MUAD 'DIB

2011-08-04T08:17:00.001-07:00

Havent written anything in so long... except for random scribbles on the back of notebooks during meetings... is this where the writers die? on the back pages, relegated there by nothing more than the need to earn money?

Desire

2009-05-09T23:43:00.000-07:00

The night was dark. A warm moon slithered over the ground leaving a trail of slimy moonlight, I was alone... with the voices in my head. And then there was an another voice. I met my guest.

What are you writing?
Writing a story lil one.
Whats it about?

Its a ghost story.

I like ghost stories. What happens in it?
Its about a man who meets the devil.
Whats he like? The devil?
I see him as a tall man, smiling but he has very sad eyes.
Why is he sad?
He was thrown out of heaven by god. He's sad because he made a mistake and god wont forgive him.
But what did he do?
He challenged god. He wanted to become the king of heaven.
Is that what they teach you children?
What?
Gods children? hah. Image of God. Yeah right.
Who are you?
I am the truth. I am the one who has been mislabeled as the cause of your woes. I am,to be cheesy, the Devil.
Go away little girl, I am busy.
Do you want to know what really happened? Why did god distance himself from me? Why heaven was threatened?
Why?
I wanted.
Wanted what? Heaven?
No nothing so crude and trite, why wud anyone want a bunch of things singing all day long? gets on ones nerves doesnt it... I wanted. simple. And thats how heaven fell.
I dont understand.
I desired. I wanted. I craved. And Angels are not supposed to desire.
I still dont understand.
I created something.
Sin!
No! I created beauty. And I wanted that beauty. I desired to be part of that beauty.
Incest!
Really? If you create something, do you not feel part of it? Is
it 'sin' then?
You are just trying to fool me. I wont take your lies.
Why should I lie to u?
To take my soul.
And what, to use a phrase, in god's name will I do with it?
Take me to hell.
And?
Torture me for eternity.
Why?
Because you like torturing souls. You hate god's children. You are jealous.
Really? Jealous of what? Hell isnt for you. Mankind is just a gatecrasher in a sadistic party god has thrown for us, the 'rebels'. Hell was created to punish Desire. There was nothing in heaven that wasnt under god's control. Until Desire. I desired. I wanted. I felt the pain of longing. And with that i came to love what I created.
You created Sin! Your own daughter!
I created beauty out of my head. She was as much my daughter as the Mona Lisa was of Da Vinci, as the statue of Galatea was of Pygmalion's. As a character is of any artist. Every part of her was molded by me. So yes, in the truest sense of the word, she was my daughter.
What happened?
Like I said, Angels cannot desire. Desire cant be controlled by an external force. My desire was my own. It marked me. Set me apart. And so, as 'divine punishment', I was thrown to hell where my desire and its fulfillment are constantly kept separated. and that is agony.
I dont believe you.
I knew you wont. But you want to. See you at my place. Goodbye.

Broken Ashes

2008-10-13T02:09:00.001-07:00

The Scarecrow of words
Lost in the field of Thought
rustled by winds of speech
rattled by rats of doubts

a useless toy on a barren land.
Kwee waa ha ha ha
Broken ashes in a spilled crystal.

Writer’s Block

2008-07-04T04:24:00.000-07:00

He unlocked the door and the silence welcomed him with open arms and a warm draught. He walked into the empty room, put his bag down on the end of the bed, looked over to the typewriter, not even aware that his hands had moved to switch on the radio; meaningless noise began to flow out swamping the room, creating a colloidal with the with the silence, snatches of words free floating in the air. But he wasn’t aware, he kept on looking at the typewriter, waiting for something to think, but as always, nothing happened. He shrugged off the despair crawling over his brain like an intrusive insect and moved to light another cigarette. The smoke burnt, a bitter acrid taste seared his head. “Too many.” “Wonder which one this is.” His body moved to the kitchen, came back holding a cup of chai, he sat down at the table, looked at the blank sheets of paper lying on the table, his hand picked up the pen, uncapped it, poised over the page, withdrew, recapped, his mouth noticed that the cup was empty, he smiled to the wall, got up and went to the bed, lay down, slept and awoke.

