October 30, 2010

Poetry in the wee sma' hours- 2

It is one of those nights
when moonlit coldness
yanks at memory pools
and raises questions
that have no answers.

where hands grope for a clasp
and feels an empty room
and searchlight eyes
meet darkness as a guest.

It is one of those nights
where the jigsaw puzzle is scattered
and pieces go flying
some get lost in cranny abysses
some hide themselves under bedsteads
and some get crushed in the edges
and the pile that remains
just can not fit right.

It is one of those nights
that in endless armour
fights your defenses
teases your meaning
and raises questions
that have no answer.

Poetry in the wee sma' hours-1

images of sepia past
whizzing on small screen
while reality paints
a contrary messy picture

mind transfixed in random past moment
goes through a monotonous mindless reel

pity washes the feet
with its cold clasping hands

once again questions are raised
that have no answers.

There are things to talk on dreamy winter evenings
when cold fog hugs cold feet
and toes wiggle to the tune of chattering teeth.

Remember coffee cups
and hot fumes rising
brown liquid bubbles
burst dead by the cold.

There are things to tell on dreamy winter evenings
tales and confidances and wholehearted jest

When hands reach out
to tease the rising flame

There are walks and talks
and forgotten laughter
There are some memories
pleasantly to be made.

October 16, 2010

Short Story-11

(Inspired by the Rupali theatre in Ahmedabad)

The reels must play over and over again. Even in the stranded hall. Light still came through perforations that made their way through wasted concrete. Little specks of light through little holes.

The moth eaten chairs stripped naked, foam exposed, with a stench that rose in the air stood testimony in silence. After all could the halides and nitrates stop shimmering! They were still around, suspended on dust that floated thick around the echoing halls.

Images rose- black and white, faint traces of colour-yesteryear's forgotten dreams rekindled.

And voices...they resounded, one over another, music interlacing through it-chaining them captive like memory.

And once again, cinema was born...
© Dryad's Peak
Maira Gall