Saturday, August 29, 2020
Thursday, August 27, 2020
Twilight
My dream, in what strange world have you set me free?
As witnesses to twilights, embraces of dark and light,
Holding in arms, lulling asleep, reluctant partings,
Dual dancers in that uncertain zone, separate, leaves,
We wandered, in those green fields, on those blades of grass,
Our lips drinking sweet intoxicating drinks from silence,
Watching the birds that fly in the blue skies, amazed,
To feel the rain that drenches us lying lazily surprised,
As our love, like starlight from distant stars, at night,
From far away, gazes at where we have roamed,
In day as a stretch of rainbow after heavy rain,
Written clearly against the skies, in vibrant colours,
For this mythical bowl of dreams was always filled,
Everyday with love and hope, now with our desires.
As witnesses to twilights, embraces of dark and light,
Holding in arms, lulling asleep, reluctant partings,
Dual dancers in that uncertain zone, separate, leaves,
We wandered, in those green fields, on those blades of grass,
Our lips drinking sweet intoxicating drinks from silence,
Watching the birds that fly in the blue skies, amazed,
To feel the rain that drenches us lying lazily surprised,
As our love, like starlight from distant stars, at night,
From far away, gazes at where we have roamed,
In day as a stretch of rainbow after heavy rain,
Written clearly against the skies, in vibrant colours,
Everyday with love and hope, now with our desires.
Tuesday, August 25, 2020
Monday, August 24, 2020
Sunday, August 23, 2020
Save Paper; Save Stress; Avoid Scandal
This year, I have made a rather strange and dramatic New Year Resolution. No diaries, this time and writing only on scrap paper and with the help of the PC. Regarding empty pages, I have plenty of them left in my other notebooks. So all I need to do is to start writing on whatever sheet of paper that comes handy.
My last year's resolution of writing a page a day was kind of stressing me out. Somehow, there were days when I found it impossible to sit down and write. Of course, there was a hectic, unhealthy and trivial life to lead. Moreover, the empty pages stare at me from the diary accusingly, for I have left no record nor memory of many of those passing days.
Finally, there is this habit of mine to pour out my true feelings and emotions on to paper. For me, that is my remedy for stress and tension and bottling up emotions. But it somehow backfires when I forget to lock my diary up and leaves it right in front of my family with whom I might have fought and wrote venomously. So no causing scandals this year.
Lovestory
You tell me this story of your beloved everyday,
Whom you want to tell your love in many ways;
I advise you like a sage of much experience
Without telling you anything of my story.
Who has not known, my dear, this agony,
Of unexpressed love that sank into silence,
Of a love that required more than poetry,
Mutual knowledge or entire life history.
For you and me wavered millions of times,
For you wanted to know me well enough,
Like the palm of your hand that I'd held,
While I took nothing seriously that time.
Whatever be the truth behind our silences,
It nudges you in the form of other new faces.
Whom you want to tell your love in many ways;
I advise you like a sage of much experience
Without telling you anything of my story.
Who has not known, my dear, this agony,
Of unexpressed love that sank into silence,
Of a love that required more than poetry,
Mutual knowledge or entire life history.
For you and me wavered millions of times,
For you wanted to know me well enough,
Like the palm of your hand that I'd held,
While I took nothing seriously that time.
Whatever be the truth behind our silences,
It nudges you in the form of other new faces.
Freefall
Taste that magical drop and dip and dive,
Once more in oceans of words and desire;
The nights of togetherness are back again
That were cast aside with passing time.
A few moments of all-forgetting banter,
Though the rains torrent along with storms,
Once again in the candlelight, love flickers,
Till its fire can brighten the darkened home.
With no power and no distractions of media,
With hours that drop into the slow hourglass,
With food bought on order from outside
And chores that can wait till the power supply-
A sudden power failure slows your weekend,
But brings big surprises like romance and fun.
Once more in oceans of words and desire;
The nights of togetherness are back again
That were cast aside with passing time.
A few moments of all-forgetting banter,
Though the rains torrent along with storms,
Once again in the candlelight, love flickers,
Till its fire can brighten the darkened home.
With no power and no distractions of media,
With hours that drop into the slow hourglass,
With food bought on order from outside
And chores that can wait till the power supply-
A sudden power failure slows your weekend,
But brings big surprises like romance and fun.
Counsel
Who knows when the eloquent falls in love
With your maddest saddest silences,
What strange contradictions arise,
When they want to listen to your words.
Still they listen baffled, tired, bored,
To endless conversations of pain,
While who knows their real motive,
Is it just to listen or gossip around?
With what gentle cues and many reasons,
Do they extract your wildest thoughts,
Along with your saddest experiences,
Just so they can know and be sure.
How can they know your silences,
If what they see is only sheer pain?
With your maddest saddest silences,
What strange contradictions arise,
When they want to listen to your words.
