The Circles of confusion
get bigger
and all images slip away
as the wave sweeps
through the perforations
of my dissected mind.
Washed out,
I stand still
with the sand running beneath my feet.
As the blood in my veins
gets in sync
with the air of defiance,
I gather
the remains of the day
and return emptyhanded.
1.10.10
My Political Action of the Day Jan 25 2010
A question mark,
made of smoke,
in the swish of my freshly shampooed hair,
settles on my raised brow.
An anchor drops,
in a Walcottian fashion,
from the tip of my eyelid
on my Vctorian doormat.
Dissatisfaction instigates
a pregnant pause
as I stare at my perfect finger tips
and bend down to pick up yesterday's newspaper, soaked in dew.
made of smoke,
in the swish of my freshly shampooed hair,
settles on my raised brow.
An anchor drops,
in a Walcottian fashion,
from the tip of my eyelid
on my Vctorian doormat.
Dissatisfaction instigates
a pregnant pause
as I stare at my perfect finger tips
and bend down to pick up yesterday's newspaper, soaked in dew.
Somehow Feb 1 2010
I sit and read poetry, listen to songs, watch movies, all to not think,
Somehow, I end up thinking a lot more, and its all about you.
My feet feel confident that I can do it all alone.
Somehow, my hand misses a hand, and it belongs to you.
I wait for the day to start anew and wait for it to never end,
Somehow, to not wait for an other day, coz I know it wud be without you
I find shoulders to rest upon, hands to hold, voices to chat with,
Somehow, I know its just like your perfume [which is nothing like you].
I feel happy I can wear a smile while sleeping,
Somehow, I wish someone saw it, and I wish it was you.
I know there's nothing to say,[ Having said it all]; nothing to do, [having done it all],
Somehow, I know its not enough, and I wish I knew what to say and whom to say it too.
[Then,
perhaps
I would know
and
it would be
You
Somehow.]
Somehow, I end up thinking a lot more, and its all about you.
My feet feel confident that I can do it all alone.
Somehow, my hand misses a hand, and it belongs to you.
I wait for the day to start anew and wait for it to never end,
Somehow, to not wait for an other day, coz I know it wud be without you
I find shoulders to rest upon, hands to hold, voices to chat with,
Somehow, I know its just like your perfume [which is nothing like you].
I feel happy I can wear a smile while sleeping,
Somehow, I wish someone saw it, and I wish it was you.
I know there's nothing to say,[ Having said it all]; nothing to do, [having done it all],
Somehow, I know its not enough, and I wish I knew what to say and whom to say it too.
[Then,
perhaps
I would know
and
it would be
You
Somehow.]
Not Made From Words Feb 11 2010
Words don't make meaning
[differ]
It is same from one hemisphere to another
And does not mistake colour for light
An Atom Bomb can be mistaken for White noise
But Meaning remains the same
And falls onto us
Ruining everything
What remains is meaning itself
But, there lies a possibility
in its non existence
Its like giving birth
Knowing the forceps are in the hands of Death
...
Words flow like emotions
But sense is crude
and lacks sensibility
...
My eye looks out of my camera
right at the sun
only to get dazzled
But the click results into something
And my memory registers
An image
of the Empire of the Sun
...
A borrowed phrase
And a collage of words
in sync
produce meaning
ready for consumption
But, I am not a Poet
[Hence, Therefore, Herewith]
This is where I end my poem
[differ]
It is same from one hemisphere to another
And does not mistake colour for light
An Atom Bomb can be mistaken for White noise
But Meaning remains the same
And falls onto us
Ruining everything
What remains is meaning itself
But, there lies a possibility
in its non existence
Its like giving birth
Knowing the forceps are in the hands of Death
...
Words flow like emotions
But sense is crude
and lacks sensibility
...
My eye looks out of my camera
right at the sun
only to get dazzled
But the click results into something
And my memory registers
An image
of the Empire of the Sun
...
