a poem about a mythical figure

Aphrodisiac Desires
She comes to women in fleeting visions
loves them, makes much of them, teaches
the secrets of love to them
with her eyes and soft kisses
the enchantress writes a 'how to love' poem
and I stumble to write.
For aphrodite goddess of love
who taught most beautiful Helen
and whom Sappho invoked
Aphrodite high on mount Olympus
cannot hear me.

Day 28-- birthday poem

a birthday poem as a gift to someone you love

You have given me
more than you would care to give
you have given me what
you don't know that you gave
or did I steal?
Even when you hurt me something escapes
you and comes to me
what offering can I give you
more constant than this faith
deeper than these tears, more precious
than this very self
when you gave my self to me...

Day 29-- Panchgani

a poem about a place you have visited as a tourist
Panchgani
The vigour of mountain air
wraps you
Cold breezes frolic and play
with you, strawberry fields
hug you in an embrace
Prim cottages in a row grow
red heart strawberries, pulpy
and jelly-like to my touch
I pluck them, eat them
cannot get my fill of them
basklets and baskets full of them.
Their sweet, sharp juice
seeps in like tangy mountain air.
Later, in out-of-the-world
picturesque, fairyland you
I bask in open terraces
gotging on the delicacy
of fresh strawberry and cream.

Day 30-- Flee Fly Floo

a free poem. about freedom. 20 lines. I decided to try my hand at amphigory nonsense :D
Flee Fly Floo
Fumungus grothucus wurrwurr
buzz growl wuthering smurthering
Frazzy hishy frooky pooky
wolving snappiting frappish snarging
the humbug grotchety way of the world.
Wuzzbuzz poof! Stomp it, Shuntit!
Damn it, whumpit! Fly floo
wheeze around it, frick it, jonk it
and waddledydoo, escape from it!
Furly in the friggin morn
Let fluty warbles ting-a-ling
chant fleely flawly flee fly floo
birdies chreeping, freezes flowing
Stomp the fumungus, whomp
the wurrwurr, frick and jonk
the wolvish snorging
Wheeze around it, gleely, plyly
easy there now! Hunt and runt
for zing, zwang, and zappyness
Flout the Droner, Free Chielo!

With you, my cup should overflow
its brim with ambrosia
What should I do with all that nectar
it should be sacrilege to spill
Elixir is dangerous for mortals
We should be content with remembrance and hope.

Yet, some day I shall come looking for you
like a lost puppy.

A migratory bird, you flew
down south, a river
you changed your course
a butterfly, you hunted out
blossoming flowers
I search for you in vain
in the barren emptiness of my present.

The Weft and the Warp

Snip. Snip. Click. Swish.
A whisking metallic sound
breaks silence with a tone of finality
a scissors cut cleanly through cloth.
Hearts too are torn and ripped
like cloth, mine has frayed edges
jagged threads stick out.
the knit is lost without the purl, the weft
goes in search of the warp.
A new thread can stitch them
into a reworked compromise
Poetry can sew hearts and
my warped lines
woven with doubt, hope and insecurity
the head bent in prayer
ardently long to find
the weft of yours.

February

Purple perfect profusions
and velvety-violets amidst
the dappled green
Dewdrops glitter like jewelled crystals
The marigolds have stolen
the yellow-gold of the sun, the orange
of the narangis. The red poppies
are crimson to the point of wicked sinfulness.
The pristine purity of the white
with their centres of blue-purple
and green-black offsets the rest.
the purple shehtoot is ready to be plucked
The February rain plays hdie and seek
with february wind and february sun
Now that spring is in the air.

On the street, the beggar counts her meagre coins
the hungry eyes of children follow me
A car speeds up, a dog limps across the road.

Split-Selves

I was born whole, yes,
but the Fates that decreed me a gemini
split me into twin selves, split selves
The quiet, serious me and
the wicked rebel.
Freud further split me into three
the yearning in me, the stoical
reason in me, and the balancing act
of yearning and reason in me.
I inherited my mother's hair
my father's eyes, my mother's mouth
and nobody's nose. I mean, Nobody knows.
And anybody's height. and whobody's brain?
But my grandma's memory, that's for sure.
This body of mine that now lives in delhi
is part gujju-part tamil, half punjabi and
used to live in Benares. But even that
is history. Places proliferate
and multiply.
Yes, I believe in post-modernism
yes, I believe in pluralities, and liminalities
of Identities.
But sometimes, I yearn
to carve an imaginary
unified Identity.

Spirits glide above me, slide
beneath my feet, listen closely
hide in my hair, in my ears
follow at my heels, watching softly.
They try to steal my thoughts.
Are they part of me
or do they belong to you
these ghosts of memory, desire and dreams?
Or do they hang midway
carrying my secrets to you?
Do they mock me, do they
stalk me, or do they guide me
these invisible presences?
They whisper, murmur,haunt
without end, I cannot escape
these voices, you see, are inside of me
Do they know me more
than me, do you know me
like a river's meanders know its boulders?

Doppelganger

I am an illusion
a ghostly apparition
I embody your mind,
your body and your soul
no, I am not you
no, I am not a clone
I am a doppelganger.
What's that, you ask
a pretender, an imitator
a duplicitous masquerader
a fake identity, a passport stealer?
No, I am a doppelganger.
I have holes in my body
and rings in the holes
fishes hang from my ears, a tree owl
nestles in my hair, midnight black
surrounds my eyes.
I have the slantedness of your
awkward smile, the rigidity
of your aloof body, I can
purple you to perfection.
Oh well, not quite to perfection
I told you I am not you
a spirit bound by you
yet not free from me
I walk the liminal edges of you and me
I observe with delicacy, stalk
with sensitivity, try to enter
your spirit imaginatively
and I doppelganger.
They think I can't be real
They think I am a doppelganger
But I am uncannily real
you cannot get rid of me
I am bound unto you.
I delight in doppelgangerism
it's a fascinating entrancing game.
One day, I shall stamp my body
with your indelible blue black mark
Neither here nor there, belonging nowhere
I wander like a restless spirit of longing
and incomplete desire in the air
I walk the liminal edges of you and me.

Requiem for a Dream

"Fasola is a sweet girl", the teacher said,
"and she writes lovely poems".
She flashed her a precious smile
Stars rose in her eyes that night and
gave birth to a dream.

Another day, she avoided Fasola's gaze, returned
a poorly marked paper, praised
the stout girl over there.
A sacred dream died its death and
buried itself in the classroom dust.

One day the dream will learn from Sylvia and Lady Lazarus
and rise again.

For the Love of Cultures of Peace- Festival of the North East: A report

My report of the North East Fest at Habitat Centre, 28-29th Jan "For the Love of Cultures of Peace" has been published in the Fried Eye Magazine... :-) http://www.friedeye.com/2011/02/15/for-the-love-of-%E2%80%9Ccultures-of-peace%E2%80%9D/

"For the Love of Cultures of Peace”- A Report on the festival of the North East
by – Shruti Sareen (with inputs on the Second day of Events by Rini Barman. )

