Wednesday, November 23, 2011

To music


Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps:
silence of paintings. You language where all language
ends. You time
standing vertically on the motion of mortal hearts.

Feelings for whom? O you the transformation
of feelings into what?-: into audible landscape.
You stranger: music. You heart-space
grown out of us. The deepest space in us,
which, rising above us, forces its way out,-
holy departure:
when the innermost point in us stands
outside, as the most practiced distance, as the other
side of the air:
pure,
boundless,
no longer habitable.
-Rainer Maria Rilke
(Translated from German by Stephen Mitchell)

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

There are not enough of us


How much verse is magnificent?
Point oh oh oh oh one per cent.
How much poetry is second-rate?
Around point oh oh oh oh eight.
How much verse is a botched hotch potch?
Ninety-eight per cent by my watch.
How much poetry simply bores?
None of mine and all of yours.

-Adrian Mitchel

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

asdfgf ;lkjhj

Today, if you wake up to learn that you are an asymmetric wobble head, which of the following would you stop?

a. gyration ellipsis
b. responding to stimuli
c. being.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Introduction to poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
 
- Billy Collins
(Via Prakruti) 

Monday, July 4, 2011

Write

'My darling. I'm waiting for you. How long is the day in the dark? Or a week? The fire is gone, and I'm horribly cold. I really should drag myself outside but then there'd be the sun. I'm afraid I waste the light on the paintings, not writing these words. We die. We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we've entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we've hidden in - like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. Where the real countries are. Not boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men. I know you'll come carry me out to the Palace of Winds. That's what I've wanted: to walk in such a place with you. With friends, on an earth without maps. The lamp has gone out and I'm writing in the darkness.'
-- Katharine Clifton in The English Patient

Saturday, July 2, 2011

மொளச்ச மூணு எலை

நம்மாத்துலேர்ந்து நாலு ஆம் தள்ளி தான் இவா ஆம். அந்தம்பிக்கு இப்போ பத்து வயசு இருக்கும். ஊர்க்கோடி ஸ்கூல்ல அஞ்சாங்க்லாஸ் தான் படிக்கறன். அவன் பெச்சக்கேளு ; ஏ அப்பா! ஊரையே சாப்டூடுவன். கள்ளங்கபடமில்லாதைக்கு கொட கொடன்னு ஊர்வம்பு கொட்டும். ஓராத்து திண்ணைல யாராவது விசும்பட்டுமே, இவன் கதை முடிச்சுல சேர்ந்துடும்.

இன்னைக்கு நம்மாத்து வாசப்பக்கம் நின்னுண்டிருந்தன். சாணளவு தான் இருப்பன். ஏதோ பெரியவா போல அவன் நிக்கற தினுசே தனி. ஏற்க்கனவே பாதியாக்கி கட்டிண்டிருந்த வேஷ்டிய மடிச்சுக்கட்டிண்டு கதவு மேல ஒருவாட்டா சாஞ்சுண்டு ஊர்க்கோவில் கும்பாவிஷேகத்து வம்பு அளந்துண்டிருந்தன். நான் மெள்ள நடை பக்கம் போய் செத்த ஓரமா ஒக்காந்துண்டேன். 'மாமா! இந்த அநியாயத்த கேட்டேளோ? வெளீ சொவத்துக்கு பூசற கலரா அது? அதுக்கு போய் இம்புட்டு செலவழிச்சிருக்கா. இருந்தாப்லையே விட்டிருக்கலாம். நீங்களாவது கேக்கப்டாதோ ஒருவார்த்தை?'

அன்னைக்கு கோவிலை பாக்கபோறதுக்கு மின்னடி ஆத்தங்கரைல ஒரு முங்கு போடுவம்னு கெளம்பினோம் அக்கா தங்கைஹள் மூணு பேரா. என் குட்டித்தங்கை அவனுக்கு ஒரு டிகிரி தான் கொறச்சல் வாயடிககறதுல. கிரிகெட் வெளாடிண்டிருந்த அவனைப்பாத்து அவள் ஒரக்க ஒரு கொரல் கொடுத்தள், 'எடா! ஆத்தங்கரை போவோம் . வரயோ?' ன்னு. அம்மாவை கேட்டூட்டு வந்த பயல் வரலைனுட்டன்.