Still they listen baffled, tired, bored,
To endless conversations of pain,
While who knows their real motive,
Is it just to listen or gossip around?
With what gentle cues and many reasons,
Do they extract your wildest thoughts,
Along with your saddest experiences,
Just so they can know and be sure.
How can they know your silences,
If what they see is only sheer pain?
Friday, August 21, 2020
Equanimity
You steal those silences with amazing dexterity. Earlier, these silences meant everything; now they foreshadow bitter moments that can break this heart into pieces.
You might say it's not so; but this heart knows its aches and joys, it knows not how to lie and maintain a straight face in pain. For years, this heart has tried to learn this elusive lesson of equanimity.
For it has always laughed with joy and cried with pain and knows not the stance of calm except when indifferent and aloof from the cares of everyday life; with prayer and penance and self-torture.
You have never known such days of life, when one could only write and escape this mad world of unbearable agony or pray to God to send an angel.
You might say it's not so; but this heart knows its aches and joys, it knows not how to lie and maintain a straight face in pain. For years, this heart has tried to learn this elusive lesson of equanimity.
For it has always laughed with joy and cried with pain and knows not the stance of calm except when indifferent and aloof from the cares of everyday life; with prayer and penance and self-torture.
You have never known such days of life, when one could only write and escape this mad world of unbearable agony or pray to God to send an angel.
Dream Book
Do you dream of writing a book that puts into practice all the lessons learnt from great writers, be it flow of words, the element of lyricism that can question lines of poetry, vivid images and perfect diction in your pet area. Well, I have carried this dream for a long time and made several false starts as well.
My dream book has the following qualities:
But I don’t know when I will write this book and even if I don’t write the book, I want to say this dream aloud to somebody so that I might feel the need to put the dream in the form of words. Do you have a dream book, dear reader?
My dream book has the following qualities:
- It is addressed to my other, my other self, for one whom I write the best of my thoughts
- Though in prose, the words may be simple, mostly of one syllable and beautiful
- It is a collection of thoughts at different moments of silence between me and my other self.
But I don’t know when I will write this book and even if I don’t write the book, I want to say this dream aloud to somebody so that I might feel the need to put the dream in the form of words. Do you have a dream book, dear reader?
Summer Rains
You came with the summer rains
With thunder and lightning,
An explosion in the big silence
And left an upturned life,
But with a huge difference-
Your absence and memories.
You brought with came with the rains,
When the roses bloomed you
When the earth danced
To the rhythm of raindrops,
On the rooftop, dum dum dum,
In that house with a leaky roof,
While I’d lie awake and listen,
Watch out for the merciless rain,
Toss and turn on my bed,
Snuggle against the pillow,
Get up and move the furniture,
Come back and dream of you.
I’d look at those lovely roses,
And imagine a few incidents,
Run and rerun your smile,
Every word and every laugh,
Our cryptic mutual messages
And your funny way with words.
I’d go over how that mighty rain,
Peltered on our brown skins,
Tanned as you’d say,
Natural as I’d say,
Brown, plain and dark skins,
In that heavy sudden outburst,
There was nothing left to say,
Yet all that was left unsaid,
Was everything that we couldn’t
Speak, dream or create-
A language we couldn’t speak.
I’d remember how I could sing,
Stand, dream, sit, talk, laugh,
Everything except cry
Be myself beside you,
For you were never another,
Only my own self, my mirror.
The smell of wet earth
Dancing under the touch,
Caress of raindrops.
With thunder and lightning
Like in summer rain,
And left a big silence
After you left.
Your words, your smile,
Every gesture, every moment,
Became my treasures,
Of a miserly heart.
I’d gather all these moments,
Treasure them in my mind,
For you are no longer here,
For you are no longer mine,
Only a story to remember,
Only a memory to erase.
This crying idiot you never saw,
Who hid behind all clownishness,
A love that searched ways to erase,
All barriers of words between us,
But never could utter a word
Or dream a glimpse of you.
For I can see you in my dream,
For your left reminders on my path,
Your voice, words and a model,
Which I unconsciously imitate
And respect to my own surprise;
It was not that long you know to judge,
Only a summer of well-repressed words,
Dreams and an unlived life together.
As I move on with new strength,
After troughs and crests of longing,
A few words to celebrate an absence,
A few songs that an clown offers
To kill a love that stopped this life,
To make you smile with remembrance
For being so big (not fat) in my eyes,
For you these Songs of Silence
Perfect match
How long have we belonged to only to each other?
That day since we took a quiet walk of togetherness,
Though it is as though we have always belonged
To each other across the ages in a sacred sense.
Though it is as though we have always belonged
To each other across the ages in a sacred sense.
Coffee kisses, pasta lunches, candlelit dinners,
Shared moments of togetherness well-cherished
The perfect wine that we tasted last and so deep,
Not first love nor the first riot of purple passions.
Shared moments of togetherness well-cherished
The perfect wine that we tasted last and so deep,
Not first love nor the first riot of purple passions.
