Mute Poetry

So, the semester finally got over and I have started feeling alive. Yesterday, I was taking a leisurely stroll at the Bookstore by the University when I noticed a book titled 'Poetry of the English Language'. I don't know why but it made me a little uncomfortable. It seemed like poetry being forcibly caged to the confines of a language. I flipped through the pages. Quite interesting pieces they were. Someone thinks of a brilliant thought and you need to know English to relish that. What a pity! (Well, yah u can translate stuff into other languages, but we want to taste the original) What if there could be some media which would transcend all these earthly barriers(like language), a media which would be universal and deep...(as deep as your sixth sense :-) )

MUTE POETRY

Lets write words
which know no language.
Words which are mute.
Let them not be English
not Hindi either.
Language is a limitation.
Lets be free.

Lets write words
which can't be seen.
Words which are blind
And which can be seen
even by the blind.
Vision is a limitation.
Lets be free.

Lets write words
which can't be heard.
Words which are deaf
And can be heard
even by the deaf.
Sound is a limitation.
Lets be free.

Lets write words
which can't be touched.
Words which are numb
And can be touched
even by the numb.
Touch is a limitation.
Lets be free.

Lets write words
which can't be written.
Words which have no script.
And which can be written
without any hands.
Writing is a limitation.
Lets be free.

Lets write words
which have no form,
no body but a soul.
And which can be felt
beyond the five senses,
by our soul.
Our senses are our limitation.
Lets be free.

A Piece of Trash

Its like one of those times when u feel tired of life.... and you don't care for 'almost' anything... u just wanna take a big sigh, lay back, look back or may be even not.. U just want to forget about your existence... you wouldn't even care for for a fresh lease of life or a miracle even if they are knocking on your door vigorously... you! are simply not interested... You just want to be like those used packages, broken stationery and paper-trash strewn at a little distance from me.

One good thing about trash is that it does not complaint. It lies wherever you dump it. (ok, we r not talking about the foul smelling kind of trash)... Trash just lies there, quietly, motionless, without any anxiety, happiness or sadness, not caring for anyone, not being cared for either..
So, in times like these if ur hands are on the keyboard, what can u expect...just another piece of trash as follows ::


LINES

Someone told him
that someone
took a pencil
in hand and
started drawing
some lines
never lifting up
the pencil
from the paper.

Someone told him
that someone
is still drawing
those lines
and still hasn't
lifted up
the pencil.

why the hell
should he care?
Let him draw.

Someone told him
that those lines
tell his life,
his history and
impending fate.
When they get dense
his life gets screwed.
When they get smooth
his life gets cool.

Someone told him
"hey, they might be
the lines of your life"
Oh ! He was struck
for a moment.
"Does he have enough paper
to keep drawing?" :-)

Someone told him
"hey i think i know
the whereabouts
of the guy who
draws your lines"

"oh you do.."
he said lazily

"yah..wanna know?"

"no thanks..
let him draw
let me rest
zzzzzz...."

Balancing a Pen on the Index Finger

Well.. Its been quite a while that I wrote something on this wall. So, thought of just scribbling in something just like that.. :-)

Balancing a pen
on the index finger,
Tossing a tennis ball
up and down,
Tapping my feet
onto the ground,
Drumming the table
with nimble fingers,
Eyes fixated
elsewhere nowhere,
Sitting on stair,
Playing with hair,
Lying on belly
in my messed-up lair,
Sunk in a pillow
aloof unaware,
Resting my chin
on my hands,
Smiling to faraway
rainbow bands,
Strolling aimlessly
hands in pockets,
Singing humming,
Hand waving rockets,

These are few things
that i do
Dear..dear..poem
when i think about u

Romeo goes to PhD

In the infinite dimensional
space of love
the Romeo finds it hard
to spot the coordinate
of his relationship
with Juliet. And
to add to this fuzz
the coordinate keeps moving
on an unknown loci
the equation of which
does not seem to follow
any rational, real or
complex valued function.

My dear Romoeo
said the Advisor
A pure random function
that is love
is far more intractable
than any of the pseudo-randoms
that you solved last Fall.

I see, but Professor
I need to graduate.
How should I proceed.

Try Machine Learning
We might learn the love
if we can't derive it.

Why dont you
research it for
our next meeting.

The Real Moon Mystery

What is reality ? Is it an existence... or just a myth ? We took a stroll along the Ganges in search of some clue...
(Special thanks to David Lean's acclaimed movie, A Passage to India, originally a great novel by E M Foster, for leading us to the holy river in our quest.. )

Ever seen the moon
in the Ganges, my dear?
Its not round
but spreads open
far from the horizon
across the rippling
dark blue waters,
the holy flow,
so calm and quiet.
Or is it ?

