30 September, 2006

The Outsider Inside

Devils and angels hammer at my head

a clutter of ideas chatter aloud

thoughts riddle in and out - a quizzical labyrinth

they squabble, they scream, they wither, they mope

the good and the evil battle along

reason lies squashed under frivolous greed

virtue argues with imaginaton's crippled flutter

truth nudges pride, alter egos draw blood

hope lights up the coridoors of remorse

an experience whispers life into decaying dreams

the phantom of a lost love flits past

its forgotten reassurance warms me

I watch amused, the outsider inside.


Chandni

23 September, 2006

my heroes

“You can't just turn on creativity like a faucet. You have to be in the right mood.
What mood is that?
Last-minute panic.”


“Life's disappointments are harder to take when you don't know any swear words.”
"I've been thinking Hobbes "
"On a weekend?"
"Well, it wasn't on purpose...”


- Calvin and Hobbes, the adorable "noodleloaves"

21 September, 2006

To Punky, with love from Brooster


time often becomes this constant uneddying fluid
mundane seconds ripple into aeon - like hours
try to grasp its bubbles, they burst with a silent pop
and you are left gasping on a fisful of stale air




and now I stare back at those little seconds of mirth
jealousy rips my hungry self in itsy shreds
I watch as two bright faces start their journeys
their paths entwine, skip along, drag and run




I see faces crinkle into concentrated frowns
teacups break, the saucers lie around
a muddy little river pochy pochying its way through
a children's room with a greenboard divided in two




there's an oily face shivering in the winter mist
there's once licking layers off an orange ice lolly
those faces are splashing in big red tubs
even the water can't wash away their glee



there are angry hot tears spilt on raging words
grubby comforting hands, taletelling pigtails
prayers are said in sleepy sounds

bloomers peep out with the alphabet on



there's pinkpanther having a "square meal"
enid blytons spinning tales under the lemon tree
I hear a playful chuckle, it makes me smile
there's a hug, I cringe away, a silent goodbye
when time feels like its lost its flow
when music seems empty, notes hollow
those eager little faces wink me a wink
I fall back from insanity's brink.





the way of words

This song has been playing in my head the whole of yesterday..some tunes just lodge themselves real well in those empty nooks...
---------------------------
"kyun aaj kal neend kam khwaab zyaada hain
lagta khuda ka koi nek irada hai
kal tha fakir aaj dil shehzada hai
lagta khuda ka koi nek irada hai "
-----------------------
I love the way some words have. They just make you smile.
chandni

17 September, 2006

twadi bhaut yaad aandi hai mummmy

I have a problem. I call my mother by her name. Period. I say Shobha, she answers, works fine for both of us. No that's not the problem. The problem is that in India, parents are =/> god or something close. So when people hear that I call my mother Shobha, I get the following responses:

The raised eyebrows look that is especially reserved for members of our generation.

Dissapproving head shake (read: bigdi a.k.a spoilt girl).

Tragic pat on the back saying I'm too far gone to invite any suggestions.

All sorts of weird facial contortions even our creator wouldn't believe we are capable of.

Its funny, I don't do it to ape the west (people have actually told me that), certainly not because I don't respect my dear mother, not because I'm rebellious or want to seem pseudo - modern. Frankly, there's no reason...as a child I heard everyone calling my mother Shobha: her parents, my mama, mami..so I caught on( oh ya I was a smart kid). Everbody thought it was one of those cute little childhood things I would grow out of..little did they know!

So Shobha it is.

When I was in school(boarding) they screened all our letters home just to check if we were not writing anything vile and foul about school(bunch of losers!). Anyway so when my warden saw "dear Shobha" in the beginning, she came marching and said,"Chandni Singh, you are to write a letter to your mother, not sister. Come on write another one to your mother." I patiently explained the intricacies of my family taxonomy. She quickly rearranged her face from utter horror to calm concern. An hour long lecture on "society kya kahegi", " aapki mother, mummy sunne ke liye tadapti hongi" later, I wrote a model letter, full of all the correct salutations etc..bah humbug.

Two weeks later, I received a horrified letter from my poor poor mother. Ha ha..that sure tickled me. What I fail to understand is why people can't mind their own silly businesses?????????

Shobha, to me is the most beautiful word in my vocabulary and I don't happen to want to substitute it.

