31 March, 2007

Question 1

Fill in the blanks:

The world is made up of two kinds of people _____________ and _______________.

27 March, 2007

bashing the blues...poetically

She is stretched across contradictions
threads of sanity pulling either way
hell threatens to engulf, to break free
heaven beckons, a teardrop away
- - -
will the lady allow herself
the comfort of memories so withered?
would she rather threaten "now" to collide
with her. bitter,war-paint smeared.
- - -
she gasps in mouthfuls of pain
brokenly breathes in that smell
of her soul breaking into mirages
collapsing into a shell.
- - -
yearning, bruising, she opens those eyes
will you hold her this one last time
she lies there torn, demanding pity
proudly begging you to hold her right.
- - -
What is it about memories that always makes me sad? Happy ones remind me of all the good times and how I miss them, sad ones wring my tears dry. Either this is one of those times when the pessimist in me wins the battle and does all the talking or its just one of those unfathomable ways my mind works. I guess everyone is allowed to be cranky/ weird/ pitiful/ unhappy/ generally pathetically wasted once in a while.

21 March, 2007

gender bender

what's it with girls and

compliments
kajal
tantrums
clothes
food
friends
chatting


what's it with boys and

...
...
...
...
...well girls.

17 March, 2007

litter spitter

Someone asked me a weird question the other day. "Are you a literary person?"
Am I a literary person? I don't believe I actually gave that question the few picoseconds of my attention it got. And to think I'm writing an entire blog entry on it? I must be beserk.

Is being literary gauged by the number of books one reads? The number of poets one admires? The number of debates one does? The number of stories one writes? Isn't all of the above sheer bunkum? The illiterate truck-driver who spews out obscenities a-mile-a-minute is literary too. He uses his words not to glorify, not to explain, but to emphasize, to express. And expression is the fundamental need for which words were invented in the first place. Words have always held me spell-bound, their inexhaustible richness, intricate dynamics, nuances, their fascinating way of arranging into strings of moulded thoughts, enveloped lives.

When I see a jalebi tail of a stray dog, I am happy to be alive, to be able to share his joy, if only as an audience. I want to spread it. Words rescue me.

A friend confides - we whisper - conspirators of utter silliness, giggling our way through harmless tales. Words juggle along our waves of suppressed laughter. Shared and enjoyed.

I write my thoughts with sharpened lead pencils in words which creep into my mind. I sing songs with words I love. In the absense of the words, the hum is even better, just as our shadows are more intriguing than a mirrorred reflection.

What is it about words that capture our souls? You read a beautiful poem and revel in its richness. A good book promises many pages of unadulterated infinitely superior pleasure.

And you ask me if I am literary? Who isn't? Does such a thing as an "un-literary" person even exist?

12 March, 2007

lawless love


Let her be the breeze
on your tear-stained cheek
let her be the sunbeam
for your sodden dreams
let her waltz through your thoughts
to a quirky tune
let her embrace you
the light of a moist moon

even when she prays for you
she flatters herself
to believe she has the power
to protect.to destroy.to love.to cherish
she ekes out happiness
from her miserly existence
narcissism casts an ugly shadow
over a pathetic tiny ego


I happen to have no idea whatsoever about where this came from. I was going through my diary and came across some lines I'd written long ago. Things in my head and those on the page suddenly coalesced to make some sense. Its a convoluted kind of poem. It just highlights that love is the most selfish emotion a human can experience. I am not against the concept of love...hell no I'm not. Its just that when people say love is about giving yourself away, about doing for another person, about seeing that certain somebody smile, the hypocrisy of it irks me no end. The other person? You love someone because of the way they make you feel about yourself, the way person you are when with them, the way you see everything through rose tinted glasses, the way you laugh and feel comforted with them. But there's no harm in that surely. Thats where the beauty of love creeps in. Its perfect to flaunt your selfishness. Its endearing to be possessive and protective. Its pretty to care for someone in an utterly selfish manner, its actually the ultimate form of self-indulgence. Its the one place where being anything other than yourself doesn't count. Yes that definately has to be the best part of love.

:)

10 March, 2007

queer questions

why is the sun so bright today
why do the flowers sing along
where is everybody buzzing to
as my heart plays a broken song?
* * *
someone's feeling
really really really low
why o' why
how would I know.

09 March, 2007

Once upon a time in a GIS class

He drones on and on
toneless and grey
my mind nods along
a galaxy away.
He mumbles shiftily
and tugs at his tie
someone burps aloud
dormant I lie.
He talks to his face
I to mine
he teeters along
a perfectly crooked line.
Pencils trace lazy doodles
jokes filter through
a guffaw breaks out promising
to send sanity astrew.
my eyes wide open
my brain closed shut
my imagination decides
to go out for a strut.

Okay I did write this in my rubbishy GIS class.
And yes the poem is silly, but what do you expect from a semi-sleepy GIS hater.
I hate my GIS teacher and he's my H.O.D.
Well GIS happens to be Geographic Information System.

02 March, 2007

soulful murders

there there
it hits me straight
just where I thought
nothing could touch me
as frustrating
as a writer's block
as agonizing as getting lost
in the alleys of my memories
one moment I'm gliding
a princess of my universe
content
screaming out my happiness
for anybody to hear
anybody, everybody
and then
I'm lying in a pool
of my bloody tears
oh-so-salty
oh-so-putrid

* * *

oh thankyou
someone just turned the lights on
and my wasted eyes
are making unhappy shapes
mirrored in my tears
a shivering heart
consoles a tired mind
blinding lights ridicule
me
splayed in misery
shadows giggle at a private joke
on a pathetic
slain soul.

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