சாங்காலம் கோவில்ல பாத்தோம் அவனை. குடு குடு ன்னு சந்நிதிக்கு சந்நிதி ஒரே ஒட்டம் நண்டு போல. கைல வெச்சுண்டிருந்த கற்பூர தட்டு ஓரோரு சந்நிதிலேயும் ரெண்டு ஸெகண்டுக்கு மேல எரியாது, ஏதோ ஃப்ளாஷ் பல்பு மாதிரி. அவம்மா வேடிக்கையா சொல்லுவா, 'நேக்கு கற்பூர செலவே வைக்கமாட்டான் போலிருக்கே!' ன்னு. உற்சவமண்டபத்துல கனமா ஜம்பமா பஞ்சகச்சம் கட்டிண்டு பூஜை பண்ணற குருக்களண்ட இந்த வாண்டு கடுகுபோல தான் இருப்பன். உற்சவ மூர்த்தியும் இவனும் ஒரே ஒசரம். சிவங்கோவில் கற்பக்ருஹம் சின்னது. வேறயாரும் அங்க பூஜை பண்ணினா குனிஞ்சே ஆகணும். கற்பக்ருஹத்துக்குள்ள தலை ஒளியாதைக்கு நிமிந்து நிக்கற ஒரே ஆள் இவன்தான்.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Silence

Lizards are lack courtesy.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Humanism

I live with a lizard. It clicks its tongue when i am annoying. Absolute silence, i hear, otherwise. It moves too fast and unexpectedly; or just stays there, often incognito in the brown of my wardrobe door.
We fear each other. It is too reptilian for me and i am too huge for it. I wield sticks.
It is comfortable with my refusing insects for a snack. It does not like chocolates, i am glad.

It is staring at me now, like it always does.

The lizard shall blog about me tomorrow.Do read.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Dear Sea,

I am not talking to you. I am sorry. There are people around me. I can't talk to you the way i want to.

Yes, That was just an excuse. I am tiny. I do not know how to talk to you, though i know i want to. I know you yearn to too. You are talking to me. It is a language barrier. I can't speak like you do.

I am trying to philosophize - love knowledge. The child that i am creeps back in, a very adult child. It begins laughing, but only at people around.I convince myself that i am conversing with you as i run to you and against, jump over waves, get drenched like never before and listen to you voice. Your waves still roar at me. I cannot understand what you are telling. I see just the bubble-breaking-beauty of your foam and those waves that leap like frogs. My friend tells me that each wave comes fresh and consumes an older sandy one. I see dragons of them. Then we speak poetry.

Oh! I am already picking shells! I think i am trying to talk to you now, asking for more shells.

I know you are annoyed. I can see you eat up my conversations with the sand.

I do not know how to talk to you. I feel like a pickle now. Salty and shrunken in front of you. Using what language do pickles talk to the sea?

I am hungry and the sun is clouded over. I cannot speak to you now. I have an exam tomorrow. Worry is creeping into me like worms.

I shall meet you again next week, wearing a rain coat. Let us seek a language.

Greetings,
Someone.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Udi

Udo and the eighth note were dating. He asked her if she wanted dark chocolates. He doubted that she might deem dark chocolates a bad omen. He had not yet gotten over the colonial hangover. She said she loved dark chocolates.

The quaver's only fear was that she could not make music, for she was a part of his music herself. She nevertheless was proud of her beautiful pair of eyes and her graceful gait. She carried the air of poetry with her.

She was just the quaver. Nothing beyond. Udo had to kiss her into being by strumming his guitar or striking the piano keys for exactly her span.

She was so much by being a just the eighth note. Each time the old lady next door heard Udo tryst with her, she wrote a letter to the old man who was out-of-home and hid it in her wardrobe drawer.

The quaver was perfect for Udo. She was neither too long to bore him or satiate, nor was she too absent to be forgotten about.

She soothed him down whenever she thought he wasn't happy. Sometimes, hidden in the ganglion beneath his hair, for his hair was too thick to reveal her. He was more insensitive to her mood swings. He responded, made her and spoke to her only when she peered out of his sheets and flaunted herself enticingly happy or sad.

I do not know if they still date. The eighth note speaks to me often. She just tells me that Udo is.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Sonnet addressed to Vittoria Colonna

As when, O lady mine,
With chiselled touch
The stone unhewn and cold
Becomes a living mould,
The more the marble wastes,
The more the statue grows.

- Michelangelo Buonarotti
Courtesy: Prakruti Ramesh

My inbox smiles

Two days of good weather deserves a Hemingway-

"With so many trees in the city, you could see the spring coming each day until a night of warm wind would bring it suddenly in one morning. Sometimes the heavy cold rains would beat it back so that it would seem that it would never come and that you were losing a season out of your life. This was the only truly sad time in Paris because it was unnatural. You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person had died for no reason.

In those days, though, the spring always came finally but it was frightening that it had nearly failed."

(A moveable feast)


- quoting a mail from Rihan Najib

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Just a tale

Her strangeness is specific. Whenever she has a crush, her dreams begin stray in. She does not dream of running around trees, blushing or holding hands. She dreams of a life after her man is dead. She dreams of widowhood.

"Never let anyone look at you awkwardly", rang her grandma. She always wore a duppatta fastened with safety pins. They came handy when she dreamt; to pop off those bubbles that were immoral.