14 September, 2006

Let me dream tonight
________
not of us riding love - kissed clouds
ambushed by red rose crowds
no cuddly wuddly pillows, sheets surf - white
no violins and wine on a five - star night
___________
no mushy talk and romantic views
no beaches and waves in sunset hues
no second skin dresses in the rain
no log fire heat - it fries my brain
_________
Let me dream tonight
_________
of the wind in my hair as you kiss me sore
of entwining, collapsing, passions running raw
being, breathing, just living each other,
mundane things like cooking , cleaning together.
__________
before shards of reason alight on my brain
and the dreams flow out grain by grain
let me dream tonight a dream so selfish
let me gorge on my dream, lick with relish
__________
I'm thinking... getting back to poetry wasn't such a brilliant idea after all. Sometimes you start writing with a fuzzy picture in your head and then you create a blunder like this. The ideas I had didn't really come through here and thats awfully bugging, makes you feel sort of helpless and let down. Some lines are positively painful like "cooking and cleaning togethr"?!?!?! phlbt?!?!?! What was I thinking? Any way, in my defence I wrote this in the waking moments of a biotechnology class today, sometimes studying the differences between prokayotes and eukaryotes can really get frustrating especially since you'v been doing it since you were say 3 years old?? Yup I have this nasty exaggerative side..rubs off from my saggitarian mother I think.
Anyway excuse this nasty little rhyme...I guess I'm having a bad rhyme day (like bad hair day you know...)
Chandni

13 September, 2006

words on turds...yuck!!!!!

I am basically a level-headed person, things don't usually ruffle my unrippled life and I have the typical Indian attitude of sab chalta hai...
But some things, they arn't too many, mind you, but some things sure get my gun. They turn me into this restless raving maniac (ok I agree that's quite an exaggeration) but I get all bothered and social worker type fired up.
------------------------------------------------------------------
1. People ill-treating animals. How can anyone, anyone within their right frame of mind, look into the chocolately, heart-melting eyes of a dog and still kick it ruthlessly? Guess the problem is such people don't look into the eyes in the first place.
2. Peeing on roads. Its sad to see humans reduced to such shameful lows. It tragic that our country doesn't have enough public loos to at least put pee-ers off the roads. Its disgusting and it stinks!
3. Shuffling feet. Its a cacophony we are so used to that we forget its there. But my selectively sensitive ears hear feet being dragged from every corner of a crowded room. It kills to hear the lethargy of feet not picked up.

But above all you know what really gets me all worked up? That unforgiving turd that refuses to get flushed down!!! Only a piece of shit can do something like that.

* * *
heh heh...as you might have guessed, I'm in a crappy mood.
chandni

08 September, 2006

She shimmers and shines on borrowed light
its cold, she gives me warmth tonight
clammy fingers wrapped around shivering toes
a silent calm upon me grows
_______

She hides I seek, I seek she hides
on cloudy waves she stealthily glides
chilly winds blow tunes through my hair
I hug myself under her gentle glare
_______
Thoughts splutter and spout in my mind
memories I thought I wouldnt find
the grass is wet, my eyes still dry
cranky crickets creak nearby
________
I look at the moon, her pock - marked face
the craters - they add a gruesome grace
I gather myself and my moonlit thoughts
unspoken, unshared, undone, unthought.
__________
Last night the moonlight was streaming onto my bed... maybe its the umblical cord I share with this cold piece of rock (my mother named me after looking at the moon from the bed she delivered me on) or its just the soppy romantic magic around it that draws me. Anyway, for reasons left unexplored, I look at the moon every night and submit to its breathtaking beauty...

06 September, 2006

tryst with an artist

He lay there slouched on his elbows
moss green shirt hanging on a lean frame
hair flung across that brooding head
a grin smeared his mouth
as if it were all a game
faded blue denims
a splotch of yellow paint
above his knee
a dirty tear
white paper from a pad
looked up at him
he stroked it with his pen
urgently calm
expression poured forth
he charged on and then
in a lethal move
perfected the final blow
pen put down he looked around
untangled his legs
and walked away...
* * *
well, saw this guy drawing a drawing (:P) and sometimes such normal things also inspire you to write that its pretty wierd..anyway why in the world am I telling you this? I just enjoyed watching him draw...so I did what I enjoy..write
tk cr

04 September, 2006

..............am waiting..............

They come and they go

Some cheerful and springy
Each step is a bounce
Smiles sparkle aloud
Or are they just
Plastered joys of another face?

Some angry and hateful
Puckered in a frown
Glaring they shuffle away
Brushing off some rage
On me like teeny drizzle drops.

Some tall some short
All shades of black and white
Fat and thin, everything in between
A sky of people twitter by.

Hip girls sway past
A shiny bling-thing lot
Giggling, they preen their glittering sheen
I sit low in my scraggly world
As they cascade along.

The coochy-coo couples fly by
Some doing the shy finger kissing thing
They waltz past
On top of each other
Fingers and tresses running a crazy pattern

Podgy men amble along
Leering at me
I stare right back
Shiftily they shuffle past
Clutching there puny selves in drooling hands

And through my musings I see
There he comes now
The din suddenly is music
The time just a tick
I gather my stuff
As he gathers me

He comes and we go.
I wrote this sitting in front of Regal,C.P. waiting for a friend. You don't necessarily have to be in love to feel its warmth I realise!
Am writing after an extraordinarily long "poetic sabbatical". The self imposed thought drought was because I made myself believe I had no time though I knew better than anyone else how lieful (opposite of truthful???) that was. So am back to trying my hand at something I love.
chandni

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