A borrowed phrase
And a collage of words
in sync
produce meaning
ready for consumption
But, I am not a Poet
[Hence, Therefore, Herewith]
This is where I end my poem
I need a new word Mar 25 2010
An elastic
it isn't
that would snap back
to retain its shape
Not a salamander's tail
that would grow back
once cut off
but, lets not revel in examples
the point is
you can't cut a shadow with a knife
Ah! Damn! Why can't it be simple
like the two headed engine
or the Second Coming
Oh! Did I use any metaphor
In plain English you wanna know
You don't need many expletives to make a new language
one is enough
[And this ain't a mathematical equation
that can prove itself by an equal to sign]
it isn't
that would snap back
to retain its shape
Not a salamander's tail
that would grow back
once cut off
but, lets not revel in examples
the point is
you can't cut a shadow with a knife
Ah! Damn! Why can't it be simple
like the two headed engine
or the Second Coming
Oh! Did I use any metaphor
In plain English you wanna know
You don't need many expletives to make a new language
one is enough
[And this ain't a mathematical equation
that can prove itself by an equal to sign]
For Once Mar 25 2010
Do you know what it takes
to eat my own words
and chew on them
to suck the bitterness out
and present the shit
in a platter with a beautiful smile
what would you know
you don't speak with your mouth
and your words are not yours
I never question why Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall
but i think he fell because he wanted to see how he looked sitting on it
but dont take it as a warning
in fact dont take it at all
just like it doesn't matter if Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
to eat my own words
and chew on them
to suck the bitterness out
and present the shit
in a platter with a beautiful smile
what would you know
you don't speak with your mouth
and your words are not yours
I never question why Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall
but i think he fell because he wanted to see how he looked sitting on it
but dont take it as a warning
in fact dont take it at all
just like it doesn't matter if Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
Still There....Mar 26 2010
I flip my chappal up in the air
with the tip of my toe
and wonder at the uselessness of the moment
a little nostalgia
and the fundamental question
catch up with each other
incoherence
and of course something i don't understand
bundle up together to form a pillow
i dream of an adrenaline rush
at the cost of speeding at full might
and my sleep ceases to be sleep
i wake up to find a few ideas
sitting on my heavy eyelids
making it painful to see the details
Then? huh then nothing
i just look outside
wear my glasses
and ponder at the clumsiness of each slice i cut
Humming a tune I can't recall from where
And its only then it occurs to me
that the book i was reading last night shut by itself
and i was still in it.
with the tip of my toe
and wonder at the uselessness of the moment
a little nostalgia
and the fundamental question
catch up with each other
incoherence
and of course something i don't understand
bundle up together to form a pillow
i dream of an adrenaline rush
at the cost of speeding at full might
and my sleep ceases to be sleep
i wake up to find a few ideas
sitting on my heavy eyelids
making it painful to see the details
Then? huh then nothing
i just look outside
wear my glasses
and ponder at the clumsiness of each slice i cut
Humming a tune I can't recall from where
And its only then it occurs to me
that the book i was reading last night shut by itself
and i was still in it.
Among other things May 20 2010
Among other things
You think it was then
that everything fell together, and you found your lost self
You think it was that touch,
the wordlessness that made it all seem right
Or it just might be in words,
a single line that made sense, and gave meaning to it all
probably some 'thing' else
among other things
you know it best
but, you know it's not about what you saw
or what you did
or what you felt
or what you made someone feel
not even here
in this curiosity
to know
for what its worth
to live
to not die
to know what it all is
it doesn't matter if someone died
or someone lived
or whether you raised the *'overwhelming question'
snowballing towards it
because
there is only one thing
the tight rope
without gravity
beneath it
where hungry stomachs
converge
with hungry minds
and all that hunger hangs like a question mark
round your neck
and you just freefall
clutching onto
the thread
that connects it all
knowing
that is not it
*That is not it, at all.
