Devoted exclusively to the creative process. Here you will see photojournaling, poetry, prose, an occasional review--journaling or philosophical writing can be found on our other blogs. This is our attempt to use our imaginations. Enjoy!
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
perhaps in the middle
of a week that was lost
in a wine mist
in new orleans
perhaps that was washed away
in a shower
in a soap smelling pas de deux
that segues into a cool
walk during a sprinkle
on a dutch summer day
by the lake
with the windmills
and the bridges between
the places you didn’t mean to go
afternoons trying to make
the keyboard of your laptop
roar like a grand piano
watching the planes
leap in and out of schipol
ah the fruit and the cheese
on the train going through antwerp
on the way to paris
with vin ordinaire rouge
by hamburg the ennui
has a hint of lust
holding hands in our sleep
turning to smokey smelling whiskey
an hour away from frankfurt au main
playing with the letters of confusion
so as to spell a better word
so as to spell a happier moment
so as to write that really good poem
on some another monday
Friday, August 24, 2007
(Van Gogh, "Starry Night")
in the stories she tells
i lie hidden from his glances,
in the light of a million candles
is the darkest hour carefully split.
we're all chasing dreams
that, like fireflies,
and refuse to touch reality.
i, on starry nights,
like to see the glow
of fireflies die out.
i, on starry nights,
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
sitting there alone with all the pretty words
rotating a golden rumitchka
with silky cold of tarnished vodka
all the pretty birds have flown
darkness becomes frighteningly large
another siege of solitary pillow
discovering how huge small noises can sound
trying to narrow down empty space
to what can no longer be called alone
trying to hone down too numerous words
arrow prayers into expanding distance
hope like waiting for an echo
from a night soft as black silk
with tomorrow like a cliff too far
rock-hard and real but tough to see
under rule of empty stool
closing time is here
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
i roll like a sloth over land and sea
i am not lazy only compromised
rung tumble slumble
foolish word mumble
i am an advanced agent of a dizzy government
overlooking that laughing land
i have just stumbled out of
i want to laugh and
i am so loose
i know that all things are loveable
especially that all too nervous dinner
that not so long ago was worth having
but now presides over the future
precarious as a long drop
Do you know of any guy who has been raped so much by skewed Indian penal codes and his lawyer that he contemplates suicide every night? And spilled to bloodlessness seemed such an apt term to describe his condition.
This is a story of my senior from Banaras. He is a nice guy and was like an elder brother to all of us there. He had a job and we, as students, just piled on to him like leeches . . . spending time away from our hostels, listening to good music, eating good food at his expense. He would cook for us without a frown . . . why aren't you getting married, we would ask him, but he smiled to that as well, without giving us a clear answer.
We later figured that he had a couple of sisters to marry off, which needed a lot of money, and he being the sole breadwinner, just couldn't afford his own marriage.
Ten years passed and we got to know that he eventually got his sisters married off and then got married to a "tall" girl as he always said he would. "why don't you marry X?" we would ask, and he would come up with something weird like "oh, she is not tall enough for me"
Tall girl... arranged marriage... has a kid... and is coming to Bangalore. I was thrilled at the prospect of meeting him after so long. We met... he hadn't changed one bit except for his mous gone. Looked younger than ever and still had that smile on his face. My wife (who was a fellow student in Banaras) being his fan as well, it was like the old times revisited. Chick Correa, Trilok Gurtu, L. Subramanium, and Miles Davis were remembered with reverence again and raised toasts to. That is, till his wife came over to Bangalore.
We had heard a lot about her and the day she came, we cooked some food for them and went to visit them. She didn't come out and say hello. I think she just sauntered into the living room once in shabby clothes and walked to the kitchen. When she saw us, she said "oh" and carried on.
My wife was mighty pissed with her behavior, but we attributed it to fatigue after the long flight from Calcutta.
We met her a couple of times after that, but because she wasn't very welcoming, we gradually lost touch with this guy as well .. . let him live his own life in peace . . . I met him later when he wanted to buy a car and couldn't decide which one to buy. Why do you need a car at all? Your wife and kid visit you only once in a quarter, so why a car? I realized he was being forced to buy one but he was doing it happily enough. Anything to keep his visiting wife happy.
One day, he went out to buy mangoes for her. Came back to find the bedroom door locked from within. She had waited for him to come into the house before committing suicide. "I will teach you a lesson" were her last words. He couldn't break open the door in time. This lady obviously expected him to save her before she got asphyxiated. He had to call his neighbors and together they broke open the door to find her hanging from the cieling fan.
The 18 month old kid, Khushi, was in the other room, playing with her toys. She had just had milk, so she was happy. Khushi means "happy" in Bengali, by the way.
Later we learned that she had attempted suicide twice before, knowing fully well she will be saved. This was her only way to put pressure on her husband and make him come home on time. She being a government employee in Calcutta (where people work from 12 to 2 in a day and still complain about workload) could not fathom why he had to stay back till late in the night at work. He worked for an American firm where most of the conference calls had to be taken at the middle of the night.
But this attempt, or the game she tried to play, went horribly awry.
He was put behind bars and the wife's family came and took the child away. They also filed a case against him under Section 489 A of IPC, accusing him of mental torture and dowry harassment. Funnily, I was in the room when the public prosecutor was teaching them how to frame a case of dowry harassment, thinking I am one of them. The girl's brother interrupted the lawyer and asked me to stand outside.
So, as you can see, my friend is a classic example of being spilled to bloodlessness. To get bail he had to borrow money to the tune of 8 lakhs and his lawyer is trying to squeeze him even further. Potential employers want to know where he was the last couple of years. And he is contemplating suicide. I could sense it. He somehow seems ready to jump out of a building any moment.
I feel rather clueless right now. I wish I could find him a potential employer who could give him an ERP job (he worked as an ERP project manager earlier) so that he can sustain the case and keep his lawyer. I also wish there were some good souls (and not sharks as they usually are) who would fight his case pro bono.
I don't know how to save a person who doesn't have any blood left in him any more.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
a day with the sun like a large room
a big bright place where leaves rustle
work is an hour of intense conversation
at the end of which i step out the door
and the next room is dark
puzzling views of letters glowing in the air
words spelled backwards hung there in confusion
when the breeze blows there is the dank hint of mildew
traffic lights changing mold in unseen corners
with the metallic-electric sound of switches
things scurry close but behind shutters of shade
my pockets are full of shadows and pain
which can be spent to buy dreams i can’t remember
the change comes back always more than i spent
and time has no visible motion
the night is an endless conversation
held alone and in silence and i
shaking my head
find the day has left
taking the door with it
Saturday, August 11, 2007
i have a flower in my pocket
i have a question in my mind
i have a splinter in my awareness
i have an alter ego
who has left me
in a bottle
in the pool
on whose surface i gaze
hoping her reflection
will have lingered there
lazy as a smile
cute as a wink
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