Ad infinitio, Ad nauseum.

2008-06-26T23:26:00.000-07:00

The flame danced, cupped between my hands, it swayed with an abandon that was so hard for me to comprehend. Its entire being was straining to break free from the grasp of the match. A live being brought into existence by my one stroke, living its transient existence till the match ran out, or even fitting, someone put it out. But the flame wanted to live, to dance, to trip the light fantastic. To soar free, away from the match and into the blue beyond. And i was denying it its freedom. A tiny insignificant thing that pushed and twisted in its macabre dance of death and cursed me with its every turn. It was cruel of me to call it into being and then watch its pathetic attempts at freedom. But at that very moment i was god and that was my purpose. So we both stood, fulfilling our purpose, it danced and tried to dream of freedom, when it would be free of my grasp and i suffered to watch its play with the smug satisfaction of certainty. I would stay behind. It wouldn't. I would be the one to survive, it wouldn't. I would write these words while all that remained of it was a blackened match somewhere. I knew and was aware of the fact that she didn't her soon to be accomplished end. And so i watched, in gleeful solemnity, her trials at an denied freedom. But she had her revenge. Before burning out, she showed me her true force and left me with a scar of our ever so transient time together. I still wear her mark on my finger, a reminder of a being created, denied and destroyed. Of sweet revenge and sorrow.

2008-06-26T23:17:00.000-07:00

Music danced on the spangled grass of lilac and thyme. I stood in the corner, watching... my inability to respond heightened in a beautiful ecstatic agony that kept beat to her solitary exuberance and held us both captive in that one second where hidden from chaperon Time, the two of us tripped the light fantastic. Me in my stasis, she in her ecstasy. And then as the sounds of that kept the rhythm of our solitude intact were joined by others, the bond between us was broken and we were left stranded amidst the crowded floor. But the dance still remained in the corners of our eyes and slowly seeped into the makeshift realm of conscious , leaving us as mere memories to each other.

i love this just for the sake of the relief it brought me while writing it, and the relief i get everytime i read it... thought i'd share it...

2008-06-24T01:31:00.000-07:00

Weep no more for Ireland dead and gone,
Remembered in no tone, sung in no more song.
The Emerald Isle is no more,
no less
than what you will call from it.
The eyes of a nation
struck blind blind by a world
reduced to meaningless signs called words.

Weep no more for Darius nor Alexander,
those that remembered them are are forgotten.
No more need to blow breath,
into tired dead shes flaking away.
The limbs of emperors have been
sent off to another way.

Weep no more for Hamlet, Ophelia,
their song is at an end.
The sighs to brave
outrageous fortune
can sing no longer anymore.

Weep for the sake of tears
hot and wet,
for what you will not have
yet deem your own.
weep yet remember
you too will be forgotten one day.

not one of my most satisfying lines, yet true all the same... the first line came when i was reading Joyce, and stayed, trying to find a medium for its expression... if it had but chosen a better soul... it's birth has been marred by my insufficiency...

little blind mice

2008-06-10T06:33:00.000-07:00

Like mindless rats,
with oozing brains,
We all sit in a row.
Blind wee haha...
Scribble Scribble
Scratch Scratch
Furtive Glances
Puttering mouths
gnawing away
at words in our brains.
Everything
Everything
tie your sheets
lil mice, lets
lie our sheets.
STOP WRITING PLEASE
tomorrows another day
we will be back again...

written during the first exam for MA Final

Poet to Beggar Cried

2008-03-02T06:53:00.000-08:00

A bit of fiction,
an ounce of fact,
The smell of diction
and the lack of tact.
With open mouthed words
and blinded hands,
with inert gestures
and silent shouts,
do I greet each one
who ambles across.
Begging for an ear,
an eye, an arm
to hear, see, reach me
and all I get
is the dust of their passing feet.

to W.B. Yeats.