[** Alludes to The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T.S.Eliot]
You think it was then
that everything fell together, and you found your lost self
You think it was that touch,
the wordlessness that made it all seem right
Or it just might be in words,
a single line that made sense, and gave meaning to it all
probably some 'thing' else
among other things
you know it best
but, you know it's not about what you saw
or what you did
or what you felt
or what you made someone feel
not even here
in this curiosity
to know
for what its worth
to live
to not die
to know what it all is
it doesn't matter if someone died
or someone lived
or whether you raised the *'overwhelming question'
snowballing towards it
because
there is only one thing
the tight rope
without gravity
beneath it
where hungry stomachs
converge
with hungry minds
and all that hunger hangs like a question mark
round your neck
and you just freefall
clutching onto
the thread
that connects it all
knowing
that is not it
*That is not it, at all.
[** Alludes to The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T.S.Eliot]
27.9.09
In Between Oct 16 2009
Of all that is in between
and all that is outside
there is something that belongs
to neither/nor
in which there's nothing at all
As transience seeps
back through hot sand
and removes all traces
of that which was
what matters is what's lost
what is there is not all
a single echo - For? For?
And time witnesses
patiently, as we fill it up again
while lighting a candle and blowing out
and all that is outside
there is something that belongs
to neither/nor
in which there's nothing at all
As transience seeps
back through hot sand
and removes all traces
of that which was
what matters is what's lost
what is there is not all
a single echo - For? For?
And time witnesses
patiently, as we fill it up again
while lighting a candle and blowing out
26.9.09
An Inverted Reality
When laughter dies an early death, what remains is a menacing silence. But, a picture makes no sound.
Watching the City of Photos, I have begun to see the camera as a box full of contradictions. It is said that it offers possibilities, but I think it offers equal possibilities to those in the frame and to the eye behind the artificially enhanced lens. I almost wonder; woudn’t the city also want a place, in a silent frame, that hides all the noise and reveals only its ageing landscape; as it bears the brunt of its civilization waiting to be lost in an outdated digital frame. Perhaps that’s what the director intended to say when she exclaims- “it’s as if the city never existed except in these frames”
When I raise these questions I am overcome by a feeling similar to that of early photographers who captured light in a box time and again, knowing that it won’t last.
What are we to decipher from an image that speaks of both a dream in the backdrop; and a barefoot reality staring right into the flash of light? Is this contrast funny? Or, is it sad? Is it a philosophical question or an answer to a pair of dying eyes that found immortality only after death?
As the camera whirrs into life, what we capture is an inverted image that forms inside it. It is beauty in it ugliest form. We laugh as we can’t relate to the fact of a skinny, more rib than muscle-show, twenty something young man, evidently on drugs, posing like Hrithik Roshan [or was it Salman Khan]; waiting to be captured in a frame that offers spotlight even if it is for a fraction of a second. And to stop that laughter we need a photograph of famine victims, huddled like a family, looking ridiculous with a colourful backdrop of a majestic tomb of desire, to take us to the gravity of this ostracizing reality? Could we not see the striking similarity between the hungry ribcages of eyes that searched for food and others that sought identity? After compiling lives full of chaos in an orderly fashion, in beautiful luxurious albums, have we failed to notice that while some choose to get clicked for a different life in the frame; others have stopped living outside the frame?
Maybe we assume ourselves to be the inverted reality of an image that is being formed elsewhere, waiting to be developed, while we wait to be washed out like a negative.
Watching the City of Photos, I have begun to see the camera as a box full of contradictions. It is said that it offers possibilities, but I think it offers equal possibilities to those in the frame and to the eye behind the artificially enhanced lens. I almost wonder; woudn’t the city also want a place, in a silent frame, that hides all the noise and reveals only its ageing landscape; as it bears the brunt of its civilization waiting to be lost in an outdated digital frame. Perhaps that’s what the director intended to say when she exclaims- “it’s as if the city never existed except in these frames”
When I raise these questions I am overcome by a feeling similar to that of early photographers who captured light in a box time and again, knowing that it won’t last.
What are we to decipher from an image that speaks of both a dream in the backdrop; and a barefoot reality staring right into the flash of light? Is this contrast funny? Or, is it sad? Is it a philosophical question or an answer to a pair of dying eyes that found immortality only after death?
