Friday, April 25, 2008

praps - rewrite - now it's tite


Like a musical instrument or a blank page,

I sit silent – potential energy

of infinite permutations and combinations.

The turmoil, the conflict, the urge, the reluctance

Constantly meeting into those singular points of existence –

here and now.

A drop of ink falls on the page, slowly spreads,

Dries almost instantly. It’s the thirst. The thirst,

That cannot be quenched by water or wine.

A root shrivelled into disability,

seeking neither water nor wine. But what?

Something; I’m not sure but I think.

The thought. The root of perhaps madness.

The coin thrown, falls silently, infinitely;

Into the fathomless depths of that dry well

And probably lands on its two multiple faces.

The thought. The thought.

I think.

In solitude is comfort. And the root,

That sucks in biased truth.

In truth, the wall lies; growing steadily stronger,

More solid, “further” removed.

In truth sits that dayglocrazie,

Like a blank page,

steadily disappearing into oblivion.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

pratapaditya n deb - philosophy

Like a musical instrument or a blank page,

I sit quietly – potential energy

of infinite permutations and combinations.

The turmoil, the conflict, the urge, the reluctance

Constantly meeting the lone points of existence –

here and now.

A drop of ink falls to the page, slowly spreads,

Dries almost instantly. It’s the thirst. The thirst,

That cannot be quenched by water or wine.

A root shrivelled into disability, seeking neither water

Nor wine. But what?

Something; I’m not sure but I think.

The thought. The root of a possible insanity.

The coin thrown, falls, silently into

the fathomless depths of that dry well.

The thought. The thought. I think.

In solitude is comfort. And the root,

That sucks in biased truth.

In truth lies the wall, growing steadily stronger,

More solid, “further” removed.

In truth sits that dayglocrazie,

Like a blank page,

steadily disappearing into oblivion.

I don't understand the phrase "in truth lies the wall" but otherwise the poem makes complete sense to me.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Shyamli - a lovely magical romp of the imagination

An idle Sunday.

There is someone at my door,

Addressing me,

with regular raps on the hollow wooden frame,

calling out at intervals,

what I believe used to be my name.

I would apologise, my friend,

But I am too preoccupied

with my own absence,

Or, atleast pretending the same.

For I, presently, am too far away.

Caught up,

in a giddy swirling mass of a day dream.

Lying here in my half crimson room,

Smiling slight…slightly,

at the ceiling, which grows higher,

Spiraling way,

way high into the stratosphere.

There is someone beside me,

Murmuring honeycombs,

humming faintly into my ears.

And thus I, so raptured…

find myself unable,

to answer your calls.

And a spangled rodeo horse

Neighs and canters

around my feathered pillow,

chewing at my hair

as I swim..

through Dollops of creamy mists,

engulfing sight and mind.

Maybe another day, my love,

Will I stumble to the door way

and turn that knob…

Today however, I am sailing

over my own body,

Rowing with my tiny oars

through this choppy mess of winds.

(atleast, the mist has cleared)

I can see the oceanic vastness, barely though,

through the fluttering dayglo wings…

purple velvet to a gauze of gold,

Blurred by their own velocity…

Choo choo.

My ferry turns wayward,

Misbehaving, in this flickering excitement.

Static, a tense restlessness,

Glows when I smile,

through my teeth.

I see my reflection break,

into ripples as I step through

this hall way of mirrors.

Only to be sucked right out

of the enchanting illusions

by your rudeness.

you knock yet again!

I meet my bed with a dull thud

And a sigh.

Your persistence bothers me.

The development of a frown however,

Is intervened,

(you’re a lucky bastard)

by my white horse…

Neighing, cantering, chewing…

the ceiling still spirals.

AND, the rolling thunder,

tumbles around as

Falling cars and misshapen cats fall


around me and my tambourine umbrella…

I sleep… drowsy slumber dreamy sleep.

I sleep through it all.

Friday, April 18, 2008

shyamli - this poem is for a friend who recently passed away.

We hold on

to our mistaken identities,



Misread and misinterpreted,

Meander slow in beads

of viscous sweat,


Leaving behind trails of soot,

Purely for the sake

of remembrance.

You nurse your bruises,

in the shade

of the giant vines and canopies.

Brilliantly coloured orchards,

in your simpleton backyard.

No abysses, darkness or voids.

No scorching suns,

to spoil this day.

Wandering through the wisps

we meet, yet again, in your

Vivid delusional escapades.

Through the nights,

we shall hold on to each other

and a warm cup of tea.

The wolves shall eventually tire

and run away,

we shall be safe, alone,

yet again.

