Friday, November 28, 2008

On introspection..

Blinded, muted,dumbed
by a sense of powerlessnes
powerlessness or affability?
weakness or inner beauty?
non-aggressiveness or serenity?
A weakness that forgives,
doesnt punish,
that pleases to please,
that sacrifices the self of an ego,
the selfless ego?
Or a cloud of hatred,
of trifle anger
that doesnt forgive,
doesnt forget,
that punishes with 
a tool self defeating.
The wrath that bounds back on the perpetrator
that is neither subtle nor discreet

An ocean emptied of water
emptied of life..

Look down at that vast expanse
of whiteness 
beneath ur eyes
of the river flowing 
not as one but still in a single file
and then it bifurcates
into vein upon vein of 
madness jumping to its end
of knived red straight lines on that river ,
that expanse of whiteness.
of criss crosses,
of crossroads to confuse passer-bys
of unloading the burden,
the sediment to be spilled out 
the river to be unburdened
or perhaps emptied

the burden loaded on
in a moment of the past
in a loveless adoloscense
of burden carried 
in tears frozen in the eyes
becoming diamonds,glass diamonds,fake glass diamonds
that pierce unto blindness
the head bowed in meekness to see only the ground beneath
and feel the sack ,the dangling sack of sword 
that holes through amid shreiking winds of despair
of a longing for the look of the sky,of wings,of arms that fly
Of trying to stand up for myself
But still arched,bent over
into a dome of submissiveness
load upon load of bodies,
of guilt-ridden glasses of red wine;
of the burden of bricks of faces,
the illusion of walking sticks,
of arms holding me in a cradle

There's no cradle

free me,i cry
free me..
give me ur blood to live,i spilled mine
give me ur eyes to see ,i sold mine
give me ur legs to stand,i rusted mine
give me life,i cry
but no-one did
or u did
Still it couldnt be mine
It never could be
dat blood, those eyes, this life 
transfused but alien
though cup upon cup did i drink 
yet i fell powerless, armless
there never could be a cradle 

Little did i realise
the secret of those eyes,those signs
blinded by an indifference,a vacuum of rejection
of escape,of denial
a passive spectator
with eyes that have severed links with the mind
of mind that has broken away from consciousness
dullened into a glass half filled half darkened

In a jungle of fear filled yellow flies
or bulbs of light in bulbs of flowers
fear of getting pricked 
of wild animals
of shadows
of darkness
of movement 
of making my presence felt
of defense
of offense
of making a noise, a squeak,
of breathing..
of fear filled yellow flies.

free me,i cry
free me..
there's no one to untie the knots
No one to hear the cries
Make me realise that
there's no one to make me alive.
Make me know,
Make me not hope.
But there's no one to make it known,
No one to help it cure.

That mildew of gloom won't go
It has taken a life of its own
My life
i've lost the tug of war
But i shall rise
from the depths of my macabre grave.
On my own
Someday,i will be Christ..

P.S.- The inspiration for this post was a glance over in which i was the invisible ghost.. And I  realised i'm a ghost by choice but i've never wanted to be one..

Monday, November 3, 2008

The past.. and the present

4 posts down and i feel like taking them off .. even if i know there aren't many people who read my blog.. (nor do i want them 2) neither is every sentence scrutinized by journos for possible masala nor are there hopes of that ever happening unless i get murdered aarushi-style or go on a shooting spree making my blog come under the self styled sleuths' lens for a possible psychopathic streak...
Still,every word written in the past smells stale,as if it's soiled with the dust of the past.. 

The poems more so.. A poem is like a piece of art,to paint one you have to purge yourself of all the petty irrelevant unimportant  rigmarole of day to day activities and yet look beneath all that to find that common thread incessently running underneath and spinning into purposes,feelings,ideals...

Sunken,Betrayed and thrown asunder;
I climbed the highest branch to end it there
A beautiful poem etched on the leaves
It stopped me
held me enthralled
And then floated away into the mist
It's beauty had me spellbound
And all this while it had kept singing,
"I am the poem of your life,
personified I am you;
My beauty is you 
just open your eyes 
and you'll see me within you."

When i look back at every poem I've ever written,at first read it seems unintelligible.. and i can fully understand if anyone else cant understand what I've tried to say (and that perhaps is the beauty of it,it reveals itself only to those who understand.. ).. But gradually,tracing back memories.. reaching the same mental frame of mind.. being faced with the same dilemmas,the same questions,the same frustrations.. and it all begins to unfold like the opening of flower petals at dawn..