As the camera whirrs into life, what we capture is an inverted image that forms inside it. It is beauty in it ugliest form. We laugh as we can’t relate to the fact of a skinny, more rib than muscle-show, twenty something young man, evidently on drugs, posing like Hrithik Roshan [or was it Salman Khan]; waiting to be captured in a frame that offers spotlight even if it is for a fraction of a second. And to stop that laughter we need a photograph of famine victims, huddled like a family, looking ridiculous with a colourful backdrop of a majestic tomb of desire, to take us to the gravity of this ostracizing reality? Could we not see the striking similarity between the hungry ribcages of eyes that searched for food and others that sought identity? After compiling lives full of chaos in an orderly fashion, in beautiful luxurious albums, have we failed to notice that while some choose to get clicked for a different life in the frame; others have stopped living outside the frame?
Maybe we assume ourselves to be the inverted reality of an image that is being formed elsewhere, waiting to be developed, while we wait to be washed out like a negative.
5.6.09
*
to fill up
a completely blank sheet of paper
is not just a great temptation
but a task
that once undertaken cannot be undone
the ink cannot stain the paper
as it stains your fingers
it is confusing to decide
whether to do justice to the sacrifice of the tree
or to the words that emerge on the shore of my mind
like those shells on the sea
that are precious only when found
not only is it dissatisfying
to reach the end of the completely blank sheet of paper
[that was]
it is unnerving to realise
that the bullet you thought you'll shoot
had decided to make the pistol itself its tomb
it is then you face the necessity of a
full stop
a comma
a semi colon
or a run on
a completely blank sheet of paper
is not just a great temptation
but a task
that once undertaken cannot be undone
the ink cannot stain the paper
as it stains your fingers
it is confusing to decide
whether to do justice to the sacrifice of the tree
or to the words that emerge on the shore of my mind
like those shells on the sea
that are precious only when found
not only is it dissatisfying
to reach the end of the completely blank sheet of paper
[that was]
it is unnerving to realise
that the bullet you thought you'll shoot
had decided to make the pistol itself its tomb
it is then you face the necessity of a
full stop
a comma
a semi colon
or a run on
28.3.09
Letter to a beloved
I write because of an inability to write, to express what I feel for the very fear of not feeling it once I write. This state of irony has made me numb. Not to others only but even myself. My beauty has eluded me. In fact I sometimes feel so old I can hardly recognize myself. It is as if I have caught rust-the rust of routine as Marquez would have said.
Yes, I know I write in the past, but the present has become a thing of the past too. Too many times I find myself doing things I did earlier and swore not to repeat. I keep on finding solutions and yet don’t have any. Side effects of a love withering I guess. It makes me wither too. I see it raining outside but all I feel is a sense of incompleteness. Nostalgia fills you up. But, what I have is not nostalgia. It is future, Emptiness in my future. My lost rhyme of future intrudes my present and my past. Loving for me has become so alien now. I used to make a big deal out of it.
Now, I am caught in the web of my own fancies. But, the mirror is cracked already yet I cannot see beyond my reflections. I have climbed down from the tower. I board the boat to the other side. I don’t drown but neither do I reach the other side. The boat moves round and round and round. It doesn’t sink. And that is why I sit to write knowing that no one can ever read this.
15.2.09
[Borrowed originality]
If [Borrowed originality]
If I could know everything
And know I’ll forget it all
If I knew what it is to be young
And also how to grow old
If I could surge like a river
And look as calm as the sea
If I could be everybody
And know whom to call ‘me’
If I knew an answer
And could still question me
If I knew what the end is
And could still leave this incomplete...
If I could know everything
And know I’ll forget it all
If I knew what it is to be young
And also how to grow old
If I could surge like a river
And look as calm as the sea
If I could be everybody
And know whom to call ‘me’
If I knew an answer
And could still question me
If I knew what the end is
And could still leave this incomplete...
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