On life and its vagaries

Posts Tagged ‘mind


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I saw, by chance, a
Smile on a sad face; why seek
Peace in futile words


The rudder seems new,
The Boat, about to take off,
What ails the slow breeze


The skies remain veiled
After a day of dogged rain.
Mirrors seem to cloud


To An Unknown Friend

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To An Unknown Friend

Stay a while, my friend and stranger
The day is still meandering, and there’s still time
Those drinks you had, how are they faring
Does the mind tell you where I am now, near or far
The disheveled hair on your head, is it painted
Or are you yet young at heart to outgrow the Time
The way you walk, never steady and in control,
Does that affect you in what you see
How does the world look, flat or round
Does it look twisted or covered in glamour
When do you sleep my friend, or do you not
Is there a sleep that helps you dream

The world is passing us, the children laughing
Horns honking, footwear grazing the side walks
There isn’t a thing still, all are moving

While we sit here, on this lonely bench
By the side of this antediluvian road
There are flowers blooming, lots emptying
Pans frying, fans whirling and some even hooting
Things are ever frantic, let us be not like that
Let us sit here, till the close of day
Why are you drooping, hold your head steady
We aren’t done talking, my man, you and I
That stain on your shirt, does that sting friend
Did the potion spill into your soul
Is that why you are looking at me fearfully
Don’t be frightened, I am not your darkness
I can be the light you were seeking in your nights

This drizzle, it isn’t from heaven, it’s the tears
That you and I shed together, may be not here
Nor anywhere, but still we shed them together
For we aren’t divided, we, you and I, are ever together
That sagging chest holds a thousand terrors
The drinks can’t still them, they garrote the drink
Don’t get up, you can’t yet walk, I am here my man
Though I don’t even lift a hand to make you steady
I am here still, with you all the way

Stop looking at those happy faces, embraces, and kisses
They aren’t real friend; they are off a passing show
You had partaken in that show once, as I had
They are bland, at least to us sitting here
You are now muttering assent, I see your lips move
Don’t wipe those dribbles off; they are droplets of your pain
You aren’t wagging your head to the music now
Are you, the music stall across is what this is all about
Noise, more noise, there isn’t a lapse to the noise
It blares day and night, winter and summer, burial and birth

She could be your girl, the one approaching
I see I was right, she isn’t happy with me
And is abusive towards you, you are doing great, old girl
He is drowning in your love; we were having a nice talk
About just that and he was doing good
Now you cart him away, with bitter looks at me

Fare thee well my friend, you can’t drink
This sorrow away, for it has claws of steel.

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 Didactics

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On Didactics


Teaching the cute little wild cat

The sum of life is hard; it can turn bad, ‘cause

The darling is wild, and can only be had

By its silly neck—always remember to catch it firm

(And as one of the old masters told me)


“It is cute, absolutely sweet

But it is dark and mighty wild”


She stands up on her hind legs

Exposing the pristine fur on her belly-side

Her claws spread and her mews rasping

She’s ready for fight, her furs are alight

Her eyes aren’t the same on two

Con-secutive moments

They suck you in, and spread you thin

You be better on the look out

Or she would wound you dead


If you aren’t a cat whisperer

Don’t ever think of  teaching it

And you would be hard put even

To get someone to train her


I picked on a  poet for the purpose.

But that soul  brushed me off with these lines

By singing:


“My love is not speaking( to me) any more

So how can I speak on my own “ (‘Own’ is elongated)

“It is he who speaks through me

And without his words I am no more” (‘More’ is also drawn-out)


That’s some powerful insight

So I left in peace, no business in meddling

In love affairs.


Well I have now decided to release

The  cat kid to the wild.


If poets can’t train a wild cat, who else can?


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Is no chatter day


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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

Potion Sweet

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Potion Sweet

(There’s never a breath in the room

The noon lies like a whale, dead and ashore)


She’s lying face down,  like a stream  quite

Its surface undulating, turning now,

A tangle of limbs, the ceasing,-surfacing of ribs.

Paul watches her, its midday outside,

Through the curtains, a window is looking in towards them

The curtains gaunt with age, frayed at seems

Stuttering in the pickled heat of the room

And  he is sweating, it’s a  sticky sweat


Unheard, there were knocks on a door

Insistent , urgent, then they lulled, picking up now

Who is peeking at us, he wondered,  god may be

God is the one who forbade the potion we took

Wakeup. He says to her. Her flesh damp and cool.

She stirs so slowly in sleep

Wakeup. He urges, pinching  her nose with fingers

Now she moves to the side and seems expectant

Extends one arm, eyes  clear, lips parting


Some god  is at the door. He hush  his whisper

Can’t be, she jerks back. Salesman may be

Sales men  know your name?

She stills now. Slithers out of the bed. Panting. 

When.. ?And  something mutes the question

“Listen.” And there was the call again.

 It was loud this time

Its him she says. It’s my lord and god.

She slides down on the bed,  a crumpled cloth


My god will kill me. She whimpers now

But he was not listening. He was worried.

The window latch…… it won’t open.

He was still  fumbling.

Its stuck,  she says. Its stuck

She is getting dressed even now. Teary yet.

There’s death in the air, the lights have all gone out

And there’s never a breath in the room

The noon lies like a whale, dead and ashore


Going where? Paul says harshly.

There’ isn’t a back door to this dump


Yet she seems composed, and even smiling

Don’t need one, my god won’t know


The hell he won’t. He murmurs. The hell he won’t


Then …..she’s all sweet to her god. He is kind. Urbane.

Paul works in my section, she says, came to get something.

The god seems pleasant and has a nice smile

“We had head phones on, you know, chatting with the boss!”

Hands are shaken. Drinks  shared

The god may have a cold. And cold smells nothing.


Now that the god is at home, he has to leave.


Outside it’s a hell of a noon

May be it’s the noon of hell