The universal nature of poetry is never lacking.
When you laugh,
the world laughs with you;
when you cry,
you cry at home.
But a poem?
A poem is verseatile.
To it, a smile
is a smile, is a smile,
and a tear-
for love or loss or guile-
will wound its
syntax
for a while.
The universal nature of poetry is never lacking.
When you're choking with sorrow, your poem is hacking.
Wednesday, 17 January 2007
Tuesday, 9 January 2007
Lies you can tell your children
For Deepthi and Mr. G
The sun, in fact, does set into the belly of a large fish.
It plays the flute through its ears
And always always hears your tears.
The moon, actually, has one exiled citizen.
The little prince who was banished from sight
Because he never brushed at night.
The stars are always watching you leave for school.
The hang around in the morning sky
And observe if you’ve kissed your parents goodbye.
Your father, each morning, pretends to go to work.
He’s really hiding in every telephone booth
Listening to determine if you’re telling the truth.
Your mother, each night, sings you a lullaby.
And each little boy wakes up with a start
Her song was a warning about breaking your heart.
The sun, in fact, does set into the belly of a large fish.
It plays the flute through its ears
And always always hears your tears.
The moon, actually, has one exiled citizen.
The little prince who was banished from sight
Because he never brushed at night.
The stars are always watching you leave for school.
The hang around in the morning sky
And observe if you’ve kissed your parents goodbye.
Your father, each morning, pretends to go to work.
He’s really hiding in every telephone booth
Listening to determine if you’re telling the truth.
Your mother, each night, sings you a lullaby.
And each little boy wakes up with a start
Her song was a warning about breaking your heart.
Last year
Two thousand poems died of loneliness
Cold and wet at the busstop
Unable to find a rhyme for themselves
Tripped on poetical outcrop.
Five hundred and seventy were hit and run over
By drunk-and-driving coffee cups
Three hundred-odd asphyxiated
On inexcusable grammatical hiccups.
Two hundred and ten little poems
Were the runts of rhyming triplets.
They died and left their siblings-
Two hundred and ten little couplets.
Seventy-five died of opium,
Twenty-one of spurious ink,
Eight died of handmade paper,
One of an overdose of pink.
Cold and wet at the busstop
Unable to find a rhyme for themselves
Tripped on poetical outcrop.
Five hundred and seventy were hit and run over
By drunk-and-driving coffee cups
Three hundred-odd asphyxiated
On inexcusable grammatical hiccups.
Two hundred and ten little poems
Were the runts of rhyming triplets.
They died and left their siblings-
Two hundred and ten little couplets.
Seventy-five died of opium,
Twenty-one of spurious ink,
Eight died of handmade paper,
One of an overdose of pink.
Monday, 8 January 2007
Dreaming on the verge of strife*
Good news, festivities, hilarities and developments have kept me predominantly occupied and almost giggly.
On Sunday, Sharmon and I went to the beautiful new home of Pat and my son, Mr. Rustomji. They have a lovely place in Whitefield, and if not for the hilarious company of an old friend, I might not have survived the unexpectedly long drive. Pat cooked us a lovely meal, we went for a drive to their Lovely Project and enjoyed the disturbingly clean air.
Meanwhile, in what now seems to be not-so-fresh news, Kiran from Orange Biriyani is well on her way to Baby #2. I have resumed my seasonal duty of name-searching, which I thoroughly enjoy. Needless to say, I am unbelievably excited at the prospect of another neice/nephew. Even if it's one that I may not get to see as often as I like. I know I've said this before, but what I hate most about geography is distances.
More momentous news by way of Swetha's wedding came to me about an hour back. My dearest friend from the days when the Alphabet was just beginning to stop being a mystery and the canteen was an unaffordable formidable entity. I have offered to be her fiance's best man. And I'm already embarking on devious plans to get permission for leave.
And finally, something a little closer to my heart and more directly involved with my few but important resolutions for this pretentious bastard concept of New Years and New Beginnings. I'm finally getting something published. And most likely, very much in the near future. More details will be revealed when I think the time is right.
Oh! Also. The Saab and I have decided to move out of Dona Maria. Bigger, better, etc. We're very excited about it, and can't wait to see the few places we have shortlisted.
The quieter life suits me well. The startling fear of spending time with myself seems to be abating. My mind is not made of monsters anymore, and neither are my dreams. And I am grateful for the new-found peace. I hope it lasts.
As much of an afterthought as this may seem to be, I hope you have an interesting year. 'Happy' is passe, and if you're moderately intelligent, you will manage the 'successful', 'fruitful' and 'fun' by yourself. Make it interesting!
*Title credit: Frances Conford
On Sunday, Sharmon and I went to the beautiful new home of Pat and my son, Mr. Rustomji. They have a lovely place in Whitefield, and if not for the hilarious company of an old friend, I might not have survived the unexpectedly long drive. Pat cooked us a lovely meal, we went for a drive to their Lovely Project and enjoyed the disturbingly clean air.
Meanwhile, in what now seems to be not-so-fresh news, Kiran from Orange Biriyani is well on her way to Baby #2. I have resumed my seasonal duty of name-searching, which I thoroughly enjoy. Needless to say, I am unbelievably excited at the prospect of another neice/nephew. Even if it's one that I may not get to see as often as I like. I know I've said this before, but what I hate most about geography is distances.
More momentous news by way of Swetha's wedding came to me about an hour back. My dearest friend from the days when the Alphabet was just beginning to stop being a mystery and the canteen was an unaffordable formidable entity. I have offered to be her fiance's best man. And I'm already embarking on devious plans to get permission for leave.
