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
rewind
replay
rewind
replay

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.

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...

Short Story-10

Is there ever a point of no-return? Or is everything such a point?

Where are lines drawn? Will they always be blurred? Or should we necessarily detail everything to its last dot?

What is right and wrong? Isn't it just a perspective? A view we take with ourselves due to what life has dished out to us? Will different things apply differently to different people?

Where is truth? What is?

Too many questions bogged her down. She wished she had a ctrl+alt+delete to manage the tasks of her life at will. She could have closed one application, started a new task with ease or just plain hibernated from all the crap and escaped a hang.

She decided, sometimes, life was better left a rhetoric!

Thoughts-5

Potatoes.
deep fried.
like the feet on hot summer afternoons.
slaking thirst with lemonade.
bottled as a drink.
wine is something I should try.
Bunjee jumping.
With an umbrella?
Mary Poppins and her frilly skirts.
Vintage thoughts.
Ball dances with Prince Charming.
Anastasia.
Things I yearn to remember.
thoughts.



Thoughts- these are how mine are fashioned. This is an attempt to shape them on paper.

Check out my art work on Behance Network:

Click here on the Project name: Cobweb Crawls

Or type the following on your browser window:
http://www.behance.net/gallery/Graphic-art/633672

Thoughts-4

Certain thoughts,
I tuck between the lines
It is my escape route
of having said, and yet
left things unsaid.

I may
shimmer clear like crystal to you
in dazzling white tones
little do you know
there is a vein of rouge
in undertones, running through.

Look between the lines
under the sheets
things are hidden
meanings are laid thick
stashed away.

Thoughts-3

I want to levitate, or like Mary Poppins, fly away with my umbrella into far far away. It is raining and I think the world would look more wonderful from up up above than at human eye level.

Why agree to view the world from mere living eyes. I want an elevated version of it.

When the rivers of slush wade in and out of my toes, my feet get caked in the mud. The earth wants me rooted. I want to fly.

Maybe when I put distance between me and this life, I'd appreciate it more. Maybe...

Or maybe in those skies are answers I stupidly search for down below.

An umbrella, the wind, pellets of rain and me... romance never had a better description!

Thoughts-2

A crumpled paper
set on fire
curling up
edges singeing
rocking in fetal positions

Thoughts-1

ratiya kari kari ratiya
ratiya andhiyari ratiya

The voice dug holes into her spirit. Her eyes announced a vacancy!

raat humari toh
chand ki saheli hain
kitne dino ke baad
aayi woh akeli hain

She looked around at the colours that invitingly asked her to crawl within their swirls and strokes. Thick enamel stuck with obstinacy on white washed walls. Walls, oh yes, she knew she could colour walls; but...

andhera rootha hain
andhera baitha hain
gumsum sa kone main baitha hain

A little hole in the wall was what she wanted- to crawl into. It would definitely not make her feel restless.

andhera Pagal hain
kitna ghanera hain
chubhta hain, dasta hain
phir bhi woh mera hain

In the sadness she found love. A love that was hers and hers alone. Romance layering itself thick and falling like a shroud over her. An envelope of sorts. Where she needed no postage stamp to travel. It was the destination in itself for once!

uski hi godi main
sir rakhke sona hain
uski hi baahon main
chupke se rona hain

Tears betrayed her by refusing to give attendance when they were sought. Their stark disobedience built up the rebellion within her. She could learn to make conversations with pain in the absence of tears. After all, a stone had crept within and built a fortress over her heart.

ankhon se kajal ban
behta andhera aaj

Black swirled in her cup of tea. Layers of dust magically had inked the water in black. Black. black. black. The more she uttered it loud, the more thick it tasted in her tongue. Thick like the hurt that festered within. Like a thick undergrowth carpeting the floor, daringly questioning the entire existence of the floor below!

samjho ki baati bhi koi bujha de aaj
andhere se jee bhar ke karni hain baatein aaj

She had made a tryst with pain when she decided to be born into this world. She had kept happiness as a hostage back there.

Ekphrasis

As part of our Music Workshop conducted by Vasu Dixit (lead singer and rhythm guitar, Swarathma), we were asked to go freewheeling on words or images as we heard a piece of music play.

The music we heard was the background music of a Dutch industrial documentary short film called Glas(Glass) by Bert Haanstra about the glassblowing industry. The music was primarily jazz and the way the music enhances the visuals and vice versa makes it worth a watch.

We did not know that the music was from a film as we just heard it. We had to create something with the music for inspiration- 'ekphrasis' as Plato would call it.

Here's what I wrote, before realizing that I was absolutely off the mark! :D


Tiptoes and cats
slender tall woman
smoking a pipe
Holly Golightly?

Furtive taps on
black and white keys
sleepless nights and serenades

Metal holes
fill with music
resonate within four walls
along with wine glass clinks

Red
and also a faint tinge of blue
waterlights and romance

rolled-up ball of fur
purring in delight

bristlestrokes of yellow
like cat eyes
shards of black
like hers.
canvases on walls
fairylights winking.

"a little more cheese, please
a sour dumpling of it."
Crispies breaking
and getting soggy in the mouth
heavy viscous sour cheese
zing
tang
explosion of taste

a twirl here
handclasps
flirting eyes

***********

dissonance
metal telephone vibrations
android calling home
"CSE04 reporting discontent
among species of the alienship"

music breaks
symphony freezes like the icefloats

Time has been broken down
opened up to let
another dimension pop in.

******

like a bad dream forgotten
music sets right
romance
rosepetal smells
sprinkling of salt
on ovenhot curry
white crystals
shining a second
before being consumed
by the everyday colour
of the curry.

a moment before forgotten
in the moment that came by
to overwrite

a joyous abandon
classics on Tv
plush sofas
hearty embraces
sip on wine
delicious cheese
a meal for two.

******