from the palms of my hand, you stand tall

the hassle concentrates the imminent famine
tree
hotel
rant
narrative boils down in pointless clue
opposite a hypothesis runs his cryptic column
can a poison strain
can the alliance dance
overtone
inherited odd
degraded urgency
false mythology
those seldom work in alliance
from the palms of my hand, you stand tall

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I took those random words and sentences from any where I could find those and arranged them. I did add and delete a few words. The last two lines are my own. Does it make sense? I think I am no good at writing surrealistic poetry.

doorway

I have written a tanka for the first time. Hope I got it right.

I rub my chin
reflectively with the
back of my hand--
each single pore of yours
is doorway to heaven
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

# 9:45 pm(India time): I have been participating in a 24 Hour Read-a-thon. You can check my progress here! Hence I have neglected this blog of mine. I have not been visiting you all. I intend to remedy that ASAP!

picking up the ladle, I smile at you------Sunday Scribblings

Photo: Rick Mobb














pouring the washing liquid into basin
I scour the vessels vigorously
as if my life depended on it
if only you knew how much truth
I hold within me
but you can't
you never could
now it is totally wrong on my part
to expect it from you
that obssessive part of me still wishes
for impossible things
picking up that ladle
I smile at you
your vision still so clear
even though you are gone
(well, I must agree, you do taste good)
pouring more washing liquid into basin
I again scour the vessels vigorously
to wipe your blood along with your bones

in the blankness of the white page------Writers Island

I move my rings on my fingers,
looking at I do not know what.
in the books I read, I try to find signs-
in my mailbox, what am I searching?

in the blankness of the white page,
I try to find words- your words,
which you never say, can never say;
it is as dificult for you as it is easy for me.

"in the complexity of it all, it is so simple-
breathing you in- is answer enough"

Spontaneously Shaken----3WW

It is no rumour! My PC has developed a snag. No spontaneous writing from this borrowed computer! All I can say is, go ahead and have fun, all of you while I cool my heels! Shake it, baby!

Update (27 June 2008, 7:27 pm): My PC is OK now! I am back to blogging!

Yipppeee!!!!

LOL!

melody washes over mesmerically----One Single Impression

she lay her palms flat on the table
staring at the keyboard,
occasionally stealing a glance
towards her computer screen.
she closed her palms, fisting those-
turned on the volume of her speaker
letting the music take over her senses.
strings of the kora washed away
her anxiety with mesmeric melody.
now completely relaxed; again
she lay her palms flat on the table.

writings on the wall------Writers Island

gleefully I move slowly
inside the ruined castle
I pause to look over a broken statue
behind one of the colossal pillars
I run my hands over it
loving the feel of it on my palms
going deeper I find many more
forgetting the time. only when
the silhouettes on the walls
come alive in the middle
of the dark moonless night
I become aware of my surroundings

I feel icy cold in midst of summer
tripping on something I fall
misted glass twist my mind
wiping it clean

waking up, I find the sky above me
along with the sun warming me up.
Looking down, I find I am still holding
a small broken stone statue

can you please read me the end again?------Sunday Scribblings

calmly laying against your back
my arm encirling you
I follow your breathing
the steadiness of it
tells me of your contented sleep
soothed by it
I draw patterns on your back
smiling a little

"was it only a while back
you were reading me from a book
and I was mocking you at your choice
laughing on your face

you were so annoyed at me that
you threw down the book
and walked out on me
only to be on this sacred place
shared by us both"

kissing you softly on your neck
I fall asleep, my heart following yours
in its rhythmic beat.

"can you please read me the end again?"

clouds percolate from the sun

Photo: Rick Mobbs















somehow my swimming senses
make me perceive as if
clouds percolate from the sun
I fly out stealthily
all the while entangled with you
my astral body steals a kiss from it
desiring to share it with you.
you pick up my movements;
eagerly reaching out for me
your hands flutter to hold me close.
I can see you flowering
right in front of my still closed eyes

with the lightest of your touch
I sway with feelings
and burn up to cinders;
my last thoughts, before
I completely disintegrate

"you achieved what the sun could not"

Pages and pages of it.....WOW/3WW

While writing this, I can feel the rain-filled air in my face and the clean smell of the surroundings. With so much traffic and dust storms in summer, clean air is rare. This place is comfortable and I can see a small garden and children playing there. I like to sit here and watch them or watch young mothers talking to each other, talking about their children, no doubt! Or husbands, maids, in-laws, what not! My PC is here. Sometimes I write directly into it. You can also find books everywhere. I don't feel comfortable if I am not surrounded by books. At home that is.