I put in the context because I felt that then we get to see that it's such a deadly poem.

rebana - some poems - they seem to become better as they go along

so i 've attempted some editing

A word full walking

Moved a melting gaze

Into an embrace

Of gibberish darkness


Happiness is an allegory,

Unhappiness a story…


It’s funny how the tables have turned…

I finally find a self, I call it mine,

I build it up and make it a shrine

Then I search for my star in the darkened sky,

My star that’s lost in a blanketed lie,

But the planets have moved, sliding around,

To match the fate of a table turned

* - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - -- - - -- -- - -- -- - -

This was the poem that inspired my 2nd fiction film (although my 1st real passionate attempt)….it was a strange experience trying to create a film from a poem… but it was the only way I could do it…


Coffee day, cold coffee, cold sleep,

yet again I grow sleepy.

Eyelids leaden with chewy sleep.
as the corporately dressed feed me their smiling lies.

Their feet adorned in steeped precision,
Only serve to sever my true ambition down to a cursed rendition of many a so called stalwart condition.

Existence isn't a mystery to one
Who contends in history.
Each word that was written once,
by the powerful faith that moves mountains,
Builds, brick by brick,
The wall that surrounds the destitute prostitute of our plentiful times.

This isn't no poem that will entertain your lustful tongue,
If I should rhyme is very much my own decision.
I detect your wry smile at my wistful folly,
A sneer is all I have for your unhearing ally.

Faith can move mountains or drench a mountain's work of pride.
Its powerful innocence pulls a wanderer's quest to its demonic end.
What a sad pity it is then, to settle for corporate heroism,
With its coffee & quiet delinquents lurking in the corners...

With all my growing likeness to an evangelic angel,
I begin to drown in the lurking drowsiness,
Of what the death of a society brings to heroic celebration.

samia - can you retell a story?

Can you retell a story

like it's never been told?

For you seem easily bored.

Memory only is beautiful

for the good is what is chosen to be retold.

Time is precious

for it stitches together

you and me.

The lover and the loved-

our assigned lives,

how did it come to be?


Like a song

you cannot get rid of

for you are enamoured

by each note, word and pause

and that itself

begets its death;

no warning

no apparent reason-

until it's that season again.

Love was never meant to grow cold



Haven’t we walked down

this way before?

We have reached

that point again,

my love

my friend-

save this water

from flowing away,

my cupped hands

and I re-tread that way.

I look

a reflection

looks back at me


it is still me.

I do not want to become

disheartened or cold

I do not wish

this dullness to remain

unfeeling, numb


Is this the best

we will ever be?

Loneliness is worse

when somebody is there.

Silence is louder

when you are here.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

aashim's back in action - wolf, wolf!

Time wasted….


Over fragments and doors,

Frost holds minds,

Eyes held on the floor.

“Bow to thy master!

You are but my kind…”

An invasion,

Accompanies the ice.

In it’s being,

They would not suffice.

I lament its origin,

A floundering school.

Error a margin,

Faith lost in its pool.

Futile were my chances,

Bemoaned by my pride.

I scream.

An error.

A change in tide?

An excuse.

Time wasted,

Awe consumed,





Tuesday, April 15, 2008

another new poet -second poem - very tight and having a good vocabulary

introducing Radhamohini Prasad

A rummage of alphabets fall
Out into the abysmal zone
One must know, the closed gates said
Those who innocently tread
Routes of the eventually accused
Only those shall seek refuge
Who, heinous of crimes have someone's predilection
In this meditated lacunae

Hours framed by the district magistrate's well nurtured diction
Yet nothing more wholesome
Than a failed human
Dying by the hour.

Friday, April 11, 2008

I've decided to expland the blog -new poets coming in

Introducing Kasturika Kumari -finished poems -something rarely seen


Piece by piece

minute by minute

in the folded bud

of an orange flower

the insect




Onslaught of winds

Caught in a vortex

Of blue clouds

Autumn leaf.

Hanging by

a moment ago.


on the dead, dead carcass of

blackened wood

Torn asunder.


The imprints through a hundred

Lined pages

The sunlight through a hundred

White sheets

The sound through a hundred

Ear drums.

This is how the heat in me pounds

The pressure swinging through

taut strings, pulled to bareness.

Edges frayed and


Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Two more by Shyamli


I am left here,

With no words,

tears or ache.

No sense of feeling left

in my fingertips as

they claw at my eyelids.

Cover bleary eyes,

ridden with bitter…

Bitter grief.

It escapes slow,

as I comprehend

your decision


In anguish I squirm.

Only one thing burns


Crystal in the cards…

It glimmers.

I shall, in return, do you harm,

"Your home will be in flames."


The present.

Wrapped, in a spectrum

of superficial lies,

A glimpse of thoughtless hope,

I saw you looking my way

And you saw

that glimpse of foolish faith.

Thus, you,

Conniving heartless, you

wrapped a viscous black

Plague and sent it, in a letter,

Fat, stuffed obesely with


just another crushed dream.

I tip over, towards that white cold void.




I move on.

