untitled

the limit of patience lies
in the start of a scream.
once that is reached you
are impatient and hence criminal.

i am impatient and pensive
i am restive and soulful
i am impatient and criminal.

Dreams

There goes my little bee
A small wee bit of sleep
Out to search for honey and dreams
A little drop of nectar to feed
Babies and egoes.

Shining in the yellow sunlight
Stripes of clear clouds swallow
Blue skies.

Please let my love grow in
Shards of glass, shine in every mirror
Soak in honeyful catacombs
With all the babies and catacombs.

Travelogues of an exiled mind part I

I just went around the world, just a little bit. Saw things that I wanted to see all my life. This is a beginning of a process of posting thoughts that I wish to crystallize over time and mindspace.

It is the sense of exile that is sinking into me like a ikebana bouquet in a fertile soil; beautiful but sinking.

Christian art - Its simple, varied, within a few borders and repititive. It maybe because that it is just one figure that dominates the canvas: Jesus. Then he has his apostles and saints. Kings and queens jostle with Popes for space. Resuurection, the Virgin Mary and angels are spread all over the space as parboiled rice grains spread on tarpaulin - capable of quenching hunger, simplistically beautiful, numerous in form of the same thing.

I just hate Baroque art. Its claustrophobic in shine and excess of detail in cramped spaces. Grandeur is celebrated in gaudy explosions of an artist's sense of paean sining and history recording.

Loved seeing Dali's sculptures and his nauseatingly appealling obssession of the persistence of memory.

The theft of the East amazes me, and the gumption of flaunting them is even more amazing.

This brings me back to the sense of exile. Mental uprooting is worse than the exodus. It also gives a sense of freedom from all moorings. When do say that I belong? It is when you identify your existence with a world around you. I have thirteen different places to say I belong. Yet that can't be, paradoxically. So I belong nowhere. Its a rich emptiness like an aromatic vacuum - scaringly sparse and yet inescapable.

Going from existential angst I go into existential numb.

Will continue/

Undulating lines

The catharsis of insolvent memories
Seeps out in tears and pretentious smiles
In Pather Panchali
In La Pieta.

Fields of brown singed grass
Flow over the taut bosoms of virgin
Mindspaces
Contemplating coition and moksha.

Semblances of sanity visit
Whistlestopping executives on Divine duties
Balancing up the piled up stones
Pyramids of hopes and supporting lies.

Still there exists my own grasps on reality
Clutching door knobs of rooms
Housing all dreams
Sheathed underneath mommy's saari. Safe.

Love

If I could clad any emotion
It wouldn't be anger
But love.

But it prefers to be naked
Like a papier mache sculpture
In a chilly sleet.

I try hard to put a cloak on it
But it bares itself everytime
Exposing its gentle, docile bosom to
Virulent winds of wisdom.

Strnagely enough it still has survived
An oddly standing bronze satuette- Green

Amid a purple holocaust.

Lunchtime stories

Luncheon was served on round tables
With polished cutlery firmly esconced in
Starched napkins, warm and flaky.
When she started to eat her soup
She found two stories floating in the cream
Croutons of a melted past, downy.

She lifted them to her lips
Noth together on one large soup spoon
They dangled at the egde of her -
Pink lips, like petals of a morning dew stained
Rose, in full lustful bloom.

She strongly told them to keep quiet
But stories rarely know silence,
People all around her ate. Clinking and clanking
Tinkling and tankling, mimicking falling
Jewels on clean bone china bowls.

Stories, as they were, prevented her from
Savouring the presence of the soup.
An unseen tear drop met an unspent smile
Somewhere near the chin, exchanged pleasantries
And disappeared into an essence.

She forced the spoon into her mouth
Chewed the croutons and swallowed.
They tasted slightly bitter, like malt of a rare scotch.
Stories are delicious, smelling of a decadence of an
Alluvial mind on which harvets are all done.

Castle

Plumbing the droplets, escaping the faucet of my dreams
I built a little castle of pearls, just to stare at-
Not to live in.

When the moon shines or the sun sets, it gleams eloquently
And I see small birds and large butterflies
In each crystal.

Sparingly I clean it with care and a small handkerchief
Always afraid it will dry up one day, evaporate
Into a very thin air.