I know you're there
hidden perhaps
underneath figures and facts
or smothered by  tears that are rare,
though still there
or choked beneath the moments of a happy spring
or concealed under the yellow jaded autumn twigs
I know u're there
and will always be
even if it's rare

Before i stop,my last advice to myself :

You are a flowing river
that bears all it gets
And all it can take
Until the memoirs of the past 
get too heavy to bear
Then you cry tears of parting
of severing the ties
with the beautiful memories
But you flow on..

P.S. This post was meant to be prose

Monday, October 6, 2008

A day passes
And then another
Stringed together
In a grey thread’s snare

Those Grey colourless beads
(Or days?)
Were once lustrous multihued
Inked with the black of the night
They used to be indistinguishable
But come dawn and each bead would reflect
An Orange, pink, yellow or a blue sky
Bathed in the white light of the morn
Like the morning dew
Each would sparkle, dazzle and shine

Were they real or
Were they just gilded,
To mimic the glitter of gold
Where there was none?
Or sliver-polished
To simulate a faked ambience
And create the illusion
Of a blissfulness that had never begun?

They would patter like pearls
In a gentle symphony
Performed by the nature’s orchestra

The only music that now remains
Is In the chafing of the beads crowded
On a grey lacerated thread

But one day…

Was it the advent of grey colourless clouds
Of misfortune, of misery?
Or did Providence turn irate
And turned away the tide of favour?

It was no one else
But you who had, in a fit,
Painted the beads
Grey, colourless
And had strangled them one by one
Till they no longer could
Reflect your vivacity, your joy, your life

And perhaps
With that unmindful
Onslaught on the manifestation,
Its source too withered away
Into obscurity…
Leaving behind a dull ache of loss
And an indolence stretching on until
The boredom from inaction
Will Turn into premeditated hibernation.

Friday, September 5, 2008


A lazy morning,
A drowsy sun,
That hid under a cloudy blanket
Still reeling under the spell
Of dreams
Of dreams of a sweetheart
Far away

Presently it turned
And the woolly blanket
That hid it from the world’s eye
Slipped off
And some angelic bright beam hit me
Hit me when my velvet blanket slipped
As I lay reeling under the spell
Of dreams
Of dreams of a sweetheart
Far away

That delusive angelic light
It spread through like poison
Spreading warmth through my veins
Stirring my cauldron of memories
With its heat
Until like froth surfaced
The memories of my sweetheart
Far away

The memories of every first time
The first touch
The first kiss
The first rhyme
The memory of a look
A face
A smile
Of feeling his eyes in mine
The memory of a warmth
And a heat that vaporises
My senses, my soul and my memory

The memories of all moments together
They rise
And beside them
The futile dreams of moments ago
Seem like shells bereft of a soul
The memories they rise
And clamour to seek more
More leaves to be perused
More froth to be churned

More memories of togetherness
More moments of love

Should I creep back in
And block the delusive beam
To shut the clamour of memories
To pretend away the yearning
By sinking into futile soulless dreams
Of a sweetheart
Far away

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Lately,i've bin living 2 parallel lives.. or if that sounds too melodramatic,lets say i'm being bombarded with 2 different perspectives -one my own and another- crude in d face perspective thats trying to dominate..
In some dreamland far away,some beautiful princess either locked up in a tower or caught up with cinders or a prince cursed to be a frog or a beast is waiting for some1 to rescue them into a happily ever after..lets look at it that way.. y romanticize when these ideal fairy tales can be pulled down to the crudeness of reality..
What we'll say is that the princess(or the prince) in trouble is just some desperate lazy freak suffering from some famed psychological condition.. and once,we've somehow degraded their existence,just kill their individuality..their claim to fame-their uniqueness.. lets say there are so many more like her(or him).. so many that there's a fully blossomed competitive market for them.. there are so many of the other type-d rescuers and also this type-the rescued.. dat they can be grouped as such by you and I..
In some cartoon strip,a little boy with yellow hair and an appetite for adventure creates for himself a pet , a friend.. cut the romance.. its just a lonely cut off boy who hallucinates to beat his loneliness.. another freak..
Othello.. a jealous lover who should've known b8r than to do wat he did.. abnormal.. unreasonable..
2 lovers who kill themselves thinking the other dead.. coz they cant bear to live without the other? in a shakespeare play it may still be romance,tragedy and perfectly understandable.. but a real life incident like that.. all u'll get is a look of disgust, a tch tch and an exclamation almost caught in the breath-"mad!"