And finally, something a little closer to my heart and more directly involved with my few but important resolutions for this pretentious bastard concept of New Years and New Beginnings. I'm finally getting something published. And most likely, very much in the near future. More details will be revealed when I think the time is right.
Oh! Also. The Saab and I have decided to move out of Dona Maria. Bigger, better, etc. We're very excited about it, and can't wait to see the few places we have shortlisted.
The quieter life suits me well. The startling fear of spending time with myself seems to be abating. My mind is not made of monsters anymore, and neither are my dreams. And I am grateful for the new-found peace. I hope it lasts.
As much of an afterthought as this may seem to be, I hope you have an interesting year. 'Happy' is passe, and if you're moderately intelligent, you will manage the 'successful', 'fruitful' and 'fun' by yourself. Make it interesting!
*Title credit: Frances Conford
Anniversary Song
When you left us, you forgot to turn off the lights.
And everyone saw.
Now the bed knows you’ve gone.
The mattress springs forth
Volleys of coir abuses,
The headboard stands
With head in hands,
And the pillows have all curled up and assumed
A foetal position.
The television is feeling cheated.
Now all alone in its two dimensional world,
It throws out garbled signals,
It vomits reality shows,
The audio comes and goes
And its reception will never be
Warm again.
Your toothbrush has wilted.
In a fit of peppermint rage,
It bit mine in the neck.
Now it’s become a lout,
And cleans the grout,
Maintaining illicit relations with my
Bathroom floor.
When you left us, you forgot to turn off the lights.
And everyone saw.
And everyone saw.
And everyone saw.
Now the bed knows you’ve gone.
The mattress springs forth
Volleys of coir abuses,
The headboard stands
With head in hands,
And the pillows have all curled up and assumed
A foetal position.
The television is feeling cheated.
Now all alone in its two dimensional world,
It throws out garbled signals,
It vomits reality shows,
The audio comes and goes
And its reception will never be
Warm again.
Your toothbrush has wilted.
In a fit of peppermint rage,
It bit mine in the neck.
Now it’s become a lout,
And cleans the grout,
Maintaining illicit relations with my
Bathroom floor.
When you left us, you forgot to turn off the lights.
And everyone saw.
And everyone saw.
Friday, 5 January 2007
Promise
Gadzooks!
Along with my head and all the large dishy chunks of sanity I used to be the proud owner of, I seem to have lost my appetite. Just imagine that. Food doesn’t interest me anymore. If this irksome phenomenon continues, I will literally be a mere shadow of my former self. And no, it’s not a good thing. Irrespective of all the assholes who giggle about my weight when they think I’m not looking, I prefer this to anything else.
In the very recent past, I’ve slowly started remembering what I used to be like. I feel greatly endeared by the prospect of falling back into the warm safe arms of reclusion. I’ve really enjoyed the fluff of the past year, also the frills and fancies and, err, whatnot. But I need to get out of it now or forever hold my peace. To accelerate and ease the process, trips to local gym, local pool, local music shop and Premier Book Store will be made at 1800 hrs, today. And after a brief meeting with True Friends (JP, I also have!), I will fall back into 2005.
This New Year, I resolve to go back to an older happier one. Or at least a murky meager semblance of it.
Along with my head and all the large dishy chunks of sanity I used to be the proud owner of, I seem to have lost my appetite. Just imagine that. Food doesn’t interest me anymore. If this irksome phenomenon continues, I will literally be a mere shadow of my former self. And no, it’s not a good thing. Irrespective of all the assholes who giggle about my weight when they think I’m not looking, I prefer this to anything else.
In the very recent past, I’ve slowly started remembering what I used to be like. I feel greatly endeared by the prospect of falling back into the warm safe arms of reclusion. I’ve really enjoyed the fluff of the past year, also the frills and fancies and, err, whatnot. But I need to get out of it now or forever hold my peace. To accelerate and ease the process, trips to local gym, local pool, local music shop and Premier Book Store will be made at 1800 hrs, today. And after a brief meeting with True Friends (JP, I also have!), I will fall back into 2005.
This New Year, I resolve to go back to an older happier one. Or at least a murky meager semblance of it.
Wednesday, 27 December 2006
Mountains o' things
I don't know what December is all about. I've almost always had shitty Decembers. I think it's some World Conspiracy to make you think the year to follow will be better.
See, the thing is this. These people want to take away my appendix, I think. Yesterday, the doctor squashed me on my right side and asked me if it hurts. No, Doc, really, don't you mean "does it hurt, yet"? Because if you keep up the good work, the appendix will leap up into your waiting arms and lick your face, just to stop the damn squashing. But yes, to answer your question, it hurts very much, thank you. It's just lovely. Second only to the needle you stuck in my hip. Painkiller, is that? How does it go about killing pain? Another psychological mindgame, where the aim is to find something that hurts more than the original thing, so that everything gets cancelled out and you can't even be sure you're in absolute agony anymore? Nice trick!
Such a pity. I was growing so attached to my appendix. Ain't that just the way things are.
See, the thing is this. These people want to take away my appendix, I think. Yesterday, the doctor squashed me on my right side and asked me if it hurts. No, Doc, really, don't you mean "does it hurt, yet"? Because if you keep up the good work, the appendix will leap up into your waiting arms and lick your face, just to stop the damn squashing. But yes, to answer your question, it hurts very much, thank you. It's just lovely. Second only to the needle you stuck in my hip. Painkiller, is that? How does it go about killing pain? Another psychological mindgame, where the aim is to find something that hurts more than the original thing, so that everything gets cancelled out and you can't even be sure you're in absolute agony anymore? Nice trick!
Such a pity. I was growing so attached to my appendix. Ain't that just the way things are.
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