>> Saturday, September 27, 2008

As one hour becomes the next, one day another, spilling into weeks, I feel drugged by too many incomprehensible verses I had posted lately. There is a ragged overlay of words and pictures disturbingly adhering together in my mind. I had only to nod and arrange these articulations in my gravest expression in order to carry on the masquerade of being a poet. And gazing altogether unaggressively at me are these liquid ruminations with that bottomless eloquence which is all opacity for me. Weary from this run, exhausted, I don’t wish to scribble every thought, which demands repetition. It is like I have cotton not in my ears, but in my thoughts.

It’s a regular cycle, after couple of months my rage and adrenaline fades back, I feel spent. Thereafter I vow not to get sucked in again, to instead go on but these vows fall away like cool ashes the next time I see the bruised and broken evidence of one more day. I envision summer sun, perforated with heat, glowing orange. I want that fireball to be inside me, incinerating these black clutches. Then I’d start writing again..

For the moment …
I wish to thank

Man in Painting

For their kind gesture of bestowing some wonderful awards.

Man in painting had conferred Arte-y-pico award, long ago. Quoting from his blog – "This award was created for bloggers who inspire others with their creativity and their talents, also for contributing to the blogging world in whatever medium."
It has to be passed to five others. I apologize for not doing the needful. I read barely 4-5 blogs regularly and vice-versa. They are the ones who inspired me to write and improve and passing it on to them would be as absurd as - ‘Dhoni giving an award to Sachin!’

Vinay and Scarlett honored me with ‘The Brilliante Weblog Award.’
The name is self-explanatory.
Again, this award should be passed on but almost everyone I read has already been given this award.

The best part about getting these awards is the generous words of appreciation written by these wonderful writers. It indeed is a very special feeling. I’d cherish the lovely words especially coz it comes from ‘special people’.

A big thank you, to all of you.


"Beyond myself
I wait for my arrival."
- From "the Balcony" by Octavio Paz


In the candlelight...

>> Tuesday, September 9, 2008

tonight against sterile walls, I’d cast
wild unfettered shadows, vaporous ghosts
variously interlocked, and at odds,
materializing voluminously

asymmetrical pairings
suggesting duality and correspondence,
any two taken together, tantalizing
in unharmonious apposition

apparitions reminding me of myself,
a parody of powerlessness, each of us frozen
by the reflection of malformed mistake,
that is the other..

the rest of me, the completion of me,
the ones in whom, I seek refuge from ‘self’
my alibi, my future, in whose service
I repudiate my identity

I’d hug my shadow, and see instead
laughing at me behind the illusion of
my very own form, pouring forth,
my worst enemy; me...


The Sham Poet

>> Saturday, September 6, 2008

Her poetry, an echo of cry, made years before,
within her, she simulates an imaginary scream
vacuous diatribe of poet, nursing her sickness
with hurt and gloom, a satisfying mourning
in counting and contemplating, all those lost
in short life, an excitement of extemporizing
everything and everyone, beginning with ‘the I’
dropped and resembled, mosaic of smithereens,
cemented, sutured, wired, bolted..

She could retrace scraps, arrange artistically
forgotten fa├žades, shadowboxing none deftly,
amidst an inchoate dimming consciousness
she has visions spotted with soot, the real ‘I’
came and went, like a recurrent dream, while
under disguise of poet she watched intently,
the suppositions spawned, sufferings spilled
studying her, with coldhearted fascination
of a strategically-set spy….


the Dream is Over..

>> Tuesday, September 2, 2008

You were stream, running through valley or plain
tumbling over rocks, like an artery or a vein
bringing an immobilized land to life, implying
existence, embedded like the heart of

a separate source of life, without you
my farm was inert, stilled, were it not for the wind
in the trees, a noise from the sky, utterly silent.

Interposed between my denuded self, and its
clamorous longing for obliteration, a devotion
linked me to this talismanic image, out of
an innocent future,

obscured, masked, uncreated,
as much me and mine as my poetry,
my childhood or my intensities.

In the tangible world, near your flesh,
a flurry of images, slow comforting sex,
orderly thoughts of ‘morrow, next day and
the next, mundane details of daily routine

one of those visions has settled familiarly
in that raw contact, a morsel of intimacy
momentarily being absorbed into your being, as if
they weren’t appendages but the very incarnation of
a whole warm wonderful body ..

Since the impassioned vulnerability of this aria,
I’ve learned to mime; these words are no longer words
stained with my blood but words I repeat and rhyme,

meaningless without function, like

the sole archaeological evidence of a fairy tale or
lasting imprint of the fetus, blankest watermark
devised for masturbatory fantasies
that shall follow henceforth ..


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