Dear Neruda

On some nights, Neruda,
I think of you
And I skim through your lines
with a mind amok
with images
From your world
And mine.

They are not the same Neruda.
They dont stay the same
for me everytime either.
Yet on some such nights
I think of you
And your lines

Hoping to breathe and live
with similar fire and snow
and rain and aridity
What my nights bring to me.


But only on some nights, Neruda,
I think of you and your lines

On other nights
My mind runs amok
with thoughts
I peddle through
day in day out
Forgetting
The images of my nights.

On those nights Neruda,
I  hit the sack
Dead tired
Without a wink or a dream.

On those nights Poetry
And the fire, snow.
rain and aridity of feelings
become textbook matter
locked away
In forgotten cupboard corners.

And you, Neruda,
Become just another
Fading gilt edged Label
on the spine
of oft read volumes...

Musings

Someday I will sing in silence

And hear grandchildren

Through gravelled walls

Someday I will smile

At the young breeze passing by

Someday I will revel

In the new found bliss

Of being beyond time

That someday my feet 

will no longer toe lines...

For now I need to learn

Contentment

With steel cold machines

With a egoistic barricade

Of faceless people

Caught in a mad rush

With speech that

Resounds but fail to converse

With a gnawing hole

Ever widening

In a still beating heart...

Clutter?

Dear Diary,

Why do people call things clutter after they are past their use? What differentiates clutter from useful stuff?

From stuff that one day turns into heirlooms and legacies, from invaluable mementos of history?

I have been cleaning "clutter".  Not that I am a cleanliness freak. But my already cramped up room needs a little breathing space with or without me inside it and therefore I set myself the much procrastinated task.

But try as I might, I cannot find a thing that I would want to throw away. (Though technically virtually all the goodies accumulated are fit for the bin.) and I have ended up dusting, ironing, washing and rearranging all the matter back to right where they have chosen to station themselves over the years. 

It is indeed magical how a room grows to accommodate so many years of your life without changing contours. If only all of this did not amount to "mess" for the rest of the world and if only I wasn't pressurized again and again by my conscience keepers to reduce "stuff". 

My room lives and breathes memories that would have otherwise long slipped away from my fickle and distracted mind. My room preserves the sound of laughter and surprised shrieks shared over what seems clutter today. And yes it has kept a dry count of the tears I shed over things broken and lost, discarded and swept away with time.

And my room becomes a part of me with all the paraphernalia it hosts besides me. Dare I then call any of it clutter? Pray why should anyone else? But its true my room needs breathing space and I will have to let some of it go. But which parts? 

That dear Diary is the heart wrenching task I have kept failing to undertake and have failed at yet again. sooner or later I will have to steel myself against nostalgia.That I hope I will some day. Excuse me yet again this time, for I find no clutter in my room yet...

Aphasia

"Write!" cried the shrill silver voice before it disappeared into nowhere. She fumbled mid path staring at the hollow skies under her feet. Beclouded. Denuded. Transparent. She had dwindled into a slimy phlegm bob. Too tiny too be noticed. Too slippery to be held on to. Spit out and she will be dead. Soon. Very soon.

"Write" hollered the raging red wind as it brushed through her non-existent frame. She felt her brittle bones clatter against the pellets of dust before flying away into the enveloping night overhead. She knew she had to. She wanted to. But she could not do it. But she would. Soon. Very soon.

In the distance laughter echoed her conscience. It sounded as blank; as eerie. Deep throated yet shadowy. Sinister. Pathetic. There was no fire, no thorny ravines. No lone wolf either. And the orange moon? It had grayed out. And that is how it remains. Gray. Simply, pitifully gray.

The gory wind chided her yet again. Only there was no wind. This was an airtight world- her snow globe. Frosty and white. Perfection with flaking snow-sprays over  a wire held cheery looking cardboard hamlet. And she a mere phlegm bob dribbling into nothingness...

Deceptions

from robynbeeche.com,edited

And you thought
I will be shattered
if the mask
gets ripped apart

Vulnerability
needed protection
that was your decree

Perhaps truths need masking
Sometimes
Not always
They need bullet proof armors
Sometimes
Not always

But you err in your
Understanding
of what you need
to protect

I have been stronger
than you think I am
Since the day
I killed innocence
with a smile

Dear Diary

Booom! It echoed across the skies and instantly all eyes turned towards me.They expected a response, the response they marked out for me and looked on hesitantly when it turned out otherwise.Why was I expected to cower at the sound of the tremendous thunder. Was I a meek little shriveled up lamb lost in the meadows not knowing how to find my way home?  Or did one think I was a mere babe unsure of anything but of the belief that I needed a strong hand to cling on to and all would be fine?

Bright ribbons lace the pebble-riddled dust of the path.An inauguration well on its way.  Snip snap and the ribbons fly abandoning all order.I like them better this way, letting the wind play with their weight. Such patterns they form in the air...reminds me of  those elegant marbles we played for hours with long time ago. How I longed for them to magically burst out of the glass and regain their movements long frozen mid way. I dreamt they would dance their ways to the sky uncontrolled, jubilant, bowed down by absolutely nothing...

Have you ever seen swirling ribbons perturbed by a clap of thunder? Then why was I expected to become unsettled? I was made to hold grounds in neat little boxes stretched morning, noon and night till my colors began fading. But the snip snap was a welcoming change. No longer bright and vibrant perhaps, but my tinted self too makes its own patterns with the wind. That is what was meant to be. That is how it is.  

Let the winds push me into new twirls and swirls. I will fly with gay release deaf to the roars of the darkening sky. You only need to turn your eyes up to read my freedom, to experience my joy.

Come rain and I shall gently settle back into the bosom of the land, satiated, anointed... to a well deserved rest. Till then, let the thunder roll out beats to match my dance. I am game for a jugalbandi...

Err...Valentine?

http://pictureimageindia.blogspot.com/2011/02/valentine-special-valentine-songsms-in.html

Did you have a Valentine this 14th ? You didn't? Too bad ya, you missed so much! Poor baby.

What did I miss? Let me guess.Ummm...
-Roses and Teddybears
-A rare perfumed letter. No a post-ed really. No one has the time for a full fledged sweet sentimental (cliched or/and heartfelt) romantic letter these days.
-Boxes and boxes and boxes of chocolates.
-Confetti littering the hallway.
-Loud music.
-Louder coo-chi-coos on cell phones.
-Roses. Exorbitantly prized, often garishly tinted and silver sprayed roses.
-Pink! ah yes pink, red and white...everywhere you turn. Balloons, ribbons, cards, gift wrappers.
-And hearts. How could one miss them. Hearts of all shapes,sizes and material.
  Hearts on wrappers, hearts on cards, heart shaped balloons, heart shaped candies. Hearts in SMSes, Hearts on virtual greeting pages.
But I didn't miss any thing. I had my loved ones with me.

Huh? You mean family and general friends as loved ones right? C'mon don't be so boring. Get a life.

And life is equivalent to? Haha. Am sure thats going to make St. Valentine cringe in his grave.

St. Valentine? Who St. Valentine? What St. Valentine? I know only one Valentine....my sweet darling Valentine...