Friday, February 18, 2011

Touch of wind

Chaos, din, getting lost, work tumbling over with the smell of undone laundry, asking the way to the airport in sign language, falling in line in the queue for aliens, removing even shoe buckle to ease every body's idea of fear, trying to mug up whateverish to English dictionary, losing friends, carrying the guilt of not being there, unwritten letters, forgotten phone calls, following the religion of transience, remembering forever to accumulate less, having just enough money for the potato wedges, staying good at being no body's anyone

...every thing..........

For the memory of the touch of wind on skin....



Sunday, February 13, 2011

Homage for Endings

There must be different kinds of hell for different people. Self's kind will be called writing hell. The moment anyone or anything ordains self to write a few sentences about some thing under the sun, self's brain will start running like an out of order washing machine, all sound and fury with no signifying word on the paper or computer screen. Mind you, this happens only when the writing is for anything  fruitful. The logs of this rambling non sense blog will testify that while writing  for any pointless purpose, self can go on and on, even though the result may not signify anything.

Till now the record has been 5 fucking hours to write a sentence. Today self would have almost broken that record, but then fell short of an hour or so. Well, breaking records is not an easy task. Still, 300 words need to be typed and send to the rightful destination before the clock touches midnight. Situations like these very often prompt self to write crap poetry or some thing similar. So, true to the tradition, self has started filling this space instead of the bread and butter worthy 300 words.
...................
Pour a bit more water, light a few more agarbathis and set the spirits of bygones free to a place from where they will never return.
The curse is broken and endings form a procession in all their finery.
Dear poet, keep your lines of spring, how lucky are the ones who can witness fall.
Let the trees shed their tears and give out sighs of relief.
Touch the feet of emptiness and mutter heartfelt thanks.

A few thousand miles here and there. Isn't the world supposed to be a round place?
Spring must be like death, it will find you wherever you are