2008-03-02T06:43:00.000-08:00

The slow movement across the grass, feeling each blade; every moment; every step that I put down leaves behind something from me in the soil and every step I lift up leaves something of the soil on me. Soon I'll be gone and it will be the soil walking on me. And that's how it goes on. The bitter acrid taste of existence. Hamlet was a fool; it is never to be or not to be, it is not a question, it is a curse; BE, and thats all there is to it.

Liar

2008-01-21T04:31:00.000-08:00

I could see her talk. not just see her lips move, slowly, sensuously, tasting each word as it came out of her mouth, but actually see the words. They flowed out of her mouth, smokey, floating upwards in spirals, forming shapes just long enough for me to realise their form before fading away into the bosom of the waxy air. I don't remember what all she said, I was too busy paying attention to her words to actually listen to her. "What are you staring at?" "Nothing" I smiled to allay her fears, but i should have known better. The word nothing holds within itself an infinite variety of thoughts, actions, gestures that shout in a cacophonic caucous deafening every sound. "No", she frowned, "What is it?" and I knew there was no way out. I could not explain to her what i was looking at, it would involve bringing her into a world i wanted to keep private. But there was no other way, i had to tell her. something. anything. lie. construct a mundane explanation that was so far from the truth yet held more semblance to sense than the truth ever could. And so I lied. as always. "I was noticing how pretty you look when your forehead pluckers up like that when you frown." There, I had said it. Now all I could do was wait. wait and see how the dice fell. and as always, i lost. "You really think so?" she smiled, coming into my arms, "I love you." "I love you too" i heard myself say. and so it all started again.

2007-12-26T01:22:00.000-08:00

have you ever felt like your mind, your soul, your very essence was ICE? just one icicle , with sharp edges, and a transparent interior? and you were afraid to be near those you care about as you are afraid that their love will melt you down into a puddle to drain away? to want to be ice, why? benumbed, befuddled, bewhatever. have you ever felt like it? i have, of course you say, why else would i be writing this. true. and have you ever thought why i write? why do i constantly try to find answers by forcing black ink on paper ? and here's the most interesting question...
why do you read it? unless of course i force this paper into your hands and say, read!! apart from pandering to my idiosyncrasies why else would you read something like this? it would not make you any better, wont get you through any exam, test, it wouldn't change your life. then why do you want to? all right, forget it, i don't think i can ask you this question. you see a sheet of paper and your eye is drawn to deciphering the symbols on it. or you are just bored and for the lack of anything better, you pick it up. fair enough i guess. now answer this, what now? now that i have forced you to spend your life seconds in this idle pursuit, what will you do? move on? i guess thats what we always do. move on. life, flux, change, movement, yadda, yadda, yadda... hey, here's a thought, why do they call them "seconds"? why is the smallest unit of time that we can actually observe, called a second? why not call it a first? because, if it was a first, then it would be unique . there can not be multiple firsts, but a plethora of seconds. hahaha, you know, i think Elliot got it wrong, it should be," in a second, there will be time, for decisions and revisions, that a second will reverse." so there, thank you for your time, nay, your seconds. maybe one day, we will have a first. you know, one first second. the moment that will be the point of irreversible decisions which no second second will reverse. i thank you for entertaining a young fool. thats life, i guess. the fools write and the wise read. the young think and the old....
well the old experience. and thats all folks.

Difference

2007-11-07T04:38:00.000-08:00

As far as I can remember, I was always different… not separate, not special, just different. I didn’t have any special powers, or any outstanding abilities, but I was still different. How, you ask? I don’t know. All I know is that I was. Isn’t that good enough… No? Why not? Why does my proclamation of difference need to have a justifiable reason behind it? I don’t need to explain why I was the way I was, why do u need to know? Suffice to say I was and that’s all there is to it.

