On life and its vagaries

Posts Tagged ‘memories

Dots In Line

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Dots in Line

As I hold on to the moss covered gate-post, the scrawled codes of the past shake off their reveries and take me back through the barely distinct portals of my lost days, to where I was, some thirty years ago, walking these sandy paths, feet crunching, sand kissing my toes through the sandals, their ever so faint brush of discomfort on the soles, still walking, unthinking and immersed in the locale, inhaling the morning air that carries the faint salty sting of the nearby seas, and the sun on my skin, walking between the then newly erected bamboo fences, their thorns seemingly dulled by the rains, unknown vines twining through the abrasive structure, pale and fragile wild flowers hiding their heads between the leaves, white and yellow, blue and vermillion, and I sense the slow-moving little sand thorns gripping at my sandals, as if railing at me : “who are you to tread these paths, you stranger boy, go back to those red and hilly terrains you were frequenting not so long ago”, I lift my feet and carefully take them off, placing them on dry areas on the path, so that they could move again, wondering whether I am doing right, and they stay quiet for a moment on the loose sand and begin ever so slowly to travel again, I could see water snakes slithering across the sandy path out of the corner of my eyes as I turn my head towards the rustles in the leaves in the nearby trees, ever quick and frightened and disappearing into the wayside pools, their scales glistening brownish, looking so thin, and incapable of hunting prey, as I step on the clear puddles left by the rains the black grainy silt is seen flitting and settling down again revealing patches of sand, washed like fresh grains of white rice, the skeletons of fallen leaves floating to the surface and sinking slowly, and I hear the muted pops of the little silver fish jumping in the narrow wayside gutters, coupled with the flowing water sounds, its faint gurgles, and its stops, its silent passages over broken branches and jutting rocks in the gutter, and those elderly people that come against me smiling down, “no school today eh”, and passing by me with a twinkle in their eyes, as the sound of their footsteps fade through the sands I enter into the shady stretches of the path, mangrove branches stooping low, pines with tongues darkened at birth, barren palms with distended and graying leaves lined with long scratches near their bows, some darkening, others fresh, showing the losing green flesh underneath, there were red flame-of-the-woods, with their honeyed stalks, residing in bunches, determined to get through the sudden rains, and then the sounds of the beginning of winter days, the Thira coming opposite me with the frightening jill-jill of the anklets, its feet covered in dust, the calves in protective wrappings, with the circular head gear engraved in wood, with its demon in tow, rough drums playing a single harsh dancing tune, and the demon asking me “what’s for the demon now, kid, what’s for the demon” I search my pockets and locate a few coins and give them to him, he has a red wooden tongue sticking out of his gruesome and many colored carved mask, the Thira takes some dance steps to please me, and then they go away to dance and collect ………………

My thoughts break as someone ask me how I was. Yet these memories do not fade; they gain the strength of dreams and bring me back to my childhood.

                                               ( Back from the haunts of my childhood)


Written by Sam

July 5, 2012 at 5:57 pm

Posted in Humor, Life, poetry

Tagged with , , , , ,


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Denizens of the underworld rooting for his life is a dormant psyche’s mistaken and muted wail.
Before hand
By a mind tortured to the extreme by inner conundrums -with the imprint of harsh reality on fantasies and ever reducing the zest to live, combating gips were being thrown out in the guise of barely fine-spun imagery.
Those were gruesome, and never ever were handsome, aiming to center on the not so winsome. Quips created to while away the ever ascending OF terrors of life.

By the macabre purchase of quaint expressions brave the world?
By and by that domain was overtaken by inanition.

Touch of Dew

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Touch of Dew

While young, some girl brought me

A blade of grass with

A glistening dewdrop at its end

It looked like a drop of pearl ….


She said:


Sam, it’s so cool to the touch, you know,

Can I touch it to your eye?

  I had doubts on its coolness and

My ‘coolness’ in allowing such a silly thing

Yet being kind, I said hesitantly:

“Go ahead then”


And that touch of dew over my iris

Altered my way of seeing things…..