The India Habitat Centre witnessed revelry of colour, art, poetry and music on 28th and 29th January 2011 in Cultures of Peace, a festival of the North East. It may seem ironical that cultures stereotypically associated with violence were here invoked as Cultures of Peace. This is what the festival tried to bring home, the message that life in the north-east is not one merely of violence, but of peace and love as well, and that focussing on peace and love is the key answer to the violence and terror in the region.
The first of the round table conferences, which as Sanjoy Hazarika pointed out, was actually a long table instead of a round table, was around the theme “Writing Peace, Writing Violence”. Indrani Raimedhi, Arupa Kalita and Pradip Phanjoubam focussed on the implicit violence in the north-east: the drum beats, the gun shots, people dying, the domination by the Assamese of certain surrounding areas of Meghalaya and Nagaland. Temsula Ao, a Nagini who spent her childhood in Assam, spoke of the emotional violence, that crisis of identity and belongingness this creates, and how both Nagas and Assamese people tend to see her as “the other”. Subir Bhaumik chose to focus on peace through the reminiscence of his army training, of generations of his family who had served the Tripura king in the army, and his decision to leave it all. Ananya Guha and Aruni Kashyap spoke in vivid terms about the cultures of the north-east which they do not see as implicitly associated only with violence. Ananya Guha talked about the land and nature, maintaining that spreading peace will inevitably lead to the lessening of violence, whereas Aruni Kashyap chose to show the ordinary experiences of common folk in the north-east, of the people living and not necessarily only the people dying. Nilanjana Roy moderated the session.
The session was followed by a viewing of Uzma Mohsin’s photography exhibition. The exhibit focussed on how girls from the north-east do not feel comfortable in a city like Delhi, where they are constantly seen as “the other” and viewed with suspicion, where people have stereotypical ideas about them based on their dress and so on. There was also an exhibition of paintings on the theme of violence in the north east, showing people breathing through oxygen masks, trying to escape suffocation, as several viewers commented. Red blood and blue faces contrasted and alternated with red flowers and blue skies in these paintings. During this interval the sale of books from the north-east on various aspects like literature, history, activism, mythology, politics and sociology also drew the attention of book lovers and knowledge seekers.
The next round table conference “The Words to Say It” moderated by Preeti Gill saw the participation of Mamang Dai, Mitra Phukan, Bijoya Sawian, Rita Chowdhury, Mona Zote, and Omar Sharif. Various ways of conveying the reality, or rather, realities, from the journalistic, reporting style, to fiction, to Mamang Dai’s style of focussing on myths, legends and folk tales were brought to discussion. The accessibility and democratic nature of blog-culture, e-books and the internet were also mentioned. North-east cultures are traditionally seen as being very rooted cultures and people are seen as having a strong sense of belongingness. Yet in this forum people spoke of Assamese people being deported to China, arrested and confined, and the identity crisis caused thereby. Mona Zote talked about her own atheism, which set her apart and made her feel alienated from the people of her own state, Mizoram, the majority of whom are Christians. She also mentioned that Mizoram does not have a strong culture of its own, quite unlike the Khasis, Arunachal Pradesh and others. Another important question raised here (and explored in more detail in the next session) was whether writers from different states in the north-east are connected to, or isolated from, each other.
The next session “Crossing Borders” had Monalisa Changkija, Uddipana Goswami, Aruni Kashyap, Triveni Mathur, Rajesh Dev, Rupa Chinai, and Dhiren Sadokpam as speakers, with Uma Chakravarti as the moderator. Critical questions like, who is an outsider/insider, and are all “north-east” people insiders, were raised. The session highlighted aspects in which power structures of dominance and hierarchy were recreated through boundaries within north-east and stressed on the need to exercise caution before seeing all ‘insiders’ as heroes and all ‘outsiders’ as villains. The north-east has no one singular culture which gives its inhabitants an “identity”, only several proliferating ones. As Sanjoy Hazarika said in a later session, it is more appropriate to see them as seven step-sisters instead of romanticising them as The Seven Sisters. The Seven Sisters identity is also troubling because it completely leaves out the Sikkim state. Does distance make one nostalgic or more critical? What is the identity of an Assamese who never thought of himself as a “North-Eastern” before he came to Delhi? Where and how is identity constructed? What about the sub-altern tribes within the North-east, such as the Bodo tribes in Assam? When are they written about, and when do they actually speak for themselves? Questions such as these were brought up to ponder upon in this session.
The last of the round table conferences was “Stories from a War Zone”. Subir Bhowmick, Sanjoy Hazarika, Meenakshi Ganguly, Deepti Priya Mehrotra, Utpal Borpujari and Pradip Phanjoubam. Moderated by Urvashi Butalia this session focussed on issues such as the freedom of the artist. Journalists talked of their experiences of being threatened by censor boards and by underground groups when they wrote anything that did not toe the line, thus raising questions of “truth-telling”. Writers voiced an opposite concern, of the publishers’ stereotypical demand that writers from the north-east should only write about violence. Listening to people’s stories in villages was also seen as an important function of the journalist. A direct link was traced between the government’s bid for progress and modernity of urban, metropolitan areas, which leads to, for example, the development of dams in Tripura, dispossessing tribals of their land, and which in turn, makes them become insurgents. Other concerns that were addressed included the effect of violence upon the environment, insurgency and disputes with neighbouring countries like Bangladesh over resources, and emphasised the inter-connectedness of all states and the need to maintain solidarity.
The day ended with a spectacular theatrical performance tracing the life of Irom Sharmila, the bright torch light amidst the darkness, the passionate woman who began by writing poetry from a young age, and became a staunch activist, fighting for the fate of her people, going through hunger strikes to protest against the government, being arrested and jailed on baseless charges, and later, her helpless condition in the hospital where she is force-fed. This powerful performance brought the truth home more sharply and keenly than any of the round table conferences had done throughout the day.
The second day began with the session titled “Confronting the Past, Imagining the Future” with Sanjoy Hazarika and Laxmi Mathur as the eminent speakers. The north-east is a region with enormous linguistic, ethnic and political diversity, and yet with many commonalities of geographies, of resources, of marginalization. What does, or what can, the future hold? This was the basic question opened up by Sanjoy Hazarika while explaining how the north-east is in the periphery but by no means peripheral. He talked about the burning issues of migration, poor infrastructures of the north-east and the failure of the centre and state Governments to resolve the same. He brought forth the problematic plight of the 30 lakh people in the 3 thousand islands of the north-east. Laxmi Mathur talked extensively about the need of justice for establishment of peace. She also agreed with the need of retelling the untold and unheard histories of the northeast particularly of women, without which, the old wounds cannot be healed.
This was followed by book and poetry readings by Mitra Phukan, Mona Zote, Aruni Kashyap, Omar Sharif, Ananya Guha, Nitoo Das, Uddipana Goswami in the session “Expressing the North-East” . Haripriya Soibam’s readings Irom Sharmila’s poetry collection, Fragrance of Peace and Rojio Usham’s performance based on the same carried forward the performances of the previous evening.
The festival ended with music by Imphal talkies speaking to the passions and the senses of a large gathering, leading on to a spectacular concert by Soulmate, the jazz and blues band from Shillong. The festival seems to have been a good blend of the intellectual and the passionate, speaking to both minds and hearts. Hopefully, the Cultures of Peace festival lives on, reverberates, and gives meaning in times to come, and the end turns out to be but a beginning.

Elegy for a Broken Vase to be published in Differsense!!

Yay!!! My poem "Elegy for a Broken vase" has been accepted for publishing in the magazine Differsense!! The poem is just two posts below this one. However, in the magazine, it will appear in a slightly edited form, so I am putting up the edited version here right now, as it will appear in print. hope I'm not doing something wrong!!
Okay, tisn't a big deal, doesn't affect the world. It does still tell me though that at least I don't write total crap. My 4th publication, "proper" one... :-)

Wet,malleable,clay
,a potters wheel
and a friend's hand
birthed it.
Our stories dented it
Etching lines like the wrinkles
left by River’s waves on stone.
Mud-coloured, elegant,
it graced a prized corner
as befitsa hand-crafted gift...
Until, one day, it fell,
struck by my careless hand.
Sorrow, distress, and broken earth
delicately curved, now fill the room;
draughts of love, clouded memories,
bittersweet vapours escape
from the empty vase and
search for a new home.