The sage by the river
tells us in whispers,
these waters have
a world inside,
a dwelling, it
so quietly hides.
"The people of that land
were once a people
like you and me.
They walked these sands,
drank this water
saw that moon,
like you and me.
Now they are dead,
their bodies left
to this sacred river
which shelters them
forever in its bosom,
all their after-lives.
Hail the Holy Ganges ! "

The old boatman
doesnot agree.
"They aren't
the after-lives.
We are.
We are the ones
who once lived
and now are dead.
Do you see the
moon in the Ganges ?
Thats the real one, my sons.
The one above you
is a mere reflection.
Hail the Holy Ganges ! "

sunday musings

hi there..my gentle reader :-)
well...again, another sunny afternoon in mountainview.. they rightly say that you can never complaint about the weather here. Its just the right kind for all.. i mean no one can hate it.... you experience a little of all sorts during different times of the day..a little cloudy and wintery in the morning... more of the sunny kind during afternoons.. cool breezy evenings and then windy nights with golden views of moon...the best thing is as i said that theres a little of every kind in the mix..i guess any kind of extremity be it hot,cold or sun in the weather is what we would have been uncomfortable with had it been that way...anywaz...so the big thing for today was that i again went for a hiking escapade..more daring than the previous ones...a continuous walk for about 16 miles...this time we really went up to the mountains that i used to see from my office and apptmt... last time i tried that i had to come back from the foothills... and also sprained my ankle in the effort.. today it was more strenous than that.. but a lot exciting too.. only i hope that my ankle remains healthy :-) ... ok i guess i really need a nap... see u back... i still have to write that review on Fountainhead, i remember..... let me tell you it would be a lot different from what i wrote when i had read it midway... will write it in the coming days.... do check it... see u and have a good sunday...bye..

--12 August 07, Mountain View, California

Six Faces of Hope

A tribute to millions of school-going children in villages across India . They are the force that is pushing education to the most elusive parts of our country.

Hope was what
I saw in their eyes.
Six little children
on a dusty rural street,
in soiled school uniforms,
all looking up
to that roaring plane,
and shrieking in chorus
to hold that boom.
They yell, they shout
their whole breath out
until that din
of the flight dies out.
And then they chuckle,
flitter and flutter,
dance, sing , sway
their win away.

Held then they,
their hand in hand
and off they gallop
in sync and in rhyme
like kings of some time.
They spread, they close,
they form a line
they rise, they bow
they march align.
Six little stars
how bright they shone
as they took a walk
thru the sky they own.

Raised my camera
to make a click
as they cruised
unseen unhit,
until the sound
of the snap came by.
They turn at once,
they see at once,
trifle and shuffle,
then came to me.
Girls in blushes,
Boys in cheers,
Six little faces
staring at me.
Hesitant but smiling,
I look into their eyes.
And hope was what
smiled back at me.

saturday musings..

Another nice, sunny, windy and surely a lazy afternoon ..here at Mountainview. I am still limping as my left foot still aches from a hiking escapade i tried last weekend. Hence, am grounded today. Want to write something or do I?... want to read something rather. By the way, I am reading Ayn Rand's 'Foutainhead' these days. The book starts off very well, seems promising, captivating, interesting in the beginning. As I reach the middle chapters, I find it a little unnecessarily verbose. And also somewhat unreasonable. Cause there appear to be some self-contrdictions in the way that Ms. Rand handles characters like Ellsworth Toohey. Mr. Toohey justs behaves so totally different and so all of a sudden in the middle chapters from the way he was introduced to us by the author herself in the beginning chapters. Surely, it may be that I am jumping on to conclusions... i.e there may be some interesting truth in the later chapters yet to be unfolded which explain this awkward behavior.. So, yah, I agree its not justified to comment on the book before reading it. I was just commenting on whatever picture I have in my mind today. And now that I have committed this sin of commenting on it mid-way, I shall have to make-up for it by giving a review once I am through with the book in toto. Well I guess thats it for today.. see u around.. :-)

Memoirs of a Geisha...

An idle weekend made me watch 'Memoirs of a Geisha' among other movies. The last scene of the reunion of the Geisha and the Chairman was particularly moving. Also, its a kind of scene where the action stops and the viewer gets some time to think and reflect from a distance. Here I make an attempt to capture that moment in rhyme. I suggest you watch the movie especially the last scenes, may be some of the things written here would make sense then.

The Time ...

it flies like dead leaves
in the breeze at the eve
it drops like a tear
from the eyes in grief
it warms like a kiss
on the lips in reprieve

its the time that comes
when the storms abate
its late i know
but its not too late

confessions of an amateur writer..

to let loose the things
caged inside my heart
i crave to write them out
but only if words allow me to
be faithful and correct
cause i dont want to be taken wrong
or if that be the problem
the fear to be understood wrong
the desire to not just be true in intent
but be seen so as well..

For I'll be only what I write
for that is only what they'll see
and these are the only words I have
to speak my mind that tells only me
in gestures only, which I cant see.

I look no more, I see no more
I think no more, I feel no more
for when i do, I want to write
of things which myself am not sure
because they look different
at different sites and times.
My heart plays hide and seek
and though I only get to hide it
I myself fail to seek.