Outside, it is not possible. I carry my writing journal everywhere and write when I feel like. I can write in loose sheets too, if I don't have my journal. I can sit in the open, say in a park and still write out there. For us writers, one never knows where and when the muse is going to strike. I have another table where I can listen to music and write. The music inspires me and/or soothes me. It depends. In my previous house I had a chair which was like a part of me. I had to give it up as it was kind of too big for this house. I loved sitting there, lounging and jotting thoughts in my journal. It will take a while to find a corner here.

The long summer days too, are conducive both for reading an writing. I get up early to write or stay up late writing. Wrting what? Poetry, prose, reviews, about books, you, me, everyone. Noise does not bother me. I can loose myself in when I write. I can watch people and write. I can write anywhere except perhaps in the bathroom, which I never tried. That's becos I am in too much of a hurry to get out of it. Do you think, I should try writing there? Maybe someday..:)

For me writing spot is what I like to write, not any specific place. Confusing, is it? I write becos I can. Becos I have to. Where, it does not matter. My writing is the place, my place is the writing.. I can come to the page from anywhere. Sometimes writing is not as frequent as I would like it to be.. Or Maybe I prefer to slumber...

sleeping dreams---Transcreated Work

Variation On The Word Sleep

Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and as you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now read my version:

sleeping dreams

so you sleep so peacefully
uncaring that I watch you
those eye lids moving along
with your tremulous dreams
your nose flaring a bit
the rise and fall of your chest
I subtly put my ears to it
picking up your heart beat
I sway to the rhythm of it
I steady myself and
my palms slide over you
your skin seeps ecstasy
into mine. closing my eyes
I join you in your dreams
adding some of my own..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hers is very good.And I deliberately did not write about the specifics..

she hoards trash

And also come ride the Monday Poetry Train...


"those mud smeared boots,
expired medications;
chipped spectacles;
some loose change;
that tattered journal
a much thumbed photo album,
you know what, she hoards trash."

these words, I overheard
for being spoken about me, to my mom.
without confrontation,
I heard my mother defending me,

"she seldom hoards the bitter words;
your somewhat sarcastic smile;
your cutting remarks,
your hurtful ways.
she forgives and forgets,
moving on forward,
always being affectionate to you."

Pausing she went on,

"so why do you grudge her holding a bit of trash?
all these are stuff which belonged to her dad."

yearning

Another rough draft. I am into writing love poetry. Which is a rarity for me. I truly can't write mushy stuff. * I am continully editing it. I will keep on doing so until I get it right.


I taste the salt with the flick of my tongue
familiar taste, yet unknown
when my arms encircle you
my senses awaken from stupor
responding to the inherent aroma that is you
when you pull me closer
I decidedly plunge myself into you
sensing an echoing flush
slowly I let my tears fall
and find them intermingled with yours

"transiently permanent, our welded souls"

Photo credit: Rick Mobbs. Click on the picture to find out more.

Guiding lights?

I write about books on my other blog, My Own Little Reading Room. Once in a while I do talk about books on poetry here, which can be read by all. Let me talk about two books on poetry. Mind you, I have cross posted those from my above mentioned blog.


Title: A Poetry Handbook
Author: Mary Oliver
ISBN: 0156724006
Publisher: Harcourt
Pages: 122

Mary Oliver is one of my favourite poets. However, this book is not about her poetry. According to the book cover, this book is a prose guide to understanding and writing poetry. Both beginner poets as well as those who love to simply read poetry, can read this book .

She emphasise on reading a lot of poetry. One should read as much poetry as one can and as many poets. She asks us not to go overboard as we can never read every poet. Although we should try to read poetry from wide and varied eras. Learning to write poetry has to start from reading it.

Imitating is not a bad idea as no two poems can be similar. Each poet puts something of his or hers into it. Use of imagery, metaphors should be done in a rhythmic way and we should not go about those just for the heck of it.

She has taught us about different kinds of sounds, intonations, diction, tones and voice. Only when we master these, we can strive for writing better. Different forms of poetry have been explained taking poems by well-known poems. I especially liked ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’ by William Carlos Williams.

Mary Oliver says that we need to revise and re-revise our work before we consider it done. It might take a few days. We might even reject it which is again, not a bad idea.

Workshops help us honing skills, teach us the ropes of poetry writing, critiques help us but after a while, it is us who has to come out on our own. We have to learn to be keen observers, to imbibe all that surrounds us and interpret it in our own way. We have t0 learn to be comfortable with ourselves. That is how we can write some good poetry.