Philanthropic/ Misanthropic thoughts on 31/12/2010

Dear people,
Today, as 2010 ends and we move towards what will hopefully be a new beginning, 2011 (the phrase is way too clichéd, but our world desperately needs a new beginning right now) , I grasp this opportunity to say to you what I really, really need to say. Please read this!! But let me not push something on you. If you would rather not think or question, if you would just rather go out and “have a blast” on New Year’s Eve, let me not impose this upon you.
Oh!! By the way… I just got to know that my poem “Elegy for a Broken Vase” has been accepted for publication by the Differsense magazine… yay!! J I hope it is a good ending to 2010 and a hopeful beginning for the new…
Okay, This is the result of an entire month of intense thinking, much angst and agony. I became haunted and obsessed with it. This is to share with you some of that, bcos it’s our world, it’s one world, we need to connect, and bcos I want to learn and be wiser, so I must talk to people,of course!! Thought should always precede action. Okay, so let me be honest. In my usual life, balancing my academic life plus my socializing life plus my day dreaming and personal life, plus all the things I must do as an outstation student in delhi leaves me with absolutely no time for much else. My own worries and my own satisfaction is what I am usually preoccupied with. Of course, I am concerned about the world in a general way. Now, however, I have become obsessed with the violence and inequality in this world. This is what we must address now. Immediately. Our own personal lives are nothing short of heaven. One persistent migraine that refuses to go away, one broken heart that adamantly refuses to mend, and one insurmountable NET stubbornly acting as an obstacle … that’s it!! My only and only “real worries”. Tis nothing at all!! And now.. what do I want to talk about?? I want to talk about the war prisoners, the kidnapped children, the raped women, I want to talk about people like Binayak Sen. And so many such people. And you know what I want to talk about?? Animals. The ones we eat. Sorry, I mean the ones which we kill and eat and then call this barbaric practice a civilized one. This is bcos I am haunted now by the eyes and by the pain of those animals… do try, for once, to put yourself in the place of that animal and experience it… of course we say it’s the natural food chain. But aren’t humans something better than animals? I mean we have intelligence, reasoning, we know self control… don’t you abstain from things you really want to do?? Don’t you use your self control? bcos your mind sees that to do such a thing is morally incorrect, however much you might want to do it. We all do. We are all “broad minded, university educated people”… no, this is not entirely satirical. This mail is sent to you bcos I think you are intelligent and sensitive enough to understand, bcos I respect you, bcos I am glad to know a person like you. Okay, when we have reached a stage now when we can see that violence on the basis of gender is wrong, caste is wrong, religion is wrong, sexuality is wrong, when we have studied and rethought power structures… then why don’t we also think that violence against animals is also wrong?? Do we think that animals don’t feel the way we do?? Or are we slaves to our taste buds? Just imagine yourself in the place of that animal… Okay, at a different level now. We are conditioned, of course. But then we are conditioned into so many things. Literature, delhi, and certain people have made me rethink and question my conditioning so much, and I am so glad and grateful for that. But it must not stop!! That is the whole point. I cannot now become complacent and pat myself on the back that I have become so broad minded and stop there. I must stretch myself, go on with this search, this questioning. Yes, it’ll mean a lot of angst, a lot of thinking, there will be pain. I could choose not to think and question and to just be happy. But I can’t be happy!!! As a citizen of this world, I feel I cannot sit and look at so much violence around me and just look on and do nothing. All violence ultimately arises out of forms of power structures. Men over women, adults over children, teachers over students ( all my apologies to the oh-so-many teachers whom I hope have bothered to read this far), rich over poor, humans over animals, always the strong over the weak, the powerful against the vulnerable, … the law of nature to a certain extent yes, but not beyond that, please. As humans, why are we barbaric enough even in the 21st century to only value physical strength? personally, I value moral, emotional and intellectual strength much more. Gandhiji was one of the greatest leaders and India is lucky to have had him. Bcos he fought violence with non-violence. Peace, love and compassion, the only things that make sense if the world has to change for the better… more peace, love, and compassion, endless and healing love… for everyone, not just for our loved ones. Anyways, I think signature campaigns on the internet are very good, democratic, non-violent and effectual ways to do something. That we already do. But can’t we do something more?? We need to bridge the gap between our progressive ideologies and the actual state of things around. The gap is toooo wide, trying to bridge it a bit is so necessary!!
Okay, I was so haunted and obsessed, I couldn’t even sleep, but then I realized I will do no good to anyone by this. If it would have done good, I am willing to suffer. Now, being happy almost seems like a selfish act, an escapist act, but we need to be happy. Bcos it’s true we can’t change the whole world. We can do our bit, though, and that is only possible by doing our work well, contributing in whatever way we can, learning, creating, sharing, helping… if I think of all those victims, man, woman, child and animal, I’ll be sick and insane… so beyond a point, I must put I away. It is not escapism, it’s what I must do to at least do something for this world. We all have different ways of contributing… I was thinking of concrete stuff… I know lots of us are concerned by say, women, for example, or animals, or whatever. We could at some stage, actually do social work, whether by joining an existing organization, or by creating one of our own. Writing, teaching… well, that is what I can do, at least, (and by teaching I mean something much, much larger than creating answer writing and marks obtaining machines. That is NOT what I am going to spend my life doing.) and I think Nandita (Das) ( are you reading, Nandita?? J ) yeah, so I think Nandita was right when she told me once that whatever our heart is in is what we can do best, and when we have that happiness, then we can spread it the best. So we must all find our ways of contributing… but pls let’s not grow complacent, let’s not lose that urgency, let’s keep questioning and examining ourselves and what we are doing!! What good is art, literature, culture, left wing politics in a world like this?? How does it help?? We need to ask, at least, surely.
People, I really really hope no-one’s going to take this in a wrong sense, it is not meant as a morality lecture, it is not meant as an accusation, it is an attempt to share what was spilling over after having driven me insane. Pls take this as an attempt to learn, to share, and hopefully, to make the seeds for some kind of change, that’s all it is!! I want to live close to the earth, and open to the sky, without all the time thinking of security, protection, fortification!! To take whatever life brings!! Takes courage, yes, though.
Okay, now… Extremely glad, grateful, happy and proud to know all the people I send this to!! Learning, living, loving, fulfilling, satisfying, fruition … I wish you all of that in the new year!!!!!!!! J J

Elegy for a Broken Vase

The malleability of wet clay

a potter's wheel, and a friend's hand

birthed it. Stories etched into it

as dented lines, like wrinkles

formed by River's waves, on stone.

Mud coloured and elegant, it occupied

a prized position, as befits

a handcrafted gift, with grace.

Until it fell,struck by my careless hand

in dignity, stature, and height.

Sorrow, distress, and broken pieces of earth

delicately curved, now fill the room and

Draughts of love, clouds of memories and

bittersweet vapours escape

from the empty vase and

search for a new home.

An Urn of Ashes

It is an ornate and

heavy urn of bronze

shaped like a lota of water

its handles carved, and arching.

A heap of grey ashes

lies within, sanctified

hallowed remains.

The ashes seem heavy as lead

I lug them on my back

around my neck

everywhere I go.

Nourish them,

cherish them, they are

but metamorphosed forms

of the words you said, the smiles

you looked, and the red flame

of my heart before it was taught to turn to stone.

Waiting, hoping, for the phoenix to rise again

The leaden dread that I wait and carry in vain.

An Ode to Civil Lines, Delhi, October 2010

Dusky darkness steals in softly

tiptoeing, caressing

cradling the white fragrance

of the raat rani, shefali, frangipani.

The moon between the two tall palms

is a boat,the star is a kiss on the sea-sky.

At 7pm in the grounds of IP college

spirits and gods and trees converse, converge

mysteries like flying insects are suspended in mid air.

A silhouette of blue smoke seems strangely kindred

At odd hours, this spirit creeps out to share this tryst.

Six years have made it a translucent omnipresence.

The spirit then glides down the street, smoky

invisible, pervading ,absorbing atmosphere

which mutates into night smells

of ice creams, juices

the red paan, smoke-fags,

the tea,maggi,rolls,momos, chocolates.

Smell jostles against smell, sounds and lights

the shops, autos lined up at the gas station

cars teeming with yellow cat-like eyes

Sights, sounds, memories, smells,feelings

are brewed together, the logic of boundaries

comes undone. The spirit traverses

Into the by-ways of winged hopes,

feathered dreams, nostalgic idylls

of rajpur road, under hill lane, sri ram road

and ram kishore road, that take me across

time and space, desires and sorrows

back to the room of my own I call home.

My five feet four inch fifty kg body

may measure acres, square miles, cities

but a whiff of smoky translucence

will always glide down bylanes of dreams

and memory at 7pm, in the IP grounds

the place that brewed and stewed and cooked

and sprouted me.

Untitled (a response to J M Coetzee's Disgrace)

(a response to J M Coetzee's Disgrace )

Teach me

that ritual, David's daily penance

of carrying dead dogs to the incinerator.

Teach me

Lucy's mysterious wisdom

of accepting guilt without flinching.

But do not try to tell me

that shame precludes desire.

That they cannot coexist.

Desire can be consecrated, pure

as blue fire, it can worship the beloved

yet not touch her with its flame.

Fighting Menka and her fellow apsaras

of desire and temptation

is the agnipariksha remorse must win over

A daily duel with these dancing apsaras

only strengthens my victory

and is my highest offerring of atonement

towards grace.

The twin birds on the tree of the gita are within me

one tempted to eat the fruit, the other watching

even if one succumbs to the fruit, the other redeems.

Passport Sized Photographs

Passport-sized-photographs

A dummy, a mannequin,

a wax work doll. An object

to be stared, commented, laughed at.

A robotic machine. Controlled

by a set of commands.

“Shift your face to the left

your neck is not straight, your face

not level with the ground,madam.”

The holy mantra for photo-production

needs me to wear a plastic smile on demand

of correct length and breadth measurements

The canvas of my life

is replaced by a cheap blue one

Dirty too. I persuade him

to make it grey.

And I wonder how many sittings

and how many, many rehearsals

would capture my flyaway spirit

and inject a whiff of my soul

into this two-inches-of-gloss

this millimetred smile?

Show me how to do it like you

Not a hair

out of place. Not a ruffle

of dress, or of distress.

No clumsy errors

or misdemeanours

Perfect. And

Immaculate.

A story-book heroine

A graceful River flowing easy

is how your life

appears to me.

And I stare ruefully

at my own cobwebs

that need dusting,

removing, rethinking

at the fault-lines

that lead to earthquakes

at the sticky slime

at the acids that corrode

layers of my limestone mind.

Show me how to do it,

Show me how to do it like you.

(The last 2 lines, taken from Stevie Wonder's song, also form the epigraph to Alice Walker's The Color Purple.)

Choices

Frost's road diverged in a yellow wood

But what made him take the one less travelled by?

How do Hamlets decide to be or not to be,

to go, to act, to kill, or to not?

This power to alter our states is terrifying,

Nambisan is right, and I am paralysed

into Alfred Prufrock's doubt and inaction.

Dumbledore said our choices make us

what we are. But how do we make choices?

But let's not get existential. Let's not fall

into this canyon of questions.Let's find

a bottom to this bottomless gorge.

Or make one!

Open Pandora's box! Out with the bees,

the wasps and the hornets with their stings!

rights, wrongs ,goods, bads, reason,

logic, morals, virtues!

Shoo them away! No wreaths of laurel,

no gold medals for me! No awards of virtue!

Who decides, anyway? And when? On the Day

of Judgement on my deathbed?

Shoo them away! Doubts corrode as much

as certainty, after all. We meet in rust. That's

what Arundhathi Subramaniam said.