This time she likes a guy from the neighboring class. They exchange glances. Her dream bubbles begin. She could ... pop! She could marry him. She could ... pop! She could have children. Probably she wouldn't. Her man is mortal. She could then wear crisp cotton sarees. She could walk upright. She could sink into a world of comics. She could write of anything. She could spend hours by her bookshelves. She could have her own kitchen, probably with her parents sharing it. She could live with her parents. She could sing off-pitch and dance out of beat; No one to please. There shall be none to convince of her worth. She could let her children grow up with no moral heave. They could ... pop!
She could not have had children.

Single mothers may adopt. She could adopt a child. A girl-child, who knew no blood-lines; family-histories of morality, who would drag no safety pins along.
Conclusions are strange – those paragraphs that fall at the end of almost every paper we read. They finish only themselves, in a quite self consuming manner. If i may picturize, conclusions are cannibalistic. They rise as if they were starved, to yearn for more. Each consuming one before.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

RIP Vidushi Kalpakam Swaminathan

The news of death isn't new, but it comes in a range of cloaks.

Some people die giving you a cold spine and a sleepless night. No, You needn't have been a close acquaintance; Not even a fanatic. That a piece of music on your playlist no longer has a person in reality behind it, 'now', is enough. A certain transience stings you every time you touch, like a child, the instrument of their expertise.

I believe in ghosts. Those which linger in strands of music, lessons, sights and memories, are.

I do not know if i may let the goddess of music rest in peace.

Another Refrain

'Neend na aaye, tere bina; dil ghabraye, tere bina..'

The voice melted in its own meaning.

Three dreamy pairs of eyes held dilated pupils staring down.

One, ran away to a certain faraway home-town. It knocked at his dream's door and shook her awake to his yearning.

Past the blurry image of the mat, the second pair of eyes threw on him, her locked up sack of questions. They were wailing for bitter-sweet answers.

The other pair was fighting too. She forcibly pushed off any name to the man shaped void in her mind - A space she breathes in and perspires in the pain of its being void.

There was a fourth pair of eyes that seemed undilated; drunk in just the music.

The walls and the floor juggled echoes from a refrain of five different songs.

'tere bina..'

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

'Tis true my form is something odd,
But blaming me is blaming God;
Could I create myself anew
I would not fail in pleasing you.

If I could reach from pole to pole

Or grasp the ocean with a span,
I would be measured by the soul;
The mind's the standard of the man.
—poem used by Joseph Merrick to end his letters,
adapted from "False Greatness" by Isaac Watts

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Sojourn

The colours might fade off.
Time too.
Sunrise to sunrise the boat
goes on.
Gaining colour by colour
and time too.
-Naveen Sharma

[This was a gift and was with a gift, for my birthday]

P.S: I am bound to inform that it was written in a two minute span. :)




Tuesday, March 15, 2011

एक ख़लिश को हासिल-ए-उम्र-ए-रवाँ रहने दिया
जान कर हम ने उन्हें ना-मेहरबाँ रहने दिया
कितनी दीवारों के साये हाथ फैलाते रहे
इश्क ने लेकिन हमें बेख़ानुमा रहने दिया
-Adeeb Saharanpuri
(Courtesy: Prasoon Singh)

One yearning lies unfed all my life,
Knowing well that it shall never quench.
A wall, how many, threw shade by my way.
The love made me walk past them all.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

துன்பம் நேர்கையில் யாழெடுத்து நீ
இன்பம் சேர்க்க மாட்டாயா - எமக்கு, நல்
அன்பிலா நெஞ்சில் தமிழில் பாடி நீ
அல்லல் நீக்க மாட்டாயா - கண்ணே
வன்பும் எளிமையும் சூழும் நாட்டிலே - என்
வாழ்வில் உணர்வு சேர்க்க - நீ
அன்றை நற்றமிழ் கூத்தின் முறையினால்
ஆடிக்காட்டமாட்டாயா- கண்ணே
அறமிதென்றும் யாம் மறமிதேன்றும் - யாம்
அறிகிலாதபோது - தமிழ்
இறைவனாரின் திருக்குறளிலே யொரு சொல்
இயம்பிக்காட்டமாட்டாயா - நீ
புறமிதேன்றும் நல்லகமிதேன்றுமே
புலவர் கண்டநூலின் , தமிழ் - நல்
திறமை காட்டி யுனை ஈன்ற எம்முயிர்
செல்வமாகமாட்டாயா - தமிழ்

- பாரதிதாசன்
(தேஷ் ராகத்தில் தண்டபாணி தேசிகர் பாடியபடி)

Friday, February 25, 2011

Come o' bulky stomach, o' gaNapati,
You are the son of SivA pArvati,
Ringing a ratoo, belting a serpentoo,
You have the face of an elephantoo,
We offer you modaka payasaA,
You are the steno of vEda vyAsA,
Please ensure us vigna vinAshA,
You are the guru of exam'nation passA..
- Anonymous folk work
(Courtesy: Poorna)