I don’t know where she is now

But I know she changed my life

On A Split Hydra

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On A Split Hydra

                                                                                                  (Poems on nature)

She split into two
No one knows how
There’s some who say that
It was a hacked and bisected thing
Just a chance happening-
In a moment of pain


It doesn’t matter
How it came about
Where there was one
Now there’s two
And the one clasps the other like
It has iron claws
Everyone who looks at the two
Would learn it at a glance
There is no help for them
They are fated to part


Yet once split, it started pining for
The split part
It grieves and cries over it
Over and over
It has turned maudlin
Those who watch, feel the rent of the heart
The tearing of the eyes
The snot blocking the larynx
The juice in the troubled voice
(Even if it’s a hydra and we
Are being anthropomorphic)


Yet It’s a sad thing
Who’s there to console the poor being


However hard it tries to hold on
It had splintered apart
The more it
Stays separate
The harder it’s going to get
The older part would age and shrivel
And the sprung part would grow
And move off
It’s how the world goes on
You can’t hang on


Those that became severed
Can’t stay united
Yet we are all such fools
We think we can find some way
To repair the incompleteness
That we see in ourselves


It’s a fact of life that
All repairs need be in the heart
Letting go of something
Is an art
Its learned through pain and
The inevitability of loss
So let us say to the fading one:


Don’t cry, you darling thing
Learn to live with the hurt
Learn to let go, learn to
Receive the pain. You aren’t alone
We are all with you.
We are around you, and we know
How you feel. We are there for you
Aren’t we all one after all?


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Through the pale Violets of dawn

A traveler was seen slow

Mute tartars were then foraging

In the viscous souls of the flowers

Their faces mauve with the violated blood

And their black hides and swishing tails

Twitching as flies protested at the brutal feast

The muffled tremor distinct and threatening


A dead breeze was hugging the ground

Faintly caressing the torn and fallen petals.

And as they fluttered on the ground in mute pain

The sky seemed to turn its grey visage towards the overhanging cliffs

But they yet stood still with the weight of the sight.

On the far side, the distant hills, unseeing and bluing

Were heaving their bosoms up

Surfacing through the failing mist


There air had turned still, harsh with its bated breath

And the sun hovering over hills now pulsed livid and angry.

As he passed through them, the traveler

Left the liquidators jolting–still for long moments

Their heads rigid, nostrils wide and flaring

The curves of their horns showing fretted and coarse

Their jaws yet working, eyes hulking vast and scared-

The skies spread through the irises, and something dead in them


As he now was stepping carefully through the mushy dents

Made by the hoof marks of the grazing kine-

Some of those still gaping fresh with deep and brownish lesions

And the field vivid in a darkling green, soft and still to his feet

He saw a Poinciana flaming by the boundary, its canopy

Spreading its wings, sheltering e’en the marauders in its shade

Chances are……….

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Chances are……….

A boat is seen, slow

Crossing a river

Chances are that I am in it and seeing the

Lukewarm water and the shadow of the boatman parting underneath

And the shore line receding and gaining

The sun coming after us in undiminished speed

Only hidden partially by the water

That I am listening to the ancient song the boatman sings

Watching the drips of sweat making furrows

On his bare back, a back parched and grainy with the sun

And his long bamboo pole, while hastily being

Immersed in water making a faint noise on the sand of the river bed

And its hard grating slide through the sides of the boat

The whole of the body tensing, bend as a spring

Thin elbows straining, wiry muscles taut

And relaxing as the pole rises, water running over them

It could be I witnessing…….moving with the waters

Traversing with the needles of the sun over my body…….


It could be me on a fading noon on the river, seeing

The ripple of water spreading as the boat labors across the current

Fishes in dark outlines swimming with us

Bubbles bursting on the water face, birds swooping through-

The heart of small flitting bodies, debris attaching and detaching,

It could be me dragging a leg through the tepid water,

Feeling the seemingly porous and blackened wood of the old canoe

Deeply frazzled by time, like that of a buried carcass, dull black in the sun

Chances are it could be me or someone in me or someone I knew

And long since forgotten yet seeing through me, revisiting places

And events he felt and held fast to, chances are

It’s him sitting here, running fingers over stubborn keys

Making them play to his tune

That we are one and the same or fragmentary portions

Of the same self or I am an aggregate of these selves

Living through them, realizing one or a few as chance would have


Chances are, it’s magic and I am a magician

Par excellence


3 Haikus

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 Slight evening drizzle

Smell of earth

Birds are not listening



 Glitches scabs my monitor

I power it down.

Silence shredded by slogans



 As the night changes into morning

Dawn falls behind

Only a few dew drops get hijacked