Monday, February 25, 2008

Yet more Roshan

One evening the sun set with rotund orange,

And orange such that will form only with a setting sun,

Deep and smooth, fiery and fire-like.

A sun-made plastic orange.

And to turn and see on the other side of their sea,

The moon so white and glossy, and salt-white,

With pockmarks and not a shred of finesse,

But set out like no man’s creation,

Softly gaining in strength, with embossed edges of silver light,

It floated not far from the arm, but closer to the head.

Being orange with such quality, the gray crept into the sides of the sun,

Slowly tugging at it, to hide beneath what was one’s world, and away!

Away, below our world, below what one will see.

Glancing one last time at the subjects of it’s immortal glory,

Surrendering us to the craft of the night,

And the gloss of the moon.

To ask, “What do you see in the setting sun?”

And to hear the quiet pause such as in a forgotten line,

With small gasps of nervous hesitation,

And the small hands grabbing at the edges of our shirts.

Listen to the quiet sounds of thought, as their nervous fingers,

Do nothing but twist.

To pace gently, softly rolling your heel on the ground,

To not appear more nervous than them,

We wait.

Wait for thirty years or more, and wait for leaves to fall,

And the call of the regular bird to end.

And finally hear, like the quiet whisper of mouse feet,

A voice say, “orange.”

Standing beneath the still eucalyptus,

Watching nothing move, but the stillness of the limp leaves.

The fading sky beneath resting its tired eyes, closing them gently.

Gently enough to let the tree watch the changing light

And to form its own conclusions on the nature of night.

Leaves stir a little, like the anticipatory fingers of a pianist.

The beetle climbs slowly, after its nap, to the highest point,

On the mound of sand at the base of the tree.

Yet it cannot see what breathes in it.

Oblivious to all but conscious of the expanding dark.

Roshan -

Below the quiet evening air,

A layer of talk grew into a conversation,

That spurned the entire world, and then the universe,

Shredding in its path all that it laid its convoluted words upon.

And after that, it continued down the soft asbestos path,

Treading quietly on previous versions which begged to be restored.

They lay broken and enchanted by the present,

While their unfinished selves withdrew into the basking glory

Of the past- hard and chaffed, yet more gentle than skin.

Words of the previous times rode on their backs,

Humming and hovering around their eager ears,

Satisfying what they liked - for they were satisfied when they heard what they desired.

And cruelly they spoke among themselves,

As-if all of time had bundled itself up for this one moment,

Where it could explode into stillness and bring change.

Yes, time is our hero - our only hero,

Among mortals and peevish newspaper men,

Who walk from their homes thinking of desire,

And go home to compulsion.

Time is our only prophet- who changes the world endlessly.

Every movement and there is infinite change.

Change, change and everything in between,

Simply another movement of time.

We must bow before time, for without it,

We will be stuck in a bland moment in history.

Roshan - prolific

There in front were the stars,

almost at eye level.

Although the stars were there, so close to the touch,

they did not sparkle like her eyes.

They drew out, on the canvas of the black night sky,

her absence.

The flowers were lovely yellow yesterday evening,

and they grew wholly, like carpets of dreams,

but today, they were nothing in comparison to her.

Their yellows were duller and their stalks less turgid.

Below there were no roads to travel, that had not her voice

attached to the wandering signposts, as they whipped by.

Their wanderings were just a walk away.

What should i sing, or utter to stop comparing her to the world,

for she is everything in the world, nothing less.

Knowing her is almost like talking to the universe or playing with life,

until one sees the secrets all unfolding.

Passion is passive in this world, that so cruelly takes her away.

Aditi again - new poem sent to me after a long time

Silent whispers
Sniffle in nostalgia
Humming a familiar tune

The mind plays
With the heart,
Like the sadist wind
That ruffles up
Crisp raked memories

Every thought has an appendix
Of old habit and decayed love
Which it carries along
Like a vestigial blister
That refuses to be balm

Meandering emotions
Seek absorption
To still the change
But they still churn
Like the frothing sea
Venomous nectar.

And endless war fought,
Sought not by me

Deliverance I beg for
From the battles of
I with Me

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Roshan's latest poem that he showed to me.

I was touched by beauty today.

A soft fleeting touch of merciful beauty,

That brushed my hair, with soft fingers,

And drew within me, figures of naked beauty,

Drawing within me, exquisite ideas of conspiring get togethers,

Where there was only me and it, writhed in such ultimate pleasure,

That the moon paled in comparison and sun blushed,

Until under the stars (yet there were none, for we saw nothing),

Gentle breeze blew and far away a hurricane brewed.

It too conspired against others- but impersonally and unknowingly.

And yet we did not see time beyond the seconds that we breathed together,

Seconds that grew from our mingling bodies.

We created time, destroyed others through our thoughts,

Eliminating time that would too conspire against us,

If we had let it- but time too was powerless.

Without action there is no time.

And there was no action in me- just beauty that flowed through space,

Substituting time.

Without effect the action means nothing,

And there were no effects- just timeless beauty.

In that moment that lasted forever,

We created and destroyed the universe.

Breathing something that was not air,

Surviving without oxygen.


The exhibition came and went.
Different people liked the books according to who they were.
No book went entirely unliked.
The compilation hasn't happened yet.
But Roshan still writes poetry.
Maybe the others too.
Arka is on the way to becoming a famous poet
Prerna has recently made a poet friend
Things keep happening
That's good enough, I guess..