Category Archives: Poetry

In the desert of my solitude

Spring nights, the nip of winter is still in the air and a song keeps me company under the nearly full moon

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Filed under Love and all, Poetry, Stuff I like

The best day that I have ever had in Delhi

was today.
A day full of insights. One of the most important insights from today was that I realized the purpose of my life.

1.The purpose of my life is to gather new experiences.

2.New experiences. An infant seeing people play Holi for the first time must totally be tripping adults looking ridiculous behaving absurd.

3. Played Holi in the morning in JNU. I love JNU for the place it is. Bhaang served in the hostel mess during breakfast, the entire campus tripping and it being absolutely acceptable to run around tearing one’s own shirt and throwing it up on a tree.

4. This has been my favourite best day in Delhi so far.

5. When a visually challenged student walks through Jhelum lawns while Holi is being celebrated in JNU, what does he/she perceive and sense? But Kazi says that colour also has frequencies and sounds. He hummed me a quick ‘aahhh’ which was supposed to be the sound for a green colour and indeed, his tone resonated of green. They can sense auras and waves of colour.

6. Holi is a great festival, especially to celebrate with one’s family and close friends. I like the Lall family where I was at all day today. They have a wonderful way of being on Holi, together, each inviting their own friends, and sharing their own friends with each other. accepting each other.

7. Simplicity.

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Filed under La vie, Poetry, Thoughts/ Ideas

The day after

This is an attempt at a poem about the day after something significant or insignificant.
Its as yet incomplete and am not even sure if is at all meant to be one single poem.

The day after

The day after the night
when the first raindrops fell
everyone saw that the drops had
placed themselves gingerly on tips of green leaves,
and on the edges of crisp blades of grass.
One had arranged itself on the spot on the car windshield
so that when they looked from the front
it made look like a brilliant luminous diamond
had etched itself on the crease of her smile.

The day after their examinations ended
the excited kids woke up far too early
although they had decided that they would sleep till noon.
They made plans about all the candies they would eat
all the games they would play and all the films they would watch.
But by eve they had split into factions of Iago and Othello
and thus began the trysts of adolesence that weren’t resolved
until they had children of their own.

The day after the road was fixed
everyone still walked as if the road was not fixed.
They drove around the ghosts of potholes
and stepped aside from non-existent pits.

The day after she first spent the night at his
she woke up forgetting this very fact
because she had dreamt very realistically
that the war had ended and that her dad
had returned.

The day after she first spent the night at his
he stopped kissing her and it broke her heart
while his was seized by fear
because the day after
she first spent the night at his
he realized that he liked men.

The day after their friend died
they woke up raw with dry eyes
grieving at their inability to weep
for ther tears did no justice to their sadness.

The day after the war ended
the soldiers packed up their rifles
and retraced their tanks
but had forgotten to make the
Ivorian child forget how to use a gun.

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Filed under Literature, Poetry, Thoughts/ Ideas, World

My lover’s shoulder

Yesterday I noticed my lover’s shoulder.
Winter fogged the window behind the drapes, but a warmth created by the room heater(second-hand but in perfect condition)
and two loving bodies engulfed the room. Delicate yellow light from a bed-side shade threw shadows on us
and my eyes
and especially his shoulders.
After watching an episode of Sherlock(Season 3 episode 3 brilliant!) with him,
discussing, dissecting, and laughing about it, with him,
it was the only place I wanted to be in
and no Spy with a voice like Benedict Cumberbatch could have changed that.

In the process of writing this, I have just now google-searched the words ‘shoulder anatomy’
to understand and explain to you exactly
how beautiful did look my lover’s shoulders.
It was neither the most-muscular nor the most-toned shoulder I have seen,
nothing like Daniel Craig in his better days.
But a certain manner in which he held me in those moments,
shone three distinct lines of muscle and sinew in yellow shadows,
that whispered to me about love, care and affection,
and made me wonder at the universe that could make these shoulders possible.
“Ah Science! Ah Universe!”, thought I
and stretched out my arms barely tracing my fingers over them,
too afraid to alter the grace
that is held within the petals of my lover’s shoulders.

I din’t think until now that his shoulders are a different colour from my own.
While his shine like smooth ivory,
mine are more like wood, varying between shades of walnut and chestnut in parts.
But we are happy to push our shoulders together in the darkness of the cinema,
and brush them gently against one another,
unnoticed in the chatter and laughter of social gatherings.
(This specific shoulder of my lover has no moles,
unlike his back whose landscape is scattered with stars,
that are nice to kiss or to play join-the-dots.)

If I was O. Henry or Guy de Maupassant, I would tell you that those shoulders had no arms to end,
or if I was Sir Doyle or Oscar Wilde, my lover would be a spy, a prince or a frog.
But this is not a story and its no such romantic thing.
This is real life and my lover is real person.
with a human heart.
(and beautiful shoulders.)

 

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Filed under Love and all, My favourite people, Poetry, Stuff I like, Uncategorized

Whenever I come back to blogging after a long break( which has happened several times btw), I feel stumped at the thought of what I could write about. There are several reasons for this.

1. I am always thoroughly guilty about my lack of perseverance and feel the need to write something very nice which will make my page stats go berserk.

2. I also try to comment and read up on what others I have follow have been writing about and I feel tempted to write about a whole bunch of ideas.

3.Invariably the last post I have written promises an upcoming awesome insightful post and often I have forgotten what the hell that was about. BUT! This time I remember. Its coming right up my lovelies.

4. Its usually filled with profuse apologies about my absence which could happen again very soon.

Nevertheless, we shall remain forever hopeful and go right ahead, writing our souls out to the world, yet cupping our hands around this very soul to never sell it to this duniya (TERMINOLOGY: Duniya= world , language: Hindi)

On this note, before the promised insight, here is another insight on this duniya by a wonderful poet and lyricist, the late Sahir Ludhianvi.  But I like this version by Piyush Mishra from the movie Gulaal , much more.


Here is the meaning.
so deep, so profound, so fucking depressing. yet so powerful.

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February 20, 2013 · 5:21 pm

I have dreamed of you so much

I came across this poem and felt that I could relate to it considering my situation with KB right now. .most of it atleast. It has been this way for long.

I HAVE DREAMED OF YOU SO MUCH  
by Robert Desnos
I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real.
Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss your mouth and make
your dear voice come alive again?

I have dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown used to being crossed on my
chest as I hugged your shadow, would perhaps not bend to the shape of your body.
For faced with the real form of what has haunted me and governed me for so many
days and years, I would surely become a shadow.

O scales of feeling.

I have dreamed of you so much that surely there is no more time for me to wake up.
I sleep on my feet prey to all the forms of life and love, and you, the only one who
counts for me today, I can no more touch your face and lips than touch the lips and
face of some passerby.

I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much, slept so much
with your phantom, that perhaps the only thing left for me is to become a phantom
among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the shadow the
moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your life.

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Filed under La vie, Literature, My favourite people, Poetry

ITHAKA

The english department of my college recently released its annual magazine, Ithaka.

The name of the magazine is taken from a wonderful poem by C.P. Cavafy called Ithaka. The poem is truly inspirational and reveals what the real stuff of life is. Just thought everyone should benifit so here it is. 🙂

ITHAKA

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon-don’t be afraid of them:
you’ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon-you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind-
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn’t have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

—by Constantine P Cavafy

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Filed under Literature, Poetry, Stuff I like