If you want references. And authorities.

Shoo them away! And let me be.

Let me be happy. Let me be me. Let me live

the life I wanted, the life I dreamt of. Let me

follow my heart.

But a tiny demon stalks me constantly

whispering in my ear

“are you quite sure?”

4 poems in Muse India!!

Muse India , in their September issue this time, published 4 of my poems!! The basic theme of this issue is tagore, but they have lots of other stuff as well. an my poems aren't even remotely about tagore!! Okay, so the selected 4 are -- The Legend of the Pot, Of Poems Dreams and Reveries, Being Belindas, and, Homeless Home-makers, in that order.
Check them out here-- http://www.museindia.com/regular.asp?id=33

and yes, I am grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire cat!! :))

poem published in The Chay Magazine

"Being Belindas" got published on The Chay Magazine website! The Chay Magazine is a Pakistan-based magazine on issues of gender and sexuality. Yay!! to read the poem, and other interesting stuff, pls do visit www.chaymagazine.org

The poem is elsewhere on the blog, but I am copy-pasting it below again, anyway.

Being Belindas (a response to Pope's Rape of the Lock)

The mirror hangs before me
My long face stares back at me
a pointed chin
whose rounding I dread
A tiny forehead
gleaned from the thick mass
of black hair surrounding it.
At the black hair
now streaked with red
I oscillate between
fascination and nostalgia
The hair, mostly helter-skelter
sometimes, precise in a bun
A glazed eyeball
with its bit of plastic-glas lens
A newly pierced nose--
a shade too large
showing off that li'l bit of green
My ears trying to seek attention
with their multiple studs and rings
which I regard as pets
And a moody mouth.
but on the whole, a face
I can live with.
My skin the colour
of burnt caramel
a thin, supple body
I am unashamedly
in love with.

Bottles and vials lined
in an array on the slab beside me
the daily ritual
of cleansing, toning, conditioning
the creams and the perfumes
the chief kohl that lines my eyes
the earrings in their silver box
the cupboard with its
greater assortment of clothes
than i could ever wear
the occupational hazards
of being a young girl.

Oh Pope, and other misogynists!
We love being Belindas
and Belindas we shall remain
with our bottles and our vials
our bibles and our billet doux
and we rebel against rapes
of our locks and otherwise.
our bodies and their vagaries
and tricks we play with them
are ours.
And not playthings or objects
for your phallus
or that inglorious phallic symbol
your pen.

Jealous- Green

Jealous-green

From a sober olive green
dark, sombre, brooding jealousy
to bright emerald which screams
its insecurities to your face
to jade- moss- parrot green
to the sickly green pallor
of vommitting food or
unpalatable emotions.
I have turned all
greened all, screamed
from the pain of burning
a yellow-red-orange flame
which I try to simmer down,
swallow down, green-it-down
before it rages and runs amuck.
I wonder what's green about
Envy.

Lost in your house

My mind went a-wandering
into your house
it peeped through curtains
spied from behind doors, scuttled
on the floors, flew like an airy spirit
into your hair, tried to invade
your mind.
My mind often lives inside
your house, sometimes
even you're not there.
My mind often lurks nearby
hides, and sometimes, it
catches you unawares
comes face to face, no,
mind to mind.
At times, I have to summon
my mind to come back to me.
I take an evening walk
in the direction of your house and
hope to find my lost mind
midway.

The Watchman

Girls pass in and out in droves
at all odd hours of everyday
A dirty ragged child squeals
another chases him
buffaloes ruminate in the middle of lanes
chewing their cud.
Workmen-- and women-- carry
bricks and stones and cement
The maids and cooks come and go
a kabadiwalla's voice heard above
the tring-tring of his cycle.
The businessman in his coat-tie-suit
And his car.
The hot torrid sun beats down
upon everyone.
And later, there is deathly quiet
by starlight and moonlight
the faint rustle of a leaf
a cat on a late night prowl
and awe-ful silence.
The Watchman Watches.

Like the White Rabbit
in Alice's Wonderland
hurry-scurry-hurry-
no one has time.
Except the Watchman
The watchman is busy
watching a-busy-world
He keeps time on the watch and
He watches time go by
Observing, reflecting, watching
he sees into the heart of things
into the souls of people
into hidden secrets.
He watches and
He knows
a reality that escapes us and
gets lost
while we are searching
for other things.

The Red River

I feel it trickle between my legs
a red river, warm and sticky
forms a valley of blood.
An aching numbness
makes me heavy
a ripe fullness fills my body
pregnant with possibility.

Each month I protest
against the fatalism
that awaits a woman.
against its encumbrances
the sordid, stark reality
with all its itching fusses
and always the bloody river.
I resist, desist, grumble and
Obey.


Yet
this deep red river
flowing, dripping, trickling
is my identity, my pride
at being Woman.
It is a holy river, a sacred river
not a dirty river of waste, or of taboo.
A symbol of a woman's growing, caring,
feeling ,loving giving
The River is not a means to an end,
It simply IS.



Thousands of Duryodhans
over hundreds of years
have dragged Draupadis
to the stake,
to pyres of burning fires,
pyres of rape
violated their privacy,
outraged their dignity.
Societies over centuries
have isolated women,confined
to dark rooms, forbidden
to enter temples, made to sleep
on beds of straw and hay.
Untouchables Outcast.

Shared silences bind women
to women, I only seek
to word-verb-speak them.
Silences in poems have voices
I know that you know that I
know what you know.

Happy 2nd birthday, Blog!!

Happy Happy 2nd Birthday, Blog!! :)

Exactly 2 years ago, I posted the first bunch of posts on Heartstrings, acting upon a very eager desire of starting a blog. So, it has been 2 years!! I think, (quite immodestly) , that there is a fair deal of difference between what I wrote then and what I write now. So, how do I celebrate this happy fact?? Write some more, blog some more, learn some more, improve some more, and get more eager desires?? I will!! Three cheers to you, Blog!! :)

CaPoWrimO-- Caferati Poetry Writing Month!! :)

Caferati, the writing/ poetry group I am part of, organised CaPoWriMo, Caferati Poetry Writing Month, in April. One poem per day for the entire month of April, following the forms, themes and instructions that were given. Below is my "Thank You" Post to caferati at the end of this month long exercise. All my poems are up here on the blog, but the rightful link which began it all is National Poetry Writing Month in some corner of the world, http://www.napowrimo.net/ and Caferati Poetry Writing Month for us!! http://caferati.blogspot.com/2010/03/capowrimo.html


Well,Caferati... thank you so much for putting me back in touch with myself, for putting me back in touch with caferati, for making me learn so many different forms and for actually making me feel that I can write in "form", for teaching me discipline to write a poem a day (sometimes I cheated, and wrote 3 in one day!!), for making me realise the very highly "constructed" nature of poetry... one can hardly force oneself to be inspired 30 days a month!! It was interesting to twist themes the way I wanted to,so that I always managed to write on the theme given, twisting it just enough to make it say something I really find meaningful and want to say. None of the poems were written just for the sake of writing them... not one!! ...and for... so many things!! a very learning, enjoyable and meaningful experience... and when all that is combined, what could be better!!well, my honest statistics, haven't been as scrupulously honest as Pushpa, so I must confess!! 25 of the poems were very honestly and scrupulously written!! As for the other 5... well, they were ones I have written recently over Feb and March... they just happened to match themes... Lots of the 25 poems were reworked versions of earlier ones... I converted so many free verse poems into form... a very interesting experience...anyways, I don't think it matters, so long as one learns from the experience and it proves meaningful. And I will go prolific on my blog now, posting all these. haven't done it yet, haven't had the time. I thought of FB notes... but decided to give it a miss, all my poems are on my blog, I usually don't put any on FB notes. And Finally, at the end of this prolific post... a very heartfelt... Thank You soooo much, caferati. I'd never have done this if you hadn't made me!!! :)

Day 1,2,3

CaPoWriMo (Caferati Poetry Writing Month)

Day 1 – Haiku (5-7-5 syllables)

Round, orange baubles
hanuman's suns, narangis
pluck them, they dangle.

Day 2--Clerihew (biographical. Begins with a person's name. 4 lines, couplets. Irregular line length)

Alfred Lord Tennyson
never had much fun
Arthur Hallam died at twenty
and left him with tears aplenty.


Day 3-- Limerick (funny poem. Rhyme scheme-- aabba. Syllables- 8-9, 8-9, 5-6, 5-6, 8-9)

Pooh was deep in a jar of hunny
when there came along a bunny
'Where's Tigger?' asked Rabbit
Jumping down to market
Said Pooh, with hunny all runny.

Day 4

Day 4-- Ballad (a poem that tells a story. Plenty of rhyme and repetition.)

The Legend of the Pot


On a rocky ledge in a cliff by a river
Fasola heard a magic pot quiver
with the sound of wind, or water
or perhaps, the sound was laughter.
Go to the stream, what do the waves say
They whisper the legend of the pot, the lay.