Coming back… where was I? Ahh yes, I was telling you about my life before u interrupted with your stupid comments. Be silent now and listen. And maybe you will learn. I was different and I knew it. I knew I had to do something about it, to make everyone accept my difference. To hear my name taken with awe and in splendor. Why splendor? To celebrate my difference of course… but that’s another story. Stop interrupting. That’s better. So when I asked her about what she thought of me, I knew she would say that she loves me because I am so different. But you now what she said? She said, I reminded her of her first love!! I couldn’t believe it!! How could she even begin to compare me to another? Like I was anybody? I told her that but she only laughed and ran her hand through my hair. I was angry, to say the very least, wouldn’t you be? How could she demean my love for her by such a measly comparison? I grabbed her and told her very clearly that she could never ever say such a thing to me again and in my anger I am ashamed to admit I may have pushed her around a bit… I guess I kind of forgot what I was doing and when I looked down, she was lying there and her room mate was screaming at me… next thing I know is that they caught me and put me in here for murder. They say I killed her. They put me in bars with ordinary criminals… but I know I am still different and always will be. Because that is what I am and it will never change. Don’t you agree doctor?

An Epilogue to "The Tempest"

2007-10-09T08:57:00.000-07:00

_^_ - Welcome to hell Prospero, where shall you like to go first; For here we offer choices...
Would you like to see the life you left behind? Or would you like to see those you left behind?

P- Show me ... Milan, i would see my family, my kin.

_^_ - Your kin isnt in Milan, Prospero.

P- Then where?

_^_ -On your Island.

P- I left no one there.

_^_- No?

P- None, apart from...

_^_- Caliban?

P- Yes, but he isnt kin.

_^_- No? You of all people, by your diligent study of your art, should know that blood doesnt make kin.
You are connected to caliban by a far greater force than with anyone else.

P- What force?

_^_- Hatred Prospero, Hatred. Welcome to hell.

to a critic.

2007-10-08T04:37:00.001-07:00

your piercing gaze,
on a text so pure,
burnt away the words;
leaving you to read,
your own eye motes.

Yellow dancing leaves

2007-05-20T05:30:00.000-07:00

And the leaf fell. Slowly . Dancing its way down, smoothly, a graceful dance of death, of a final ending, surrounded by others , each dancing its own, random movements suggesting a joy, a sadness and a void, something I could never be part of. And how could I?, for that matter, how could you? Both of us, how could we ever understand the movements of yellow dancing leaves, spinning stars, rainbowed ripples in rapids, how could we understand them, and how could we understand us? The leaf fall was yellow rain falling, slowly, but I have already said that... I could exaggerate and write about how the leaves fell around me touching me with a sad benediction, but that would be a lie. Truth is , the leaves fell, regardless of me. They just kept on falling, obeying the law of gravity but for that short flight down, before they met the bricked ground below, they tripped the light fantastic. The ethereal moment of doomed freedom that was nothing but the forces of nature at work. Soon there would be new leaves and then , a new dance.

written remembering the falling leaves in law faculty canteen.

2007-04-30T06:30:00.000-07:00

A buzzing fly in a glass box,

a constant flight from top to bottom,

left to right, sideways...

Hitting an invisible barrier

again and again and again

an eternal search for an escape,

the blind faith that,

this time,

maybe just this time

there wont be anything to stop me.

On and on and on

till the wings stop and

I fall, spent exhausted

and defeated.

Saw a fly hit the wall, repeatedly.Got the image of what would happen if a fly was locked in a glass box with no outlet... but when the shift happened from the fly to I, I wasn't conscious of.

