Tuesday, 23 October 2012
Friday, 12 October 2012
there is melancholy in the wind
and sorrow in the grass
and ne'er before have i doubted it more
that even this shall pass
when the rain of sadness falls
its tears upon your brow
the earth it feeds bears the seeds
that into trees of happiness shall grow
it has been two years since i wrote the first stanza, of which the first couplet belongs to someone else. but it is good.
Thursday, 4 October 2012
as if I
tell me, how can one hate love?
Monday, 1 October 2012
Thursday, 27 September 2012
silence falls like a curtain,
a sheet of soundless rain, all at once, while
people are not looking they are struck suddenly dumb
by anti-noise, by a lack of clamour
today is not a festival day,
nor is it a day of sorrow. silence is a time neither for rest
nor for learning. and though from silence we are forever
turning, in circles we walk, and so our journey
ends where it began: silent we begin,
silent we end, though it is not with silence
that we mend these tears.
Monday, 24 September 2012
I suppose I must settle with the fact that I am, in fact, a hypocrite. Yes, I rage at bad writing even as I attempt to write, and often end up doing so badly. But I would like the world (or whatever part of the world reads my blog) to, in fact, read my blog and whatever I write. And because I am incapable of objectively knowing the quality of writing on my blog, this is perhaps the only way to find out (if that, since comments are not exactly flowing from the heavens like manna around here, which is not necessarily anyone's fault but is an attribute of this, my blog, nonetheless).
I mean, sometimes I read what I have written and hate it, but then also sometimes I read what I have written and become immeasurably moved by it. Unsurprising, given that the the author of my words has an unsurpassed view into my mind, matched only (perhaps) by me.
So having settled on being a hypocrite, and having also realised that the only way to start writing well is to continue writing badly, and the brain is a muscle to be exercised like any other, I think I should start posting my poetry more. Because I am writing it, but it is not getting put up, you know? The only people who read it are the ones I expressly send it to, and I would like the vast caverns of anonymity known as the internet to ignore my work along with the rest of everybody else's.
But if you want the Ramayana, please wait. I am petitioning Saraswati, and she is koncham angry with me, I think.
Monday, 21 May 2012
Friday, 6 April 2012
Sunday, 1 April 2012
Karna knew what was to come. He had known it since he had seen the arrow fly from Abhimanyu's bow mere moments ago. In the shortest gap between one skirmish and the next, while no one else could have stopped it, he had armed and fired an agneyastra. Fiery, as if from the depths of Patala it flew, straight into Lakshmana's eye. Suyodhana's son had been like a son to Karna too, and the horror of his death was not lost upon any in the vicinity.
From his position he saw Shalya had already fallen unconscious from his wounds. Karna scoffed at his weakness. It only embarrassed the Kaurava army to name him as one of its maharathis. Drona was merely watching, waiting for his moment to strike, but Abhimanyu had not yet given him that moment. With a wild swing of his unconventional weapon he felled Kritavarma, whose head now sported an ugly gash. With another he nearly killed Aswatthama, who diverted it by using his arm as a shield and letting it take the brunt of the blow.
sometimes inspiration is like a switch. it just turns on, and three seconds later you're writing something, and it is the most wonderful feeling ever.
Saturday, 17 March 2012
Sunday, 11 March 2012
Saturday, 3 March 2012
Sharp, they bite and tear
They’re vicious, if you want
Them to be.
Sometimes, someone will punch you
Just one sock to the jaw
And your mouth fills with blood
Your teeth knocked out
You’ll look like a fool
Till the end of your days.
And at other times, they’ll just
Having rotted black
Because you haven’t taken care of them
And you’ll be left
At the end of a long life
Wondering where the hell they all went to.
All lies are bad
And small lies
Are no worse than big ones.
However you’ve lost them
At the end of the day
You’re still stuck with mush
yes, i failed. still, any economist could tell you that extrapolating from three pieces of evidence is not a good idea.