and wen someone takes their life.. and all one thinks is how stupid! how seriously childish and immature!
but only someone who's been thru the maddening turmoil of emotions can understand wat it takes to go to extremes, to burst at seams..
and yet understanding still elicits the same expression of horror.. expresses what evry1 els says for fear of being labelled perhaps

all my life,i've imagined evry single person as the hero/heroine of their own life.. and every such life being different with no scope for different protagonists for
the same story.. Its all a story,isn't it?and even if there are millions of crossroads,those intersections of experiences that invariably would happen through similarities in origin or places experienced or other influences.. despite that,evry person's emotional response wouldnt be something that synchronises with their neighbour,rt?.. that we wouldnt think/act according to whats in,rt?
I'd never imagined reality would be a mass production of stories.. similar in all aspects.. categorised.. labelled and to be sold in bulk..
I'd never imagined i'd let my reality be dominated by this perspective and yet slowly,insidiously it's creeping in to make space for itself..
Yet,treacherously,this new wave of crudeness has been taking away my romanticism.. that indifferent perusal of experiences and incidents and the 'discovery' of links,causes,reasons for every emotional or otherwise response..
Its easier to be crude perhaps and i've become mentally lazy..
or perhaps its too much all around me to not have an influence...
In my romanticism,my whole life is my identity.. there's no definition.. no categorisation.. every moment that changes and dies is a fossil preserved.. and a continuum of all these will define the story.. thre's no objective category into which i can fit seamlessly displaying all characterisitics of that category.. the only categorisation i wuld allow would be purely on physical terms...
But its all changing.. and the theory is being eroded by an onslaught by another funda... identity as a string of keywords that seek to define u.. to know you before meeting you or experiencing u..coz there's no tym to meet,to experience,to analyse.. to wait and get used to some1's presence until one becomes well-versed with their peculiarity..
Every peculiarity also becomes a category to save oneself from the mess of subjectivity..there are just too many people,2 many contacts and hence 2 much organisation,categorisation.....thats perhaps the rationale..
and i cant figure which way is perspective or the other,though the latter has more rationale,the former makes life worthwhile and special..

My first relationship was the first test for the my way.. and the miserable failure has changed a few outlooks ,taken away some of the idealism..For one thing i never could call it a "relationship".. n i could never call the guy a boyfriend..(to myself of course.. As far as the ROW is considered,its like wen in rome do as the romans!!)
y?coz it took away the subjectivity i wanted to be there.. n the subjectivity is there only wen one has an objective definition for ne of those terms one uses without caring what they might mean.. coz wat one experiences -the reality is diffrent from those objective definitions ,its subjective.. it happens in variations,in,only if sweetness is defined,one can experience what less sweet or more sweet would be..only wen one has discovered wat it means to be in a "relationship" can one decide whether the other experiences fitted or not....(reason y sweet n cute as most abhorred and most frequently used in slams is coz no1 knows what they define or wat they actually refer to!! ) ..
Notwithstanding my funda,i've still let 'realism' creep in.. now i wouldnt think much before agreeing to some of those frequently used rarely undersood terms..wish i could go bak to that previous state of blissful perusal,adventure and analysis...
wish the world would stop calling b'ful princes or princesses waiting in anticipation as despos..
wish dreaming and thinking wouldnt make one an uncompetitive pariah..

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Half done is not undone

The serpentine road
Stretched from the horizon to the next
Just an insurmountable black pit of gravel
For the chicken on the sidewalk
The other side’s grass was green enough
Enticing enough
To warrant an attempt
Through the horrors of the road
But not even once
Did the right foot cross the left
Neither the left crossed the right
The chicken ain’t called chicken
For lack of names fancy or trite.
Goaded on by pretty pecking chicks
It once got into a rare daring fit
And tried with all its might
To pretend away the fears
Of traversing a path untried
Of reaching for a destination unknown.
But as they say
The seeds of success are sown
in recognizing every fear and its cause
and taking every care and pause.
The headlong rush
Howsoever daring
made the chicken lose its head
Flap its wings
And bury its head ostrich like
Into the black gravel of the serpentine road
The fears were back
It could never proclaim its ephemeral victory
But probably the omniscient world still knows
Or tries to understand
And that is why it always asks
What made the chicken want to cross?