2007-04-27T07:16:00.000-07:00

Of everything subjected to necessity, the one thing that is not is Love... Shelley.
Love is pure, created anew every second; with every breath and every glance, with every step that you take towards and away from the person who you love. An eternal, yet transient creation that leaves you defenceless and weak. the weakness itself leaves you hollow, the gut retches and nothing comes out. you wait in shadows for that one glance that could be interpreted in the most delicious of fantasies. Life and Love, the deadliest combination that can take you to till the edge of colour, beauty, emotion, being and then get you back leaving only a faint memory of what you just saw, like smoke from a cigarette. the smoke stays still for a moment and then dissolves... You know that it was there and will remember it but only as fragments of another's memory.
Love is to know the pain of too much tenderness.Khalil Gibran

2007-03-15T06:53:00.000-07:00

ok, so this is a song of mine, my first ever attempt at lyrics....

why do i need to let you go?
why do i need to say goodbye?
why do i need to need you now?
o tell me why? tell me why?

walking in the shelter of the rain,
walking in the sunlight of your gaze.
those were the days that kept me whole,
that was the time that was my own.
then why do i need to say give it up?
let go of you and all my love.
the so called wheels of destiny
silencing the sounds of my symphony

give me the words to fill the void,
to reform the shards of all my joy...

Babel Revisited

2007-01-09T02:57:00.000-08:00

The nightmare began shortly after New Year, no one actually remembers the exact moment of when the physical transformation happened but everyone agreed that it was the greatest calamity that ever happened. Every child, all over the world, suddenly turned green and started talking in a completely alien language, and what was worse, they, the children that is, understood one another perfectly. The leaders of the world were at a loss on how to deal with this strange new phenomenon. The president of the United States was awakened by his aide in the middle of the night and told about this new threat to national security. The heads of Palestine and Israel summoned a council of war on how to stop this new wave of atrocities that each side was firmly convinced was the work of the other. It was called the new wave of TERROR. And a terror it was, all over the world children without any regard to borders, pickets, fences, rules were mingling; talking and understanding gibberish, laughing, hugging, in short, being traitors to the good and holy causes that are so essential for living and more importantly dying. On top of that there was no way to tell which child belonged to which cause because of the damn green colour. It was decided, unanimously, for the first time in the history of mankind that SOMETHING had to be done. How could nations survive if the blasted children refused to be taught differences and the essential idea of “them”? India and Pakistan were left reeling as thousands of children left homes, schools, madarassas, rallies to throng the parks, gardens, grounds, in short, (again,) the places where the noble leaders used to educate the masses about how to live and who to hate. It was utter anarchy. In the east the highly essential DMZ ceased to exist leaving the two Koreas confused. The pestilence lasted for one whole month during which the entire world stood still. Every nation condemned this act of bio terrorism and blamed each other. Then as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The children came back and everyone heaved a sigh of relief that things were now back to normal, life could go on…

Questions

2006-12-23T03:53:00.000-08:00

When do you know that "the" moment has arrived?How do you measure experienceand its progenitor , Time? When is Good? how is Bad? And why don't i give a damn? Now its all well and good(?) to sit and write and talk, on and on, about stuff that wont have the slightest pretension at even attempting to be "true". is it?Why waste paper, why disfigure ink in a pathetic, incorrigible, incessant, cantilevered formulation that will not just not say anything but wont even try to mean anything? Shubendu says 'go beyond meaning, I agree but... go how far, far enough till when meaning and a need for is it lost?

passion said to me...

2006-12-23T03:47:00.000-08:00

Look for her in a sea of faces;
Melt, reshape all in her image,
Forever search for a shadow;
Thus I curse you with 'love'

(For N.)

Pavitra

2006-12-23T03:12:00.000-08:00

DISCLAIMER: this is not my story, the idea belongs to my friend shrinivas whose brainchild it is.... he gave me the starting point nd the end, only the journey is mine.

