unpolished stuff from the poetry workshop.

1. radhika's earring

(this is the pick-an-object-from-and-compose exercise)

a tiny elephant, dangling;

separated by a head from its twin.

features on one side; the other

is the dark side of a wooden moon.

2. this doesn't really have a title, but remember the Tibetan festival in college and it's flag?

(and this is the go-outdoors-adventure/poetry-is-out-there exercise)


i spy six blue bands and
six red bands coming out from
a central sun. it's a flag
fluttering, still; at the wind's whim.

i spy momo-steam rising from
behind. there's inscription
on the flag. it could say freedom.
the vapours have it. some people don't.

the mirror of music

I am building up my dreamscape. It consists of a house mostly, for I am not ready to work on a world first. It will be inside a regular sphere colored with all the nice books and movies I like. But it is translucent still. So when I move the curtains I can see through, while you cannot see me. There are no colors inside the sphere though; instead there is music all the time. Right now, right now, I am playing Steve Roach, his Structures from Silence, as a kind of break from all the noise. When the music breaks through, as it does when after the atoms of noise when spread also converge and splice to meet the person. Then I rush to the pool and keep my head under the water, like that bird under the sand and there is the more perfect silence in its death and clinging softness on my ears.

This minute I realize the colors. But I cannot dream my sphere, so I grant this world hues, so light streams to cover objects with a lighty color light. The home called the Moon is really so very tall, anyone can tell. Before I can enter, instead of a verandah I wait outside for the smell to enter you, that is the guest’s welcome. The smell is an invisible sketch pen, marking me with the right depth for me to enter the Moon and like it. Else I will turn to ice, and not be able to cry. Prepared, enter.

When my footprints will no longer mark this road

Last night, when I was listening to some music on my laptop, my thoughts constantly wandered over to home and connecting home and songs, the tune of a Rabindrasangeet flowed through my mind--Rabindrasangeet, the eternal creations of Rabindranath Tagore.I don't listen to Rabindrasangeet very often but then some of these songs are my absolute favourites. Now, last night, this idea of translating one of those favourite songs came to my mind. This is total madness because its not possible to recreate the same flavour of that song in a translation. But, I love it so much that I desperately wanted to share it here.

When my footprints will no longer mark this road,
I won't steer my boat,
Oh, I won't steer my boat across these banks anymore.
Done will I be with my buying and selling,
Finish will I all my borrowing and lending,
No more will there be visits to this market!
What does it matter if you don't remember me then,
Looking at the face of the stars, don't call out my name?

When my footprints will no longer mark this road,
Dust will accumulate in between the tanpura's chords,
Vines will grow over the house's doors,
Oh, dust will accumulate in between the tanpura's chords!
The flower garden, dense with grass, will like an inhabited forest be,
Surrounded with moss will the banks of the lake be.
What does it matter if you don't remember me then,
Looking at the face of the stars, don't call out my name?

When my footprints will no longer mark this road,
The flute will continue to play thus,
Pass will the days, pass!
Pass the days will, just as they do today,
Oh, the flute will continue to play thus...
On each bank, the river boats thus,
Will be filled up with water even then,
The cows will graze, the shepherd will play
In this very field.
What does it matter if you don't remember me then,
Looking at the face of the stars, don't call out my name?

When my footprints will no longer mark this road,
Says who I won't be present in that morn?
In all games oh,
In all games of life will I take part!
Says who I won't be present in that morn?
By a new name shall you call me, knot me in new bonds,
This self of mine shall keep returning forever and ever...
What does it matter if you don't remember me then,
Looking at the face of the stars, don't call out my name?

Poetry Dump

Whoosh. Getting it out here.

Ode To My Little Piece of Chalk
I want to understand how even though I can break you, you still manage to make a mark.
Your dust makes me sneeze.
My friends used to eat you at one point.

I was repulsed by any kind of poetry at one point. Blame it on being flooded with angsty teen poetry, or more importantly, the intentions behind that poetry. But by trying to write some at the poetry workshop we had recently, I began to understand how hard it is to say what you want in, well, three sentences.
Okay. Back to the board.

Monthly Writing Prompt!

November's Prompt: The Thought Fox

We invite everyone to come share! How it works is- you read the prompt, think about it, let the creative juices flow; and leave your inspired creation in the comments box. Poem, short story, one liner, link to one of your pictures or posts; anything creative.

A magical being

It was 1 AM in the morning and very cold. The garden outside my window was shrouded in mist. The chill in the air made me look longingly at my bed and blanket. But, thanks to a very tortuous assignment, I was compelled to resist the temptation of lying curled up in it. Instead, the endless research on gothic literature through a fat red library book and some really hopeless sites on the net was spoiling all the charm of a winter night.