This pot was shaped long ago by a potter
who took it home to his wife and young daughter
the pot was so perfect, so exceptionally round
all who looked at it, by it were bound
The daughter and her friends trotted down one day
with the pot to the river, all happy and gay.

Busy in their play, they forgot the pot
Left it behind on the bank to rot
Whisked into the river by a sudden wave
it bobbed and floated past the mermaids' cave
The magic pot embodied all that came its way
the waves, the breeze, the laughter of the fairy fays.

But floating was the pot's destiny
even mermaids cannot engage in mutiny
It landed in a circle of smooth, round stones
a lotus in the centre, and a few pine cones
A fisherman saw it, tying his boat to the pole
picked it and looked, admiring the whole

A storm brew up and swept it away
Jigglesqueak is all he had time to say
Battered and wasted, it lay there, half broken
Is this what I came to, it could have spoken
Till rich folks decided to make a cottage by the river
the workmen found it, put it aside for later.

On a rocky ledge in a cliff by a river
Fasola heard a magic pot quiver
with the sound of wind, or water
or perhaps, the sound was laughter.
The magic pot embodied all that came its way
the waves, the breeze, the laughter of the fairy fays

Go to Fasola, feel the perfection and charm
of this little round pot, unharmed by harm
Go to Fasola, you will, won't you?
The pot may embody some part of you too!

Day 5, 6

Day 5-- sonnet (Shakespearean sonnet. 3 quartets + 1 couplet)
April

The cruellest month mixes memory with desire
Eliot digs up old roots, stirs them with fresh soil
Dormant passions awaken new inner turmoil
Chilling frost gives way to smouldering fires.

April enters when the indecisive wind
of Anjum Hasan opens its slow mouth
The year, frisky as a lamb, uncouth
Is trying to learn to make up its mind

the month of brief, sudden showers
(in Mother Goose's nursery rhymes is April
In India, mango blossoms, first call of the koel
the orange and green of gulmohur trees

Poetry has sought to immortalise April
My debut is this pastiche of my quill.


* Lines 9 and 10 have a different version, but this one is the "public" version.


Day 6-- Cinquain (Line 1- noun, line 2- descritpion, without using adjectives. Line 3- action. Line 4- effect or feeling it produces. Line 5- synonym of first noun/line. Iambic meter. )

the river
a possessed creature
its oceanic waters merge with the sky
the peepul tree dances in epiphany
Jahnavi.

Day 7

Day 7-- Villanelle (pattern of rhyme scheme and line repetition. In “a” and “b”, the rhyme is repeated. In A1 and A2, the entire line is repeated. A1 b A2, abA1, abA2, abA1, abA2, abA1A2.)

Reason and laws can our actions constrain
subdue, chastise, cleanse with holy fire
But this intensity of pain they cannot restrain.

A public “you”, you then have to feign
a schizophrenic split between facade and desire
Reason and laws can our actions constrain.

This walking the tightrope to stay sane
implies a discipline one must acquire
But this intensity of pain they cannot restrain.

Sometimes, you may nearly break from the strain
of the inherent duality causing agonising seizures
Reason and laws can our actions constrain.

They feel that with time, passion will wane
become sober, sedate, burn itself on the pyre
But this intensity of pain they cannot restrain.

Refrain itself has become my refrain
Repeated again, over and over
Reason and laws can our actions constrain
But this intensity of pain they cannot restrain.

Day 8

Day 8-- Look Closely (at objects around you,what significance does it have for you)

Harbingers of Summer

I like them plump,
these harbingers of summer
like this one
it lies heavy
and dusty green in my hand
the heat of the sun, the warmth
of the ground
seep into my hand from its interiors
that are cool and white and juicy
springy and tangy
with a big fat white seed in the middle.
They call it kairi at home, and in school
my friends called it tikola
and in english, we call them green unripe mangoes.
It reminds me of cherished summers
spent, looking forward to them, plucking them or
picking them up from dry ground, eating them
tearing them with our teeth, giggling
or sometimes, like at home when they
were put into delicious sabzis.

Day 9, 10

Day 9-- Angel and Gargoyle (opposite/twin sides of myself- the angel and the gargoyle)

I am Jane Eyre
sensitive, a little shy
intensely devoted and
loyal
with a fierce spirit of justice and
independence
a strong desire for love
for being wanted.
The angel and the madwoman
conflate within me
I am Bertha Mason too
I rage with anger, I scream
till I tear my hair from the roots
I can be violent.
And jealous. Very Jealous.
Playing Jane-switching-
to-Bertha
is a very interesting game
What angel and which madwoman?
The two are just the same.


Day 10-- Olfactory poetry (the sense of “smell”)

There is an 'old' smell
a much-lived-in0worn-
down-smell
in run-down-to-death-clothes
in a pile of dry leaves
shoved aside
in yellowed pages of books and
much thumbed letters.
There is the comfy, homey smell
of home.
And there is a 'new' smell
a strange-pristine-
smell-of-the-unfamiliar
in starched clothes and
fresh paper and empty
unlived in houses
a smell that you can never
Own.

day 11, 12

Day 11-- An Exercise in Blue (blue as in, the blues of the spirit. I tried connecting it with the colour blue)

There is the pensive violet blue
of a dusky twilight sky
which reflects lost loves
and past failures
with philosophical sombreness.
There is a torrid, violent blue
of cloud-rolling-thunder
or a river in spate
my anguished frenzied
trembling outpourings
or a shrieking migraine.
There is a bright, cerulean blue
of a summer sky that
mocks my pain. Jeers.
Or the gurgling, blithe blue
of a bluebell and a brook.
And there is the liquid, limpid blue
that absorbs my tears
before they fall.



Day 12 – The Original Simile (write loads of similes, select interesting ones, twist them, mix them up, use them in a poem)

Frankenstein's Monster

Frankenstein's dream, vivid
and loud
grew like mercury levels
rising in a thermometer
with nervous elbows and knees
he set to work on his masterpiece
as quick as The Big Bang
lo and behold! His creature was ready
all angular and
geometric.

day 13, 14, 15, 16, 17

Day 13 – Following the golden string-- take the first thought in the morning and think it through

Thirteenth April 

temporarily removed.


Day 14 – my new poetic form (2 rhymes, one in the middle of each line, one at the end)

my eyes stare into yours
two pairs-- are they at war?
Silence ensnares words I could conjure
speak, I dare not, I would rather endure
muteness where unsaid words obscure
burn and flare, unheard but sure
we cannot spare this, there is no cure
haunting memories fare forth, unholy or pure.


Day 15-- sms poem-- 'O. Henry Nightingale' poem. (It's elsewhere on this blog, an earlier post)

Day 16-- poem in 100 words-- 'Your fear bring me closer to you' (90-97 words) (It's elsewhere on this blog, an earlier post)

Day 17- poem that takes off from another poem-- Being Belindas : a response to Pope's Rape of the Lock (It's elsewhere on this blog, an earlier post)

Day 18

Day 18-- Dialogue poem ( a poem entirely in dialogue, in quotations. No asides. Not even the names of people talking)

Almost Rape

“bhaiya, is this the rajiv chowk metro?”
“yes, take the next metro that comes”
“ok, thank you”
“do you live here?”
“No, I just came to visit someone”
“I work here, in the metro”
“ok”
“in the metro bathroon, come with me, I'll show you the bathroom”
“I can't! The metro comes in 2mins now”
“so what? It will come again soon. Let me show you the bathroom”
“I can't! I have a very long journey ahead. I can't possibly waste time and go with you.”
“Madam, the metro is very quick and fast, your journey will not be long. Come with me to the bathroom, please come with me to the bathroom......”

Day 19, 20

Day 19-- Ode ( addressed to a particular person/object etc. Written in rhyme)

My Room-- An Ode

Inside my room
is a nurturing womb
where I am bare, naked
unclothed, exposed
thoughts and feelings freely
lie outside my body
There is paper and pencil
to hear me when no human will
With volumes of poetry
and musical symphony
I, myself and Me
are in harmony.


Day 20- “Home” poem ( of what “home” means, where “home” is, in my imagination)

There are floating roots and
aerial roots, but I
prefer under-the-ground ones.
Cold winds may blow and tempests
may rage, I may
be hungry and broken
But in Emily Bronte-ish fashion
“Nothing drear can move me
I will not, cannot go”
faith may seem to totter and
angst may seem to win
But, in the words of a childhood
'Chapni' tale
“The world is big, it's fun to roam
But the nicest, nicest place is home”

Day 21 and 22

Day 21-- Acrostic (The first letters of each line, taken together, spell out a message!)

Glorious profusion of wilderness
Orange flash of gulmohur trees
Ducks dawdling in the lake beyond

I idly gaze at this immensity
Standing with the wind billowing around me

Deer in the park, nibbling at grass
Elephants with trunks majestically swaying
Alice Walker's god lay in no church nor temple
Death of religion, let's embrace a purple vision.



