Saturday, 12 November 2016

You remember the days?

You remember the days?
When you walked in sepia streets of nostalgia,
When you rose in roses of stupor,arms and melancholia.
You remember the days?
When you woke with a head spinning in purple haze,
And evenings of fighting demons in Lucy’s daze.
You remember the days?
When the sleepless nights made us feel,
On top of the world, not under its heel.
You remember the days?
You thought you would never sleep again,
And the night when fitfully by slumber you were slain.
You remember the days ?
When eons were  as far as evening tea,
And all your sorrows drowned by the sea.
You remember the days ?
When time caught up in its cheating chariot,
And in your mind anxiety and defence did riot.
You remember the days ?
When you held all the good that came your way in arms clenched tight,
And at time’s clarion call, let go with all your might.
You remember the days ?
When the walking  in sepia streets of nostalgia,
Only gave you neuralgia.
You remember the day ?
After which you didn’t remember the days ?
Even if you remembered, you couldn’t live them, anyway.

/* RIP Leonard Cohen. I'll spend the rest of my days searching for the secret chord. */

/* There's a cover of a Rob Scallon that I think without words captures the feeling of letting go of nostalgia very well */

Saturday, 10 September 2016

Oceans have no memory

When books of poetry fill, swagger dies
The muse sighs- thoughts in a standstill.
A laugh, a smile and then I show you,
Glimpses of dreams cast in china blue.

Walk with me by the sea,
As smoke blows away from mystery.
The oceans have no memory.
In the waves let’s our walled thoughts immerse,
And let the ocean churn up a china blue verse.

Every beautiful thing must slip into oblivion.
But to forget something-one must relive and remember.

Another lover falls to the universe
And the oceans have no memory
Except that of immersed verse,
Cast in china blue and reverie.

/*Ginsberg has a surprise reference  watch for it.*/

Let Mr.Wilson tell you about the water and memories

Saturday, 2 July 2016

Self Portrait in Colour

/*maroon is a combination of red and blue*/

He wakes from maroon dreams,
Into a world of summer autumn colour schemes.
The maroon man with his myriad moods,
At schemes ,chuckles, smirks,laughs and broods.

Red from blood once flowing,
From skin covering secret scars,
That now radiant and lambent are glowing,
Like battle scars on old guitars.

Blue from a music of oppressed art,
Blue borrowed scent,  blue love and blue heart.
And somewhere Bukowski  is sounding a rebel yell,
' is a dog from hell.'

As his eyes crave the sepia tint of nostalgia,
Blue and red blend , overpowering melancholia.
Hail muse! As nocturne sea brings foam to shore,
As maroon distills into purity from its ore.

City moves in chemically somnambulistic steps,
As poets of buildings large and small perplex.
Between these lines of cathartic ink,
Maroon turns into crimson,magenta or even pink.

Sunday, 17 April 2016

A Bucket Full of Rain

I collapse into the arms of rain,
As it descends from mysterious heaven,
A flowing respite from the summer’s pain,  
Making music -rhythmic and even.

I think of the could-be-muse,
Writing poems of autumn rainbows,
But they are of no use,
Even if they are about rain that flows.
No one cares for my poem, my diadem,
Unless they are written for them.

If you love the rain as you say you do,
Why do you have an umbrella open?
Drop it! Let it flow! Like a music true,
Till it fills up all that was stolen,
And then let down a bucket,
And bring up a poem.

" The poetry books are out of print, but that is as it should be if you're an Indian poet writing in English ."-Jeet Thayil in the preface of 'Collected poems'. 
Poetry is prayer for the godless people - Jeet Thayil 

It's exactly as Dylan says.
The rain is a metaphor for many things , and vulnerability is one of them.

Sunday, 21 February 2016

Melancolie du Changement

There is a reason we like the music we do,
There is a reason we read the books we do,
They are the handles, by which we hold onto,
Strings better left to fray.

Melancolie du Changement ripping through,
Every illusion of permanence,
Kick, run, fight-you will never outweigh,
Specks of dust in cosmic sand.

Old vinyl records scratched with nostalgia,
Envelopes that now feed vermin,
Yellow pages, watery eyes,
Are but futile in eternal time.

Should a Tennyson implore,
'That which we are, we are!'
Or a Robin Williams say,
'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!'

Embrace every moment for time flies,
Trough the slipping summer,
Through the harsh winter,
But it stays in the summer within.

/* I can't even start on the inevitability of change. It is going to happen , yet we cling to the familiar. Like a comforting summer in the middle of winter. This is not an uncommon euphemism on this blog, and it refers to porcupine tree and Albert Camus at the same time ( yeah, that's some combination) . But that is perhaps the only answer to change. Time flies, and the best that you can do is take whatever comes to you , cherish it and then let it go. If we weren't specks of dust in cosmic sand, perhaps the summers would last for ever, but that is not the case. All we can do is make good memories and let them guide us through the unfamiliar, unpredictable future.If you've had to say goodbye to good friends you know what I mean (and that's why I wrote this ). Dans les profondeurs de l'hiver je l'ai trouvé un été invincible as Camus should say .... that summer within , that's where time stands still. */

/*Also finally, a recording of trains . Hit the souncloud link below to get the summers metaphor better . */

Here's an acoustic guitar slinging , dreamily crooning John Mayer telling you basically the same thing.

Friday, 15 January 2016

The Silence Between the Notes

If for every path not taken
There is a parallel universe,
For very chorus heard
There is a silent verse.

City moves in maddening chaos,
As we get lost in crowds and its throes,
Searching for a blindfold to pathos ,
Not once looking to the undertows.

The moments between phone rings,
The poetry despite the text message blur,
The mindful breaths between desperate pangs,
Is when air becomes breath.

Pauses before punch lines,
The loud note and then the softer,
Elegant strokes of blank canvas,
Amidst splashes of colour.

/* So this one is about the virtues of silence and minimalism. I think in the fast and chaotic world we find ourselves in , the few moments of silence and poignant observation are rather amiss and rare. Great work of art always have paid attention to this idea. How many notes does BB King have to play to say what he wants to say and how many words does Hemingway have to write to convey all the horrors of war? I think we could all benefit from a few moments of silence and reserve in a world full of noise and chaos. Of course , too much of silence can never be a good thing, but given how fast and loud modern life has become , it is always great when art remind us to take a moment and just observe.*/

Sunday, 3 January 2016


Lining hills , fluttering in the wind -prayers , blessings , hope. The Buddha came and went. And new flags were raised. Flags of red, flags of sorrow.  Yet some vestiges of the glory lingers~

As old prayer flags fade,
Old hope makes way for new
the mountain watches

/*So my fist attempt at haibun. Well as you would've guessed this is about the situation Tibet finds itself in. Check out some pictures of the prayer flags that  I speak of. */