'A Poetry Handbook' is a very interesting book even if you do not write a single word of poetry. It teaches to look at poetry in a different way, to find out meanings, which we might miss at first glance. It might not be a poetry book but it is about poetry and is poetic in a sense. I am glad I possess this book and I can leaf through it any time I want too. I know I would be learning something new every time I open it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author: Robert Pinsky
ISBN-13: 9780374526176
Publisher: Farrar, Straux and Giroux/1998
Pages: 117

Robert Pinsky is an American poet, who teaches graduate writing programme at Boston University. Here in this book, he takes up poetry in the vocal form. He wants that we should know how to read out poetry loud, where should we pause and where to stop. He gives stress on diction, syntax, accent, verse form..ie..rhymed poetry, metric poetry, free verse and blank verse.

He takes up numerous examples of poems by great poets, breaking the lines for us, teaching us the right intonations for each word, line and whole poem. He believes that poetry has to be vocal and should be peformed in order to comprehend it fully.

I am not saying that I understood it all at one go. This book is to be read very slowly, savoured in the way and should be followed the way he wants us to. He expects us to read aloud all kinds of poetry to understand those better. He says,"Poetry is a vocal, which is to say a bodily, art." This book can be read by those who are seriously into poetry and also those who are amateurs. To say, I liked it, is an understatement. This book is for keeps!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I found those books very interesting and informative. Both these books together can be taken as good guides for all poetry writers and poetry lovers. Both the books are worth adding to your collection.

is it what is called love poetry?

A very rough draft...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

many a times, I will step out of line
talking in riddles,
making sense to no one but me
sometimes not even to me.
with your feet crossed at the ankles
you watch me indifferently
or pretend the indifference
because your slightly flaring
nose gives you away echoing the same
volatile emotions raging within me.
I am unable to hide, you are master at it

with that curl of your lips, I suppose
you are berating yourself more than
you can ever do that to me. perfectly
fitting, would you not agree?

Key in for dizzy changes in my blog posting today

I thought I would go into a different way from my usual prattle here. I did post this on my other blog (where I post about books and reviews) and had a brainwave why not post it here too? A few might take pity on my plight and do the needful. I am going dizzy looking out for certain books.

I am in dire need of Canadian books as those are not as easily available in India apart from Margaret Atwood and Carol Shields. I only got 5* out 13 to be read for The 2nd Canadian book Challenge Eh? and need one Southern Setting book for Southern Reading Challenge. ( I thought I might as well ask for this, at one go!) Any one offering those to me? New published (wanna be can wait a while) authors can key in their keen interest to get their books reviewed by a professional like me...Wot say? Feel free to send ARCs. I don't mind!

*Out of the 5 books, 4 are gifts from generous friends. Don't you think there are more generous people in the blog world? Show your generosity, open your hearts. I will go out of my way to give you due credits. On second thoughts, I might not, if I hate the book(s)!

Hey, is it rightly called book pimping? Do you think, I should not resort to it. Do let me know!!!

As I said elsewhere, I do not mind demanding, borrowing and stealing! THIS GOES ONLY FOR BOOKS!

*grin*

PS: Never let it be said that I did not try...

PPS: A nice change from my usual blog post, isn't it?!

*wider grin*

PPPS: If you have to let me down, do it nicely!

hot summer thoughts

After going through the poem Argument by Elizabeth Bishop, I penned down the latter. Our poems are in no way similar.
However, I wrote what my thoughts were after I read her work. I won't call it transcreated work.

Argument by Elizabeth Bishop

Days that cannot bring you near
or will not,
Distance trying to appear
something more obstinate,
argue argue argue with me
endlessly
neither proving you less wanted nor less dear.

Distance: Remember all that land
beneath the plane;
that coastline
of dim beaches deep in sand
stretching indistinguishably
all the way,
all the way to where my reasons end?

Days: And think
of all those cluttered instruments,
one to a fact,
canceling each other's experience;
how they were
like some hideous calendar
"Compliments of Never & Forever, Inc."

The intimidating sound
of these voices
we must separately find
can and shall be vanquished:
Days and Distance disarrayed again
and gone
both for good and from the gentle battleground.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now mine:












hot summer thoughts

dreaming of waves lapping at my feet
I walk on the asphalt road
hot summer seeping slowly from my feet
to my torso, finally reaching my head

exploding into my solitude thoughts
in my memories, I trip on the sand sculpture
destroying one of the limbs
to dust, or is it sand?