Day 22-- Free Writing (thoughts in the state between dreaming and waking)

Nightmarish Life

Burning fires, strange creatures
Random men putting something
on my face.
Familiar surroundings turn hostile
Known people turn away
Arbitrary groups ridiculing me
mocking, mauling, harassing me
rape, thefts, accidents, and other
god forsaken things
Scared of the future
Guilt in the present
The world becomes a malignant,
threatening place.

Day 23 and 24

Day 23-- Grace's Elevator ( Taking life as a multi-storeyed building. Memory as an elevator. And I, as being free to roam where I like in this building)

A journey of no return
Linear time
a forever forward march
gone once and gone forever.


But memory
is different...
Memory is an elevator
up-down-up-down-back-and-
forth-to-and-fro
Memory is the desire
wishing to turn back time and
my elevator often
gets stuck on the same floor
and adamantly
refuses to move.


Day 24- Death Poem

half closing eyes
a quaking mind
trembling before

the Ultimate Sovereign
who is our guest tonight
surrendering
before the awe-ful presence
the individual will
reluctantly, unwillingly
relinquishing the five senses
the gateways of life.
Memories leap up and
you must let them go
Nostalgia is a bane and a boon.
And... the curtain falls
the play ends abruptly
Oblivion. Blissful
Oblivion.

Others write elegies in memoriam.

Day 25, 26

Day 25- poem based on fairy tales

The witch who locked hansel in a cage
Cinderella's evil stepmother
The wicked woman who imprisoned Rapunzel
in an upstairs window
The wolf who pretended to be
Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother.
The curse on Sleeping Beauty
The banishment of Snow White
to seven dwarfs with malicious grins
amidst spooky goblins and demons
I search for angels and
fairy godmothers in vain
in these devilish tales of witchery.


Day 26- circular poems. ( begins and ends with the same line. All in less than 12 lines.)

As I walk down to the office, it is 2pm
a sudden feeling of deja vu, a re-enactment
in my mind, before my eyes, it is 12th August 2008
the single most humiliating, embarrassing, shaming
moment of my life, it haunts me, taunts me
hunts me down like a scared animal
the vision threatens to overwhelm me
at the brink, I brusquely shake my head
one compelling, irresistable look and
I resolutely turn my gaze away
As I walk down to the office, it is 2pm.

Day 27, 28, 29, 30

Day 27—News poem (based on a newspaper article)

Said he loved her
he said he loved her, yes
and so he killed her
murdered her with two
butcher's knives.
He could not see her with
another man.
Thus a tragedy came to pass
Because a pompous fool
a male chauvinist pig
dared to think he possessed
her life.


Day 28-- poem on an object always within hand's reach-- 'The Art of Making a Juda' – It's elsewhere on this blog, an earlier post.

Day 29-- List Poem ( a list of things. The same phrase/kind of thing should be repeated many times)

Free me from this pain
Free me from your disdain
Free me from angsty insanity
Free me from demons of lunacy
Free me from these tears
Free to unchain my fears.
Free me from the debt I owe to you.



Day 30- a poem about poetry-- 'Poetry, Dreams, and Reveries' – it is elsewhere on this blog, an earlier post.

Feast: Body and Soul

Feast your eyes
on the cheeses and the sauces
the steaming soup
the melting-in-the-mouth dessert.
savour the rich aromas
the mix of desires and spires of smoke
Steep yourself into it, crave for it.
Then dip, bite, chew, dig in
Let the full-filling meal
satiate your body's hunger.
And watch how
the spires and the desires
the aromas and the sauces
stitched up
that rent in your heart
that tear in your soul
where pangs
of unconsummated desires
had lurked.
That was when you were too busy
Eating.

Of Poetry, Dreams and Reveries

Poetry, dreams and reveries
create oyster pearls
and fertile lands
from grains of desert sand.
Impregnate
black monsoon clouds with rain
Moons, stars and comets
wanderers in the night.

A blank notebook page
or a digital word file
tabularasa of my mind
like the ovary is the receptacle
for the stamen's pollen.
mine to write, edit, delete
cross over and write again
I the solipsist, creator, god.

Spaces that are truly "mine"
Cottages, nests and homes
Through them, I cautiously put out
feelers, tentacles
sticky threads of spider webs
connecting links
with myself,
with the world.

Being Belindas (a response to Pope's Rape of the Lock)

The mirror hangs before me
My long face stares back at me
a pointed chin
whose rounding I dread
A tiny forehead
gleaned from the thick mass
of black hair surrounding it.
At the black hair
now streaked with red
I oscillate between
fascination and nostalgia
The hair, mostly helter-skelter
sometimes, precise in a bun
A glazed eyeball
with its bit of plastic-glas lens
A newly pierced nose--
a shade too large
showing off that li'l bit of green
My ears trying to seek attention
with their multiple studs and rings
which I regard as pets
And a moody mouth.
but on the whole, a face
I can live with.
My skin the colour
of burnt caramel
a thin, supple body
I am unashamedly
in love with.

Bottles and vials lined
in an array on the slab beside me
the daily ritual
of cleansing, toning, conditioning
the creams and the perfumes
the chief kohl that lines my eyes
the earrings in their silver box
the cupboard with its
greater assortment of clothes
than i could ever wear
the occupational hazards
of being a young girl.

Oh Pope, and other misogynists!
We love being Belindas
and Belindas we shall remain
with our bottles and our vials
our bibles and our billet doux
and we rebel against rapes
of our locks and otherwise.
our bodies and their vagaries
and tricks we play with them
are ours.
And not playthings or objects
for your phallus
or that inglorious phallic symbol
your pen.

The Art of Juda Making

A wealth of hair
wound around my hand
twisted, just so
with a flip movement, there.
And then there's the inner filling
the stuffing
which must be put in
just right, neither caving in
nor protruding
ouch! That was tricky!
A cautious patting of the bun
to affirm its roundness
its smoothness, neatness
And the wooden stick
with its carved, crowning head
is now inserted
at just the right angle.
Or a pencil or a paintbrush
would do as well
if sticks are few.
Holding up a mass of hair
with a single stick
and grace
that comes from minimalism
The art of juda making
like the art of poetry
is of delicate precision.

A Love-Lorn Night

Last night I realised
that I am the climbing
white rose briar
and you the teak tree
with your straight smooth bark
and broad leaves
I lose myself
upon extrication.

Last night I discovered
you again,
through your words
you came alive
within me
within these angular walls.

Last night I realised
that this pain that writhes
like a body that is shot
but is not quite dead
and this dull, slow ache
that haunts till life
becomes death
is part of me.

Last night I remembered
the pearl the oyster makes
of the itching grain of sand
and I prayed
that the wisdom of the oyster
be granetd me.

Homeless Home-makers

A dhoti, a vest
is that a man
precariously balanced
on the wooden ladder
on the third floor
in a sea of mortar?
Saris tied to be gotten
out of the way
women carrying
head loads of brick and cement
Kids of all sizes
playing in the mud
sleeping on the ground
crying, sniffling, happy, gay
in scanty, dirty clothes
they turn into cement
sand and mortar themselves.
Make shift houses
and make shift meals
defy the name
having become the only
way of life.
eaten by mosquitoes
sun, wind and rain
living in shacks
of jute sacks and tarpaulin
they build multi storeyed
buildings with turrets, pillars
fancy woodwork
and exquisite grandeur.

On a roller coaster ride

From pleasure pinnacles
I plunge headlong
into deep abysses
Dancing with delight
I find myself
in doldrums of despair.
Eternally internally
on a roller coaster ride
looking to you
depending on you
for dancing and plunging
you the key
and I the clockwork.

Rushing, rolling, dashing, drowning
grown tired and weary
I wonder why my boat
rocks so violently.

Your fear brings me closer to you

Fear stares at me
through your eyes
stands face to face
with the fear in mine.
Fear speaks to fear
I see fear run through your eyes
touch your lips, change your face
Your fear brings me closer
to you.

Hatred would break me
Dislike cripple me
as I stand at your mercy
yet again.
But your fear tells me
you have devils
and demons to fight
as much as I have mine.

Strange conundrum!
Your fear brings me closer
to you
your pain helps me deal with
my own.

Things Fall Apart

Things fall apart
and bury
a piece of my heart
under rubble.
My shrieking, protesting heart
alive and awake
is buried under rubble.
reams of paper fall apart
an earthquake hits me
tremors shake the ground beneath me
treasured memories, lost loves
covered by debris
scarred forever
struggle to survive.

In a Library

The far corner on the right side
of the first floor of the library
There they are--shelves 9,10,11,12,13
The Literature section
all labelled with "American lit"
"Indian lit", 14th to 20th century lit
musty, yellowed, decaying
books bound in red and brown
faded, crumbling tomes
line my hands with their dust
shelf after long shelf of books
ceiling to floor, wall to wall
here and there, ah relief!
books with shiny, laminated covers
books with glossy, illustrated jackets
books, books, books
and me
lost in a reverie
awed into solemnity
world opens upon new world
in a library.

These are a few of my favourite things

Peacocks trees rivers poetry
Jane Eyre, Brunizem menstrual rites
Don Williams Simon and Garfunkel
masks fractals long open tresses

coffee popcorn silver fishes in my ears
red black olive green purple
blue elephants flying violet owls
big fat yellow gold moons

These are a few of my favourite things...
mixing memory and desire
they speak to me
of you...