There might have been others before you and me
Countless love-stories that taught us heartbreaks;
The many roles that you and I played across lives,
The sense of having known each other all along.
Countless love-stories that taught us heartbreaks;
The many roles that you and I played across lives,
The sense of having known each other all along.
But I do remember us walking around the holy fire
Quietly chanting mantras of eternal togetherness.
Quietly chanting mantras of eternal togetherness.
Wisdom of life
I say: Know your enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles, you will never be defeated. When you are ignorant of the enemy but know yourself, your chances of winning or losing are equal. If ignorant both of your enemy and of yourself, you are sure to be defeated in every battle. –Sun Tzu
Reading for fun
Can you measure the time it took to savour,
To taste bit by bit and take in your words?
Not that you have left them behind for me
They are all over the place, wherever I go.
The hourglass on my table marks the time,
Though it looks still apparently, obviously,
But the words grab my complete attention,
And it's more like reading a first love-letter.
The words glide across the page at this hour
Be it the ancient stories or lover's quarrels;
The slow-burning desire of lovelorn youth
The ambitions of the powerful and the strong.
Nor do I count my life in terms of big events
But by the tomes that I've read daily for fun.
To taste bit by bit and take in your words?
Not that you have left them behind for me
They are all over the place, wherever I go.
The hourglass on my table marks the time,
Though it looks still apparently, obviously,
But the words grab my complete attention,
And it's more like reading a first love-letter.
The words glide across the page at this hour
Be it the ancient stories or lover's quarrels;
The slow-burning desire of lovelorn youth
The ambitions of the powerful and the strong.
Nor do I count my life in terms of big events
But by the tomes that I've read daily for fun.
Good Vs Bad
In Friends, when Joey writes a letter of reference for Monica and Chandler, he writes in broken English and substitutes each word in his letter with synoyms from the Thesaurus. Each and every word, until Chandler finds that even Joey's name is subsitituted as baby kangaroo. Now from Joey's basic written English skills to our topic!
Who can say that he/she is a good writer? I cannot claim that I'm a writer. When somebody asks about my work and what do I write, I generally evade the question. Some of it has to do with my awareness of my own limitations. Then comes great writers who can make you enticed for hours and hours without stumbling across any word or thought in their writing.
Then comes this need to simplify everything. When I see bad writing, my gut instinct is to change it into a better form. I have read bad writing that has an antique taste, as if it was taken out of some English book written two hundred years ago and happily copied by a lot of people as good writing.
What I feel is that writing is an internalised process; you cannot study a style and emulate it in writing just by following how the words go. Rather than that the message has to come in clear and sharp terms and many good writers re-write until they get their ideas clearly in writing.
This might be dismissed as plain rubbish; but if you can become a good writer by imitating the style of 'good writers', beware dear writer, you might be centuries behind!
Who can say that he/she is a good writer? I cannot claim that I'm a writer. When somebody asks about my work and what do I write, I generally evade the question. Some of it has to do with my awareness of my own limitations. Then comes great writers who can make you enticed for hours and hours without stumbling across any word or thought in their writing.
Then comes this need to simplify everything. When I see bad writing, my gut instinct is to change it into a better form. I have read bad writing that has an antique taste, as if it was taken out of some English book written two hundred years ago and happily copied by a lot of people as good writing.
What I feel is that writing is an internalised process; you cannot study a style and emulate it in writing just by following how the words go. Rather than that the message has to come in clear and sharp terms and many good writers re-write until they get their ideas clearly in writing.
This might be dismissed as plain rubbish; but if you can become a good writer by imitating the style of 'good writers', beware dear writer, you might be centuries behind!
You and I
What brought you back to my mind, I do not know
But I do not like the hot surge of tears that arise,
That still rise though it’s been so many long years
Since we walked away from our future happiness.
Words, reasons, explanations I cannot find at all,
But the heart wants to scrawl a few more words,
In that curious hieroglyphic that we had invented,
To encode a secret message just for your eyes.
But then the long years have made us so apart
For so long that I do not know you anymore,
Nor the heart’s language or its silent desires
Even my own self I hardly recognise anymore.
You have a good mirror to look in, so do I have
What we’ve had once is more than what'll be.
Thursday, August 20, 2020
Us
The stories that we write are not what really happened or events that could really happen. These come from an imagination that loves to wander and see what would have happened if! Most of the time it shows you in many places you would have been happily rooted yet shows how you have nothing but your wings.
Sometimes, it is sunshine and laughter outside; depends on the state of this mercurial soul. The reality looms large taking everything away and sometimes giving blessings unasked for.
Your stories reveal the joy of finding happiness in new things, which are in fact, new ways to name the old likes and loves while I harp on change and about moving on but have stayed in the same year where I stopped learning.
The fire still burns in these kernel stories of love, longing and loss so much that our words have intertwined the threads of our many lives forever.
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