thing about being in exile is that you are have enough room to be self sympathetic. You say you love your place, the old village/town, the old air, the lack of frenetic pace. Hey! Hold on. Lack of frenetic pace!! And you love that? Then why the heck are you living in Mumbai? Or for that matter in any of the fast paced metros. Or A, B, C, D or any alphanumeric graded secondary city where at least you have to run to cross the road and not be able to amble across the tar slurping a choco bar. So, you love the lack of speed. But yet every morning you say that the bus is late, you run from your house grabbing the breakfast toast/idli/dhokla/roti roll. You 'wabble' in your ability to do things fast. You are smugly esconced in your pad every night which was possible only by your acquired ability to run fast. Yet, when you are milder in thought (sobriety, sometimes, being the driver of mildness) you pine for that - place of birth.
The 'problem' is we all do that, I do that. The reason is when you have enough to quench your apetiete for - food, success, money, fame, the works - then you start for other things. Call it Heizelberg's pyramid or any other theory. Vivekanada had said 'Do not teach spirituality to the hungry, you will gain nothing and neither will he.' We start to crave for the old road back 'home' when we see that we are STILL not happy with all that we have. And never will. What the comfortable familiarity of those 'left' roads and lands can give you, nothing else can. We do not actually want the smell of the land as such, but a quick runaway in mindspace. Well, MOST of the times. Naipual lives in far away lands and writes about how much ruined and wounded our civilisation is. Jhumpa Lahiri is stuck in the first gen/second gen dilema of every gen of the USA. Kafka ran off to the snow filled mountains of a different country and yet his the smells of his country that drove him to narcissist madness never left him. Heminway wrote in Africa from within the window frame from his American past.
There is no escape.
But for us lesser mortals, self sympathy - and immensely satifying at that - is what a sense of exile can give you. Nothing else. You can't go back home, you can't leave your adopted space. In someway, and very deep down, you actually love your new place. The duality of your origin and acquired surroundings can never let you rest in peace.
Paris is the city of love. But you can't love there, like the Parisians do. Because the air that enchants your senses and stimulates your sensuality should be saturated with mogra. It should be warmer, maybe with a hint of petrol smoke or burning coal. There, necessarily, should be ogling passersby (or even completely static loafers eating peanuts). Because therein lies your need for discretion in holding hands or putting his arm around her waist or her hand in his hip pocket. That makes the sweat of palms exchange each other, that makes the grip tantalisingly taut. But but but. When you are living in Paris, will you not kiss in public? You will. Because that's the 'freedom' you have seen on TV and the movies. You will love that. Yet you WILL pine for the 'restrictive' world of burdensome society to love in.
That's the seething duality that never lets you in peace.
How does that fit into self sympathy? Well that's a fringe benefit you extract from this dilema which you will never confess about. The fact that you will love in Paris and enjoy the pestilent race of your city/town, is disturbing. If you sometime acknowledge even the existence of this duality of thought, your uprootedness is vindicated. Complete and irreversible. Which you will never be able to come to terms with.
TBC ......
The best thing about being in exile is that you are have enough room to be self sympathetic. You say you love your place, the old village/town, the old air, the lack of frenetic pace. Hey! Hold on. Lack of frenetic pace!! And you love that? Then why the heck are you living in Mumbai? Or for that matter in any of the fast paced metros. Or A, B, C, D or any alphanumeric graded secondary city where at least you have to run to cross the road and not be able to amble across the tar slurping a choco bar. So, you love the lack of speed. But yet every morning you say that the bus is late, you run from your house grabbing the breakfast toast/idli/dhokla/roti roll. You 'wabble' in your ability to do things fast. You are smugly esconced in your pad every night which was possible only by your acquired ability to run fast. Yet, when you are milder in thought (sobriety, sometimes, being the driver of mildness) you pine for that - place of birth.
The 'problem' is we all do that, I do that. The reason is when you have enough to quench your apetiete for - food, success, money, fame, the works - then you start for other things. Call it Heizelberg's pyramid or any other theory. Vivekanada had said 'Do not teach spirituality to the hungry, you will gain nothing and neither will he.' We start to crave for the old road back 'home' when we see that we are STILL not happy with all that we have. And never will. What the comfortable familiarity of those 'left' roads and lands can give you, nothing else can. We do not actually want the smell of the land as such, but a quick runaway in mindspace. Well, MOST of the times. Naipual lives in far away lands and writes about how much ruined and wounded our civilisation is. Jhumpa Lahiri is stuck in the first gen/second gen dilema of every gen of the USA. Kafka ran off to the snow filled mountains of a different country and yet his the smells of his country that drove him to narcissist madness never left him. Heminway wrote in Africa from within the window frame from his American past.
There is no escape.
But for us lesser mortals, self sympathy - and immensely satifying at that - is what a sense of exile can give you. Nothing else. You can't go back home, you can't leave your adopted space. In someway, and very deep down, you actually love your new place. The duality of your origin and acquired surroundings can never let you rest in peace.
Paris is the city of love. But you can't love there, like the Parisians do. Because the air that enchants your senses and stimulates your sensuality should be saturated with mogra. It should be warmer, maybe with a hint of petrol smoke or burning coal. There, necessarily, should be ogling passersby (or even completely static loafers eating peanuts). Because therein lies your need for discretion in holding hands or putting his arm around her waist or her hand in his hip pocket. That makes the sweat of palms exchange each other, that makes the grip tantalisingly taut. But but but. When you are living in Paris, will you not kiss in public? You will. Because that's the 'freedom' you have seen on TV and the movies. You will love that. Yet you WILL pine for the 'restrictive' world of burdensome society to love in.
That's the seething duality that never lets you in peace.
How does that fit into self sympathy? Well that's a fringe benefit you extract from this dilema which you will never confess about. The fact that you will love in Paris and enjoy the pestilent race of your city/town, is disturbing. If you sometime acknowledge even the existence of this duality of thought, your uprootedness is vindicated. Complete and irreversible. Which you will never be able to come to terms with.
TBC ......
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