A Lens in Solution

A nucleus in cytoplasm
a fish in water
in air, it dries up
cripples, shrivels, and dies.
in solution, it unfolds and blossoms
gaining new life.

A Lens in Solution

an untitled love poem

O. Henry!
On a thorn, your nightingale bled
to death, to make the white rose red
all night, for the beloved.

Oh nightingale!
give me your courage
so that I too am bled
till my rose is red.

The beauty- parlour

Having your body
massages, rubbed, cleaned
by other women
is deeply relaxing.
there is an ease, a letting go
revealing body to body
the free, open nudity
of women among women.

But the mantra ia fairness
fair is good. fair is lovely.
fair is the desired ideal.

Well, but I am dark
And what if I like darkness?
and want to revel in it, love it,
making it wholly my own?

The Dark Night

The dark night
pads quietly in
making no sound

The dark night
warm, soft
gently embraces the world

The dark night
envelops, encompasses
silence binds separateness together

The dark night
is a time of rest
when hearts mend and heal themselves

The dark night
and its silence
lead me to greater clarity

The dark night
with its moon, is a friend
not an enemy we are afraid of.

two pairs of eyes...

two pairs of eyes
locked together
in intense gaze

the silence is palpable
dense with weight of the unspoken
feel it, touch it

the moment if fleeting
eyes are averted
it's over. it's all over.

Haunting memories linger.

Violet sky
pinned with moon and star
friends in open terrace
laughter, chatter
spiralling smoke of hookahs
comfortable rumble of bellies
well efd on chocolate and italian cheese
one of the moments of "Being"
matches lit in darkness, oases in desert
that keep life going...

Undying faith

twisted and gnarled in ugly shapes
formed, deformed, crafted, made
unmade stories, words of mouth.

they sought and fought to kill it
stamp it out. clash after clash
it survived, blind

knowing neither right nor wrong
this ceaseless flame of devotion, worship
this undying faith.

A party

A party
closely knit, we live
each talking a language
different, same, all at once
head, legs, arms
mind, heart
run helter skelter thither
but strive to merge converge
the best-est of faithful friends
Me, Myself, and I.

Door handles

People are rooms with doors
with opening mechanisms
and handles
round, easy, smooth
or crooked, creaky
grating harshly when they open.
some have difficulty opening
or find it hard to shut
round or polished or lean or
thick or grumpy or bright
with different knobs
and keys of unlocking secret treasures.

Hide-Away

There's a smell in yellowed
much thumbed pages fo old books
I bury my head into them.

There's an individuality in each
much loved poem, book
book ends, old friends.

There are personalities, memories
hidden in handwritten letters
I gently rub my lips against them.

a lovely, comforting smell hidden
in hot cakes from the bakery, in good food
in the open freshly-wahes hair
gently caressing my back

pen-paper inviting me to write
listening to deliciously romantic songs
as I nod off to sleep, late nights

this is where I come to
when I hide-away.

the singing rain
music in the wind
the laughing bereze
as it tickles and caresses
the trees.
bright flowers peeping
through the wet, fresh green
glimpses of poetry.
Nature is a child again
rejoicing, celebrating
infecting, inviting us
to join in her play.

to see greys
between blacks and whites
red-pink-purple-blue
good-bad-right-wrong
dark-light-beautiful-ugly
merging into one another
certainty of meaning or
deconstructing all meaning?
finding in-betweens
joyful, colourful plurality.

adrift, afloat
a raft on a river
(beset with doubts
aimless journey without end)
needs to flow with the river
but needs to steer, paddle, row.

to find my own meaning
to flow with the river
but to create my own course.

a tree gives of itself

nurtures, bears fruit and flower

only cos it is at peace

with itself, accepting each leaf

even tiny , scrawny ones.

(only dead leaves are shed)

rooted, grounded firmly in place

the sun may scorch its leaves

at times, but the tree knows it cannot

turn from the sun and live.

to give of myself

I must accept each part

of this self, be at peace

(shed only dead ones)

I must be rooted, centred

people may scorch me a times

with biting remarks, but I cannot

turn from people and live.

a tiny speck

makes the eye burn

redden, itch

blinding tears well up

a black particle

clouds my mind over

driving me to darkness

despair.

this black (w)hole

blinds mke from Seeing.

Rummaging between old papers, I found this poem that I wrote in 2006. I like it, so decided to put it up here...

Solids, opaque objects
Definite, visible
Dense, Impenetrable

Transparent as air am I
Know me in and out
Like sunlight knows the river water
easily knowable, easily penetrable

Alas! Irony! It is but few
Who have eyes to see transparence
Eyes and minds are trained to the obvious
Clear, transparent, penetrable am I
Only for eyes that can see nothingness...

Delhi ghazal

Maggi, bunta, chips, chai shops fill the nooks of Delhi

Muffins, sutta and friends-- all in my book of Delhi

Rock music and vodka lovers to art and lit lovers

India Gate to alleyways, myriad looks of Delhi

Sweltering heat brews here as does freezing cold

Food, theatre, gossip, tales, crimes cook up in Delhi

Monsoon breezes blow here, winds of change ripple

Earthquakes, bombs, political storms recently shook Delhi

Campus college hostel life is a life unto itself

It may have its negatives, but Shruti is hooked to Delhi.

( tried to keep the rhyme, refrain and metre as correct as I was able to!!)

They say mad men must be humoured

They say mad men must be humoured.

I humour myself
the way they humour mad men
I express myself
through day dreams and poems
to contain myself
to stop this crazee, lunatic spirit
trapped inside this woman's body
from acting wild
and running amok.

'tis a strange bundle of contraries
I express myself to contain myself
I humour myself
The way they humour mad men.

your words come back to me
your warmth steals over me
your eyes cast a spell
you leave me
naked, bare
and wistful.
with remnants of a distant past
and eyes bright with unshed tears
I nurse a solitary pain.

Happy Birthday, Blog!!

It's my blog's first birthday today... the first post was on 23rd may 2008 ...
Happy Birthday, blog!!
tisn't that long, many blogs have been around for much longer, but then, a first birthday does need to be celebrated! and going strong! I'm glad it's here... a blogging life is more interesting than an un-blogging life... can't imagine one anymore!!

untitled nature poem

Sweet-scented all around me lie
Pink-white snowflakes fallen from the sky
Softer than baby's breath
Fresh as the dawn
Your ethereal fragrance
Intoxicates like wine.

Of Love and Other Bruises

Smashed like a china vase
into tiny pieces
battered like malleable iron
rejected like a pen that does not write
a fallen bird, with a broken wing.

Even then, if a love refuses to die
is it a pure flame or is my life a lie?

If a mother beats and spurns her child
Where does the child walk away?

An(other) way

Head bowed down
vermillion sindur
a pink and gold dress
I'd never wear, otherwise
jingling bangles on my arms
my husband wants me to have a child
my mother in law wants me too cook
my family wants me to uphold
the honour of "my family"
I desire to be free
to be just plain ole me
Through my pallu, I see
carefree girls, chattering gleefully
of all the things they dream to do
But I---
I must always be on the outside
I never knew an(other) way to be.

Butchering the Butcher

Bloody hands
cursed is my name
day after day, I slit
throats of goats
and little chicks
haunted by their eyes
haunted by their pain
where shall I go
to become a man again?
brute killing brute
condemned is my life
But I need food
for my wife to survive.

You sit on gleaming glass tables
under glimmering chandeliers
saying "i didn't kill them
it was the butcher"

Bower

I wove garlands
of fictions
fancies, fantasies
perfumed fragrances
that gave delight
keeping me happy
and cosy.
I did not want grim reality
its stark, naked truths
staring me in the face.
My garland is my bower
it's a lovely purple and green.

All the same, you have yours too
Only, maybe your garland is blue.

Railway Journey

A Thailand girl gave me thai food
A woman talked of pilgrimage
A bride with bangles sat before me
a didi gave me paranthas and laddoo
two children played and sometimes fought
a man on the top berth, lost in his book
A last rumble, a last screech
the train comes to a halt
I melt out of their lives
they out of mine
But the journey, like the river, goes on...

I meet people, I go places
I see a million different faces
some I like and some I don't
some I love and some I ignore
laughter, pleasure, hurt and pain
solitary loss and solitary gain
sweep across like hurricanes
I change my place, or you change yours
I melt out of your life
you out of mine
But the journey, like the river, goes on...

My Umbrella

'Twas a beautiful umbrella
a bright, warm red
covering me like a secure shell
in sun and rain and storm
I peeped out at the world
all snug and cosy in my umbrella.

Scorching sun, pelting rain and devastating storm
made my umbrella faded, tattered
it has holes in it now.

I stand, clutching my holey- umbrella
peeping out at the world
Today, I believe it to be
as snug, as cosy
as secure, as warm
and perhaps...
as beautiful, as bright, and as red.