Vertigo isn't the fear of falling, its the knowledge that One can fall if only one wants to...
Pavitra stood silently on the ledge, musing over Kundera; one hand moving to and fro sketching, scratching, discarding the visions she saw both in her mind and in front of her. The other hand moving to and fro moving the cigarette near and then away from her lips, bedabbled with unspoken words, biding their time to gush forth in a glorious outburst that could set her free... The sky, a painter's joy and a writer's dilemma, spread out before her, infinitely, punctuated with crimson clouds and green leaves. How long had she stood there, on the edge of space, reason, 'life?', she couldn't have answered. All she could say was that she stood. There. The floor littered with blackened stubs like orphaned children, burnt and used, of no use any longer except as reminders of time's passage. The world hummed with a smug ignorant satisfaction that could only be constructed out of an entity as bizarre as itself. He will be home soon... the thought tapered off; while others jostled to take its place, each conflated with its own importance, trying to justify its value. She reached out to pick up another cig and came up with empty air. 'Out again', flitted the words accompanied with "you smoke too much..." His words, laced with concern, delivered at regular intervals, 'thoughts for the day'. There he is now, she saw him standing there, looking like a little toy soldier, waving his hands mechanically in his usual way. "I'm home!" he shouted, "I'm not" she whispered to herself and steeped off the ledge onto the sky beyond.

the call of mortality

2006-12-17T06:58:00.000-08:00

Mortality dressed in crimson
takes my hand and leads me
to the end of the abyss

Bow down to me
and I'll take you out
put you back into joy

Swear fealty to me
and I'll give u
the kingdom of emotions

Submit to me now
and I'll bless u
with love and relations

My knees start to bend
My back begins to stoop
My head to bow

I stand on the edge of the abyss
See a life of joy love
sweet dreams , pain and memories

She whispers in my ear
Do it ; Do it
u know u want to..

A broken man
A broken spirit
I begin my final fall

A sudden thunder
Ambition shines bright
Shows me the truth

The end of Mortality's promises
Cold ashes; cold hands
unsung oblivion

No! My 'I' calls out,
a guttaral roar
to deafen her words

I choose, My choice
My life, My step
I step forth into the chariot of self.

I shall live
and defy your crimson words
I will shine bright
I will be victorious
I will defeat death.

I will be Immortal.

2006-11-23T04:14:00.000-08:00

Mithrandhir is my name. I move in the flows of the shadows of time, slowly building up substance and spirit. I walk on the shores of conciousness, unsaid thoughts wet my feet as the tide of being slowly rolls in. Over and Over turns the piece of wood. a hollow cylinder with a srting attached. the thought grows, becomes a telescope, viewfinder to a fresh past of footsteps in sand and a glimpse of a kalaeidoscopic future that strecthes from where i stand to eternity.
I have ben standing still for far too long, another step , another path. The wood crumbles in my hand and is flicked away by the wind. No matter, I'll see it again. Ten steps or more , another piece will rise dripping from the sea and open another past and another future for me. walk on...

2006-11-23T04:05:00.000-08:00

Now it begins ,
the search for truth using light fake,
The origin of sin and damnation;
The beginning of Truth?
Choice & Creation
Antithetics

Thats how it goes on....

The homogenity of darkness
The multiplicity of light

Seven shades of evil,
Seven sins of colour,
Seven O'clock in the summer,
Sweeney slept in sleepless slumber.

fragments

2006-11-23T04:01:00.000-08:00

"such a fine balance,
pivoting on a grain of sand
holding its own in a whirlwind
Round & Round, perne in a gyre"

"And so it begins
a life loved & lived
a being formed and morphed.

And so it ends
a life lived & loathed
a being morphed & forgotten"

chainmail/nightmare

2006-11-23T03:54:00.000-08:00

To move
from Me to We
Become part
of the cloudy crowd
a part of another
Thoughts & identities
merging & submerging
into
the kalaeidoscopic amalgamte
of lives intertwined
interlinked, interlocked
in a chainmail armour
that prevents
disintegraton into
the Self.
Perhaps
with the essential remaining
clear
with the exterior
rearranging
to become part of a universal wholeness
subsuming & recreating
a glorious(?) whole.