Suddenly, in this gloomy situation, an image flashed in front of my eyes. Oh, you magical being, I can't explain to you how happy I felt when I saw your curved body and bony leg bathed in a yellow potion. I could very well understand then that your taste would as mysterious as ever and I would not be able to figure you out. After staring for a few moments at your suspended form in air, I felt like somehow touching you with my hands and savouring every bit of you before somebody else did. Oh, you wonderful creation, my only solace in between working on assignments, who gives me so much satisfaction--I love you!

Ok people, before you form any wrong notion about me and this post, let me tell you whose curved body I am talking about. I'm refering to chicken, which I love eating very very much. Chicken is indeed such an important part of my life that it gives me the kind of immense relief I have described above every time I think about it or picture it in my mind. For me, chicken is delicious ultimatum and even in the saddest of situations, tasting chicken helps me to unburden myself. By now, I have had chicken in numerous forms and preparations at home, in the college mess, restaurants and elsewhere but every time, I see the chicken pieces lying in the gravy, I feel so happy. I still truly have not been able to figure out how chicken can taste so good every single time and how it will taste in every meal, is still a mystery to me. Therefore, here it is: my own little ode to chicken!

In the Begining

in the beginning, there was nothing but a tiny little glowworm of a thought inching around the darkness.

scrabbling fingers, fumbling for a pen in the dark.

a flicker and scratch of a match, the smell of flickering light.

a slight glow, warming cold fingers, puddles of dripping wax, oozing into shapes. a scratchy start, word crossed out and rethought, a glowworm frantically flashing around, to escape being pinned down.

a fleeting glimpse of a person in the candlelight; a yellowed shadow.
people and places begin to whisper around and stale the air with their crowded smell.
befuddlement, crowded thoughts and noisy lonely people and horses and carriages and shiny trains with automated voices that say everything wrong. the remenants of a day dredge themselves onto paper.
lonely worlds echo into the words and lonely smiles seep into the ink.
the candle melts away and white neon light burns into everything, searing it and tainting the carriages and yellowed faces.
and the glowworm inches away
to be captured
by someone else, another day.
when neon lights blind the skies
and inspiration turns into a tubelight on a metallic wall. 

Filth

It bubbles.

It gushes.

It stinks.

It degenerates.

It is just as human as any of us… the drainpipe.

It bubbles with stench, with black water…

It gushes with life: not vigour, but the sheer disgust of existence.

With the black water that flows through it, it gets blackened too.

Whenever it has resisted,

Has choked with tangles of dark hair,

Has coughed up little spurts of black blood,

Whenever it has tried retching the filth away,

Acid has been poured to ‘clear’ her breast, to burn it.

I remember its predecessors:

The first, and the one that came after and the next one too.

All had gradually given way to crumble and decay.

This one was painted bright sporty green.

It became bottle green, brown, dirty black ad pitch.

Its outer cover is hard and corrugated…

Proceeding gradually towards brittleness, bitterness.

But its inner layers are soft, tender:

Many have peeled off, few are still left...

It has a continuous chain of malignant tumours,

It is a reluctant human bomb that inevitably kills itself.

Its vitals are dead.

inspire me

A fence, beyond it: a boy

He sits, and thinks, and smiles.

That smile, beyond it must be a thought.

He never told them about his thoughts —

Their shapes, their sizes or their colours.

Each day, while work and worry waltzed wildly,

He thought and a smile danced about his lips.

Is it a unicorn inside his head? Silvery white,

Sparkling amongst emerald blades,

Racing perhaps with an eagle’s shadow

Or drinking from a sapphire stream.

Maybe someday he’ll grab a pen,

Some pages; then grab his thoughts

By the scruff of their necks and

Put them behind bars of another kind.

He will bind the free unicorn, the free eagle

With chains of ink and links of lined paper,

Grant them the immortality of printed words

For us; we shall take a peep inside his head.

Maybe so. Maybe not. But what thoughts cross

His head now, when that naive smile appears?

From what wonderland do they come

Parcelled in silk, tied neat with a ribbon?

A fence, beyond it: a boy.

He sits—but the smile is gone.

Will you help me look for my unicorn?

I will. And so we sat down together, and

Thought.

circles when not made

let the hand hold still
the endless quivering by blows
and other endless mighty things,
which shake a leaf to the mud ground.

please, will the air rotate
where is a breeze, or the north wind
and the air rotate, or whatever
it does to relieve itself.

i am an only daughter,
i do not want to be disowned.

2010. is it october already?

So this is another year. we will write this year, and let every one know. this is what people do in the night. write, and design crazy blogs. let's keep it simple this time, and when the first years start ploughing, we will add more things.