Monday, April 7, 2008

roshan - well, what can i say , almost no word wasted...

I am new to this world.

And yet sometimes I drown myself in music.

Gather the sheets closer to me, bunch them up in front of my heart,

Lest a stray shot pierce it.

A drunk stranger once told me that there are places where,

Hiding is not escaping.

Beneath the orange autumn I tried opening my eyes.

but I did not see- the immeasurable beauty of freshly sprung yellow,

Nor did I see the smiling eyes of a proud mother.

I will never see the fine dust from a crumbling leaf.

Yet there I stand, I can see the fire approaching, beyond the orange glow.

Beyond the fierce orange of an angry sunset,

I can see the pain- twisting.

What is this life?

Shyamli - my petite

My petite,

my shallow petite

William Jones,

I am not … your girl.

Not anymore.

I am, however,

the unfeeling shore,


Sandy dunes and all,

waiting, for another wave.

As I wait I feel the green

Lengthy vines sprawling,

Indolently yawing,

Over my bare bodice,

Trenchant, deep…

prying for something to thrive on.

Azure, the flowers,

now bloom

Over my body,

I wait,

Not for you.

They bloom still,

expanding and heaving

with every gasp that racks me,

As I bury you

in my grains

o’ white and yellow

and at times,

the crimson

Onto which I reflect…

your reminiscences.

I loved you,

And I never shall again.

My dunes are erupting slowly,

Embossing you with gold.

You are beautiful William Jones,

But you were a fool to believe,

(that) the clamorous silence was for a reason.

We are, presently,

in your car

and I can barely see your

non existentiality,

Or perhaps, it is probably

my lack of existence,

that simply deepens in your

wraithlike shadow.

And the wheels still turn.



not… there.

You were foolish, William Jones,

you never Were.

As I never am.

The dust,

I am just the dust on your temples

You lay on your dreams…

cloudy, dusty, dusky,


I never am/ was.

And thus, I never left you behind.

I just went slightly astray,

Clambering down the burrows

that haunted the fork,

we once reached.

I crawled,

to pick up the fallen.

The stray fallen bits,

of talk, of the conversations,

My solitary chronicle.

And thus, though I loved you, William Jones,

I never shall again.

The vines have embodied me.




No - one,

I am.

Friday, April 4, 2008

After a long silence -Shyamli - and what a voice!

A year, days, months, an era has passed me by, since I last indulged my cynical critical ego. I sit here, this black keyboard on my lap. Realization sinks in, about the stagnation that seems to have plateau'd itself, and it sits poignant and smilingly smug, in and around me. My mentor, you, my reader, you, I apologize, I have no more beautiful words to enchant you with as my thoughts have puddled up in the centre of the wooden floor, around this high stool of utter ignorance that I sit on.

The purists have killed me.

The death of experience as mentioned by my reminiscent and equally wistful colleague is a farce. As if there was such a thing then how is it that I am experiencing it anyhow? It seems as though the whole world, my mind and soul included is caught in a rut, of greed and apathy… this is the epitome of foolish materialism and I can feel the corporate rat of a world sink its teeth slowly into the flesh of my calves as I sit… blissfully dreaming in this cave lit by the flickering light of my computer.

I pine as I belong nowhere and yet I belong to my comrades who too belong to this nowhere… I am the undead, caught in between two wholly different species of human intellect and mind sets. And it seems they are both equally skeptical of the other. I am tired of trying to explain my thoughts and thus I shall not bore you, and expounding my theory would imply my presumptions of you as an ignorant and intellectually lower being.

So I’ll stop.

Right here.

I believe I strangled my child like pretentious poet when I realized how small and insignificant my worries are… and I only hope now that others do too. Stop with this verbally infested carnival of freaks… self involved narcissistic FREAKS.

I shall not be one with you and your games… I shall not humor you by being brittle and vulnerable. I shall not be beautiful.

I am not beautiful.

As beauty itself has abandoned us… she left when we became what we are.


I mock at you… and spit, at you your naïveté. Do you not see how meager your feelings are. Love isn’t even a feeling anymore… and pain? APATHY?

Get over yourselves.

The cosmos has spoken and we shall rot… our skin shall burn and blister, our gums shall reek painfully bleeding as we pick at them with our jagged nails, and our foolish politicians shall sit on their thrones and pretend they aren’t the lepers that they are. Corruption isn’t just a word… it’s a phenomenon and we my friends are in eye of this storm of hurricane proportions.

But I, as I scorn denigration, shall not speak anymore… for fear of thus go my last words.

I will sit here,

Not reminiscing,

nor waiting

As I have now exhausted,

All patience,

only for it to be replaced

by an angst, which needs no vengeance.

Thus, I sit.

Silently still,

with a blunted axe in hand..

and a warm blanked in another.

I do this for you.

The world is burning.