Dec 11, 2006

The 1st!

Well, my 1st entry here.

Getting a broadband connection is quite funky I realised! But its not as good as I thought, especially when you are not home until 7 pm, and then have to fight with your younger brother for the comp, and to add to it, are not used to sitting in one place for long (let alone punishing your eyes with the comp screen)! And staying up late is fine and possible, except that because wake-up call is 5.30 am, the eyes begin to complain and torture you, slowly and steadily!

But anyways, moving on, now that I am here...
I have been in one of poetry moods these days. I am churning out quite a lot of them, and they are very bad either. And now i have finally realised what my style is - alternate, pensive, abstract and allegorical usually. I love the fact that people can extract their own meanings out of them. I guess this has come out of my love for the Post-modern concept of the interpretation of the reader and of misreading. Even when i am reading something, I take delight in the work if I am allowed to interpret it and think about the stuff written or the theme, etc. Isn't it cool if something you read teaches you to argue with yourself? You are the one defending a certain point and you are the one speaking against it too. And even if its not an argument, there is a certain aggressiveness that comes in when you read certain works or even movies and music that makes you want to be vocal, want to speak up, question, wonder, do something.

If I think of movies like that, the first that comes to my mind is Clockwork Orange. It just set my mind whirring away with so much in it that I felt it will burst open any moment. Upturning all notions that you know, it still doesn't seem wrong and you end up questioning even yourself and existence.

A few days ago when i was in one of my self-reflective moods (they come so often!!), I wrote something which even I was puzzled with when i read later. When I made friends read it, some liked it, some didn't understand it and some just gave me blank looks. It's a poem called


sudden convoluted minor-looking scratch
throbbing, piercing through;
Cries for mercy
Its trapped, its trapped
Witnesses are but a few

Pretending to see the invisible
Visions of the Psychic?
Sixth sense?
Can a zebra’s rash
Affect how a donkey kicks?

The iron clearing out the creases
Rather creating space
for more to come
Creases that demarcate the cotton
From the Silks, Satins and the Lace.

London’s bridge keeps rebuilding itself
yet the left-behinds peep through
gaze at the crossing vehicles
A direction is set again, clearly, accidents and aimless wanderings, will continue.

The candle is in my hand, illuminating
A few metres ahead clearly seen now
but all around the ahead still lies
Your careful steps create screaming echoes
who can rescue you from the future?

Trapped trapped in your own darkness
The candle enlightens just right ahead
Further on the path twists and curves
With dark and dangerous bends
Guiding you is your light
But it shows not the darkness;
The dead end has been imagined
The length of the path unknown.
Still more unknown are the blackouts
Stealing of your matchsticks then
forks, choices, splits, junctions
Candles do not push you around
The sad delight lies in what they show
Too many paths when you need not know.
Brightening when you walk in jest
But winds hover around forever
A blackout looming always
And finally
You reach where you know not.

The sudden minor scratch unnoticed, calls for attention
While the candle is being lighted, honed
The journey will start. All throbbing
But the screams will continue till the end
Its trapped. Potential help deafened.


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