I wouldn't know, the hard aspalt
does not give an inch. pain,
it does not come close to loneliness
that eating into the core of my guts

my open palms touch the air
to catch a whiff of your scent intermingled
with mine, essence of which you stole
by arguing with your luscious body

"Solitude I seek, loneliness you enforced on me"

rot

..................and
I feel oppressive pressure
of your unblinking stare
your foul breath is enough
to make me cringe
still i am unable to look aside
as your eyes pull me into
a vortex of what I know not
I wish deeply for your
aging wrinkled body to
distintegrate to nothing
right in front of my eyes
I can't take the rot that
is your blackened soul

I watch you
wishing you dead with all my heart

pet peeves

admiring the gardens,
what do I truly see
blossoming flowers,
fruit laden green trees-
dandelions blooming
along with sweet peas;
puddle of rain water
or is it my pet's pee?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is a re-worked post. I thought it suited the prompt rather well. As I seldom write anything light like this, now I wait for brickbats..:)

witchcraft

a silent horn was blowing from a distant land
tearing at her innards, wrenching it out.
when she woke up she was drenched in cold sweat
a chant escaped from her lips, the meaning as yet
unclear. her lilting voice carried outside
making her mother run towards her. that trance
like state was nothing anyone had seen before.

her skin so translucent, nose so feral- was enough
to scare anyone who had known her all her life
when she got up, her gown fell apart. unconscious
to her nakedness, she walked towards the centre
of the house, sitting herself ramrod straight
chanting in an unknown language of bygone era
aura of her bare body did not let anyone near her

a painfully shy girl who barely mixed with anyone
the only question within everyone's mind was
what had brought on this unexpected change

nocturnal

so many nights embedded in my mind
where to start, where to end-
as a child sitting on my dad's lap
I listened to stories before
I fell asleep cocooned by his love.

then those campfires, yellowing
flame flickered, night life came alive
surrounded by friends, singing
in my stupid voice. I wonder now
how all of you tolerated me?

before exams, nights did not exist
all those cramming made it disappear
into God knows where. One thought
I would catch up after I finish the tests-
supposedly essential to make me grow up

why do nights have a way of making me
feel guilty? most, when I wish to escape
forgetting my worries, wishing badly
for a dreamless sleep. that deadening state
which ought to relax and make me stress free?

"why do you have to intrude on my nights,
aren't my waking hours enough for you?

a perfect end?

getting off that crowded train was a relief
after a bomb scare,
we were stuck inside it for what seemed forever.
In the underground surrounded by milieu of people inside the train
and security forces outside of it, I felt fortified
scared was not what I felt,
claustrophobic was more like it.
after two hours when the train moved
and I reached my destination
I sighed with much heartfelt pleasure
picking up my stuff, I walked off jauntily towards the exit
as soon as I put my feet out
I was pelted with gritty sand
my hands reaching out to save my eyes
I stood there motionless along with others
all bearing the brunt of sand storm
one thought in everyone's mind, what else?

"I suppose it was fitting end after what we went through in that train"

*It is a true account. Happened to me last saturday.

Random Musings

Summer vacations are already half-way through. This year May passed very fast for me. After moving to this new place, I had a lot of work to do. Both for myself and my mother. Frankly, my mom does not like any one to do anything for her. She is very independent and hates it when we try to help her in any way.

I seldom talk about my mom. I tend to focus more on my dad and my brothers. One reason is, as I and my mom live with each other, we take each other for granted. Most assume that my mom is living with me. To set the record straight, I live with her. I can't insult her by saying otherwise. I don't deny that being with her gives me a secured feeling. Although, I don't say it to her. Living with her is not as peaceful as it sounds. She is fiesty and at times I feel I am having a roller coaster ride. One can't really predict what she is going to do next. I am the tame one!

Most of the times, we are arguing about everything and nothing. I suppose that is very normal for two very strong minded invividuals. I have been asked if it makes me uncomfortable not getting my own space. On the contrary. I know she is near me. I can take care of her when it needs be and most important she sees to it that I do not neglect myself. She is the one who pushes me to limits. To do my best. To go for what I believe in. In no way, she invades my space. We let each other do pretty much what we wish to do. However, we do discuss the pros and cons and then take our own decisions. I also know that if I decide to chuck it all and go off somewhere, she would be the first one cheering me.

I respect her for what she is. She taught me to be truthful, no matter what. She taught me be independent. She taught me to live my life the way I want it. I love her for what she is. It is because of her that I have a smile on my face each morning.

voice of reason--One Single Impression

what use is God,
if injustice to humanity still persists?
divine justice
don't give me that
you created HIM/HER
to justify your wrongfulness
on the garb of religion

what was your GOD doing
while a father killed his dauther
in the name of honour.
whose honour was it-
can you truly answer that?
my heart goes for the girl
who has no freedom of choice

still in all the darkness around me
I can still see light
and turn towards it
believing I can make a difference
if I speak for those who cannot
giving voice to the weak
is the need of the hour

"let God live in peace in the places you built for him"