Tuesday, July 29, 2014

random outbursts

Some of us have only words- pain, happiness, success, anguish, all eventually gets moulded into our words.But words are not just sounds with meanings in a language or mere marks on a blank page ,these are tricky monsters, they have the power to hypnotise the reader and dilute the writer.

Some of us can weave such a rich tapestry of words, that it is beyond any classification. The prose reads like poetry, the images are from this world but as if created afresh. They connect the blanks in everybody's story with their words.

The rest of us just write, mundane words about our mundane lives. Images that are stale, expressions over used. But we write too, as if creating a negligible background score for their blockbuster main pieces.

And then there are those who write only for themselves , no chronicle value ,no ambition, like a stray leave on a road on a particularly windy day.

Writing is a lonely art. Word by word the imagination and the heart have to be ripped apart to lay bare a picture for the reader to make sense of.

Is rain meaningless?
Why is meaning important?

Would a collection of words, without any meaning would still be writing?

Is slanting rain more meaningless than the straight conventional one?

what do places and people mean in a plot?

Is there a main plot and all of us trying to write sub-plots that match?

reminds me of Faulkner

look at me
look at me

the crowd
and the lonely soul.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

pilgrimage inside

Each one waiting
someone to confirm
that they are special
the only one

at the core
each one has
laid down their arms
at the feet of
their ordinariness

on the same pilgrimage
sans religion or belief
all of us
oblivious of
our individual purpose

giving up
back to searching

too many drafts
on my mind
"-so you write?
what exactly do you do?"
People ask while thinking
of something else

I go back to
Eliot in a mental asylum\
Bukowski in a drunk stupor
and sit by Hemingway
watching the sea
waiting for a road trip
with Kerouac

the last image
on the mind's eye
is where the heart is.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014


The blank page
blankly stares back
makes a face
- "so writer
no words any more
no more wisdom
no more flames

the cursor blinks
the fan whirrs
I smile
and murmur
"Liar ,liar
dying for the
black touch of words
on your bland soul
I shall leave you
longing tonight."

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

The writer's block

Life's question hour
goes on
a writer's block is
no valid excuse

the vast desert inside
cactus horizons
meaningless dust storms
of thoughts
no respite

the rituals of living
and the long commas
where did life learn
its punctuation?

love, anger, joy
all dust
dark circles of
long sleepless nights

and the oasis
of a memory
in the pupil of the eye.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

The hills have changed

The hills have changed
and how
they have adopted
some of the
of the plains

like a loved poet
who has no more
metaphors or similes
to define love
or longing
only loss

the old beggar woman
speaks all mumbo-jumbo
she is the only one
who has moved beyond
the futility of
sane structured languages

Eliot, Woolf, Plath, Kerouac, Rumi
all insane
all beyond the narrow expanses
we call minds

the hills have changed
they are a graveyard
of idyllic childhoods.


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To Kill a Mockingbird
The Catcher in the Rye
Animal Farm
The Alchemist
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Romeo and Juliet
The Odyssey
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
The Count of Monte Cristo
Eat, Pray, Love
The Da Vinci Code
The Kite Runner
The Silence of the Lambs
The Diary of a Young Girl
Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre
The Notebook
Gone With the Wind

The Human Bean Cafe, Ontario

The Human Bean Cafe, Ontario
my work on display there !!!!!