2006-11-09T03:04:00.000-08:00

I would have her body covered

with a silver silk sheet,

on which I'll paint my masterpiece

A slow spread of colour

down each breast

a slight sfumatto spread across her arms

her legs I'll leave

unblemished and pure

"a conceited mistake"

and on her head I'll paint the deathmask of shame,

leaving her hollow eyes free.

You then shall be called Adora.

Where her cheeks should be

I'll add burnished black

her lips paint blue,

fingertips red and wrists purple.

Her bridal shroud, so will I create

and call her Adora.

In a frame of rules will she hang,

and all will call her Woman.

Caffeinated creativity

2006-10-11T04:32:00.000-07:00

Flow my thoughts, out of my head onto this white pristine brightness via the manipulations of the sinews of my hand, the pen moves across the sheet as words come faster and faster,being created anew each second like a wave rising from the ocean only to sink back again, only this wave leaves behind its etchings through its blue essence, the words are few, they repeat over and over again, a fusilade of interlinked, known and learnt knowledge that gives my hands some purpose. the life lived ordinary made extra special by words; these tools given to me by teachers who themselves didnt know their power, the power to create and destroy , with these basic elements of the literary universe I create galaxies,systems, Earths, souls, demons and hopes...
I create for myself a world that is my essence, an extension, a Bhramanic utterance that reates an entire cosmos. Let there be Life and so it is. utterance defines and words corporealise. The foundation of a written world based on ideas created out of the germination of conciousness in a neandrathalic brain, for whom the sudden awareness of itself leads to a dire need to define it and self. What, Who and How dovetail in a kalaedeoscopic resonance that brings forth the Word, The fringe of existance has been extended ever so slightly. World has been recognized ,destroyed, discarded, renamed and recreated as being one where I reign supreme via my non-existance. Thats what makes me swoon, the idea of my essence prevadig every aspect of my creation. From the soul of being to the nonbeing of existance, all is mine and mine alone. The lines of life then left free to progress in whatever direction they may, a kite given free dor, to fly as high, as erratically as it can. To touch its peak and then to go beyond. To acheive what Icarus was denied.To go beyond me and thus to take me beyond. Let life grow and let my words fashion immortals who live and so give myself a taste of eternity...

2006-09-25T03:39:00.000-07:00

Bestial Shloka

a mindless beast

O to be a glorious

mindless beast.

slobber and growl,

revel in my own fith

claw the earth, dig up

corpses of my own

progeny

Destroy Reason

Destroy Logic

Destroy Purpose

Destroy Existence

Destroy Shame

Simplify Living

forget

love hate anger

peace forgiveness bitterness

If i cant be above them

let me revel in being below

Dehumanize

Be a beast

a great slavering brute

O to be a glorious beast.

2006-09-18T07:28:00.000-07:00

Flight of Icarus

They call it my flight,
yet depict my fall.
They label me 'Ambition',
yet decry my will.

They make me a furnace
to forge their own manacles
to limit, subdue, hush
life , joy and extent.

They mute me to speak
of their own failures;
But I know
I soared as high as i could
and that remains forever untouched.

My Goal and Soul,
My Life and Will,
My Act ; My Choice

My Flight.

2006-09-17T07:53:00.000-07:00

my first post, my poem on reservation in education

And then there was eklavya…

Hiding and watching

the radiants play

swords and maces

arrows and bows

practicing and learning

the arts of war and woe.

The request denied

the teaching revoked

a handful of mud

the imprint of god.

In a bhil clearing

dark eyes oversee

the dark archer's proficiency.

The barking distraction

the arrows of silence.

A prince's petulant plea.

A guru's harsh step.

The thumb less warrior

bears the scars of rank

and merit is lost to caste…