Tuesday, August 10, 2010

BORROWED WORDS

SIT

Sit, drink your coffee here;

Your work can wait awhile.

You’re twenty six, and still

Have some of life ahead.

No need for wit;

Just talk vacuities, and I’ll

Reciprocate in kind

Or laugh at you instead.


The world is too opaque

Distressing and profound.

This twenty minutes’ rendezvous

Will make my day;

To sit here in the sun,

With grackles all around.

Staring with beady eyes,

And you two feet away.


- Vikram Seth



A friend of mine buried this in an email to me quite a few months ago, and as time always inflicts, it was ages till that email arrived and I even remembered ever coming across this short, precise little piece. Today, one of the rare mornings that I am blogging, these words just came back to me and resonate more than any song, any book or any conversation can ever dare to, but for the absence of a coffee maker, I wouldn't be typing here.


What is it that I should think about, since thinking has become a rare luxury for me, which I honestly believe is a better way of existence. Will I stand up for the Maoists or surrender to everyday rhetoric? Will I silently celebrate Walmart finally making it as my new kirana store? Will Obama matter more than the innocent families of Afghanistan watching the theater of absurd and taking bullets with their morning cup of tea? Will Nolan ever surprise me again or trade Depp for Di caprio? Will Tom Waits ever sing for me alone? Will I watch the Antartic shelf glisten in all its glory? Will Godard ever matter again? Will I ever read that Julian Barnes book? Will the world ever turn its face back around to me? Will I always laugh my laugh? Will I ever write on a paper again? Will I write again?


No more will is left, for I know better now? But there will always be a new story...


Do not forsake me O my darlin'
You made that promise when we wed.
Do not forsake me O my darlin'
Although you're grievin', I can't be leavin'
Until I shoot Frank Miller dead.
Wait along, wait along


- The Ballad of High Noon


Sunday, August 08, 2010

IF WRITING IS THERAPY THEN I AM IN

NOTHING CAN BE FIXED

A little brown drawer
creaks and screeches
it comes alive when I sleep
singing sweet cricket songs

A faded purple lamp
hoists its fabric like a proud sail
the flicker dies in half a breath
tick tock goes the thick black clock

A red rubber slipper
slips slaps with the morning rain
depressions etched on its spine
remind of a hundred miles left behind



BLUE NOTES

Paper clips have a strange way with life, more like with the potential to hurt and disember everthing around.

A man steps on a pavement, with neat new stone blocks paving the way only to find that his feet don't fit in the new maze of rectangles and can never walk again.

This saxophone I know keeps choking on me, every guiltless note sticks on the walls, sheets, books, air and everything in between.

The wet morning newspaper screams out strangely as the cheap print dissolves into one another and lies to anyone who would care to believe.

A dashboard clock decided to only show time when it is same, every minute and every hour is the same. Every time was same.