Poems

a poem is the heart
of a purple flower
a poem is the mother
protecting her chicks
a poem is the first snowflake
that touches the ground.
A poem is also my soul.

Please don't judge it morally
with your whims and fancies
Please don't butcher it
with your should-nots
a poem is a sacrificial offering
a poem is a child
A poem is also my soul.

Putting a Stopper

When an obstruction blocks
the peacefully flowing river
it finds other channels
to surge ahead.

When steam
coming out through a fissure
is suppressed
it explodes violently.

When thundering waterfalls
encounter barriers
they rage, regardless.

That's what people nowadays
don't understand.
There are waterfalls of steaming desire
within me
But they think human laws
work differently
from natural, physical ones.

Fragments

I am fluid
I take the shape
of whatever mould
you put me in.
I flow downwards
get pumped upwards.
you throw me,
splash me.
parts of me scatter.
what am I?
is there a me?
the part you splashed,
or the part that's here?

The Sound of Reverberating Silence

Between the ringing of the bell
and the opening of the door
Between reaching the platform
and the coming of the metro
Between lying in bed
and waiting for sleep
lies the silence.

In the depths of nights of darkness
In the heart of rock or stone
In the spaces of an old man's thoughts
lies the silence

Between what I feel
and what I say
Between what I say
and what you hear
Between what you do
and what I understand
lies the silence

In the centre of activity, civilisation
In the core of things
In the abyss of a mind
lies eternal, irredeemable silence

Some go to offices, some go to classes
some go to parties, some go to night clubs
some to book clubs, others to piano lessons
some apply hair dye as they see themselves grow old
some tell fortunes out of tea leaves
some smoke and drink chai and pass time
All are in a hurry, a flurry to escape
all know it intimately, all deny it vehemently
the eternal, irredeemable silence.

From Mirage to Mirage

the sand glimmers with heat
the air glimmers with heat
the clear blue sky mocks the aridity
scavenging vultures circle overhead
the rotting carcass of a camel
in the distance.
they live off the camel, to survive
the hot sun sears, scorches
merciless.
I step onto a sand dune
shifting sands slip under me
sucking me in,
I struggle to escape.
the desert is greedy, hungry
it wants. it desires. it takes.
I am thirsty. I want. I desire.
shading my eyes--- there it is!
palm trees, an oasis.
the dream of the oasis
my faith in the oasis
pulls me out of the shifting sands
propelling weak body, weary mind
towards that promise.

The blazing sun beats down
on glimmering parched sand
Nothing. Barren aridity.
It was a mirage.
Vultures mock me with rapacious
raucous cries
the sand shifts from beneath my feet
sucking me in, sucking, sucking
the blue sky laughs and jeers from above

no water in sight
no human soul in sight
only hot sun, shifting sands, vultures.

I look in the distance
I dream, I believe
in the promise of that baseless mirage
I have utmost faith
from mirage to mirage I live
my faith in a mirage quenches my thirst
torn by contradiction
broken by mockery
with certainty of uncertainty
my only rock of faith
a mirage.

From mirage to mirage I live
I've been doing it for years.

haikus

trying out haikus...

big, full golden moon
between two tall palm tree tops
inky purple sky


bare, slender branches
parakeets, thick as leaves
still, as though transfixed

these are just experiments... according to Vivek, you need to read the work of the old japanese masters first before you try to write haikus, and I've never read any... and now I'm fearing scathing remarks from vivek if he reads all these references on my blog!!

a ghazal

i wrote this ghazal very foolishly, without even knowing that it needs to have a rhyme... then when Vivek pointed that out, I managed to have some sort of a rhyme, and personally speaking, it turned out much better than I expected it to, when i was wrestling away with it. But what Vivek says is very true... that it's actually a repetition of "-ly" and not really a rhyme... well... I didn't know that when I wrote it, and now I'm stuck and have no idea what to do with it! Here goes! the idea is something that germinated in my mind a lon time back in october-november...


a sculptor carving skilfully in agra
my hand was cut off stealthily in agra

abused and worn out weaning fourteen babies
your love in a tomb, tenderly in agra

people from afar visit the world's wonder
amidst squalor unheedingly in agra

built by shah jahan for his beloved wife mumtaz
in history class they said proudly in agra

this white gleaming tomb erected in darkness
Shruti asks cruelly or lovingly i agra.

poems shortlisted for TLM

OK... I have NEWS!! For the first time since I started this blog, I actually have NEWS.
which is just that I got the surprise of my life on the evening of 9th jan 2009, when a mail from Antara Dev Sen of "The Little Magazine" (otherwise known as TLM) saying that 3 of my poems ...( and I had sent them so many... that was a long time back in July 2008) have been accepted for publishing in subsequent issues. all their issues are themed, so the poem has to fit the theme. that's all. this is what makes me so super-elatedly excited these days when all else fails...
I'm pasting the 3 poems here below, although all of them are elsewhere on this blog as well, in earlier entries... here goes...
1. Trees

Gnarled, huge, knotted, tree trunks
Grand old banyans spreading, an ancient society
Guardians of the earth, these sentinels
stand watch, century after century
Witnessing .... Time
I bow my head, god is here
in these temples of our grandfathers.


2. You have grown
into me
you are part of me
your words are my words
your tones and gestures
my tones and gestures
the way you dress, is the way I dress
How do I separate
How do I escape from you now
without losing my self?

3. At night 
\
temporarily removed. sent elsewhere for publication.

Inside my room
I am naked, bare
unclothed, exposed.

Inside my room
thoughts and feelings
lie outside my body.

Inside my room
is poetry
is music

Inside my room
is paper and pencil
to hear me when no human will.

Inside my room
I, Me, Myself
are in harmony.

arrested moments
in the flux of time
challenge linearity.
my nostalgic self
journeys back beyond
borders of finite, limiting time
lives again in memory intensely
what it cannot in reality.
this moment too
will soon be past
recorded forever
on the film of heart and mind
a tenuous, fragile link
it wavers, but never quite breaks.
this place binds me to itself
this is where I'll always "belong"
of distance, time, even people --
regardless.

born of a desperate state, this poem was written as a sort of catharsis... to purge the excess of emotion... it comes across as pretty cliched and hackneyed, but I am still posting it here. the couplet form at least brings in a little bit of distance, (I hope...)

Smouldering fire
agony of desire
broken heart, aflame, afire
writhes as in a seizure.

pent, unspent, it wastes away
consuming itself day after day
what will remain of this shrivelled heart?
withering, drying up, torn apart?

its grief it brought upon itself
past misdeeds don't repair themselves
passion and folly have ruined woman before this
this heart is damned, do not pity it

riddled with shame, overwhelmed by pain
it cannot accept what society ordains
it's a cancerous wound, it cannot move on
trapped in its own net, this heart is too far gone

reverberating silence blasts the heart's deep core
stifled, suppressed, lonely, heavy and sore
a tale so common and overused
still as true for me as it is for you.

another attempt at writing a sonnet...
although I am mightily pleased with my latest accomplishment, suggestions and viewpoints are most welcome...

a milk bottle for the baby
mamma's caress for little children
a fairy tale for kindergarten
or a huggy, cuddly teddy

prayer books, rosaries for rocking chair ladies
brandy, maybe, for the gentry
cigarette for the young adult-ry
a phone call for lovers and pretty lassies

As for me, I always think of you
you do not know, you do not care
the world gives me one cold rude stare
but constantly within me, there is you

Is it weakness, illusion, is it wrong
to want that for which all humans long?

Dream Terror (a sonnet)

My first sonnet ever!! I was so excietd yesterday when I wrote it!!

dunno if I succeeded though.... here it goes...

Dream Terror

Often have I had gory dreams

Of being shut up in prison, of rape

Life threatening situations with no escape

Gruesome visions that oft made me scream.

But lately I had one of unspeakable horror

It was all the effect of Wilde's book

Dorian Gray took me off the hook

The dream made me weep and shudder with terror.

The one whom I love, I planned to kill her

I planned to kill her while I slept

The grossness of this I cannot forget

Cold, cruel, bloodthirsty murder.

"Please tell me she's alive, tell me she's not dead!!"

I cried out full of shame, repugnance, dread.

A Fruitless Search for Faith

You believe in jesus
in krishna, in ram
fasting, chanting, praying
you offer flowers to lakshmi's painted smile
taking it as benign and kind.

Faith fills voids, gaps in our selves
making us whole
fills gaps too in what we worship
Only completeness can give of
make us complete.

I have always been an atheist
agnostic, free thinker, whatever
a disbeliever.
I never believed in god.

I have faith in a woman
in pain, in fear
in times of trouble
I believe in her.

gathering shards of my broken self
filling empty spaces in me
making myself whole, through her
my image of completeness.

But a woman has no painted
I can imagine as benign and kind
she breaks me into a million shards
and I struggle to make myself whole
through her.

Ironical. Paradoxical.
Life has made me cynical.
a wry smile on my face,
I wonderwho was the bigger fool
You or I.

do give me responses!! and tell me if there are lines I should cut, edit, or change!!