Blues catch like cold
(but untold and forlorn).
And you sniffle a little,
Then freeze into stone
On your park bench where (flaming
And swirling around)
The leaves that don’t touch you
Will rain on to ground;
Till children and housewives
And candyfloss men
With their lazy cries, crazy lies
Thaw you again.
There is one Deboleena
Who grows with each day meaner;
She harks ’em eels,
Turns them to meals
And hopes no one has seen her.
There is a girl called Shreya
Of whom the folks that pray are
Not one man said
Exactly what fears they are.
If you think it’s easy to throw muck
At the quite unassuming Somak,
He’ll beat you to pulp,
Swallow you in a gulp
And you’ll end up in his angry stomach.
One day the imp called Arnab
Transformed into a doorknob,
And all day long
Was wrung and wrung
And left a very sore knob.
That cheeky chap called Atin
Would often go out floatin’
Outside his head,
Before him spread
The notebook that he wrote in.
The world perished while Sayan
Looked for a couch to lie on
And watch the show;
But did he know
Which channel to rely on?
The evil spirit known as Rhea
Inhabits the blighted area
‘Twixt langue and paroles
Scarring ignorant souls,
And believes it is quite a career.
They say that the Lady Pramita
Would like you at once to go meet her
At one of her towers
Where saw-toothed flowers
On sunlit turrets gently wither.
A bamboozled alien called Lav
Broke in through high heavens above,
Riding his space rickshaw
Like pieces of jigsaw
Sprayed out through the holes in a glove.
In time the vile Anonymous
Will sleep uneasy and dream us
Turn into mess
With lousy festoons and streamers.
If there need be a disclaimer (as we are sure there is), this is all part of D’s evil masterplan of world dominion. We are merely her indiscriminate WMD. No, don’t believe her claims of innocence.
Sit and watch, sit and watch
Till it comes for you: a tiny tune
With a tilted hat and sad moustache
And crimson heart hastily sewn
Upon the sleeve. Do receive
Its clumsy fingers in your own;
Lend it a small rhyme to weave
Dancing rain in autumn-blown
Branches, pavements, cloudy streets;
Rise and take it by the hand,
Twirl it round to the beat
And play it with a marching band.
Which is to say, I should be studying. I know, I know. =(
Hmm, nothing to write. Waiting ceaselessly for (several) things to materialise. Zombiefied college-going to fill (kill?) time. With each day we live less in terror of the Lennon line and more in faith of the wisdom from Chekhov. Perhaps that is progress. (Such a one-liner whore we are, dear god.)
Meanwhile the good people at this place have decided to do something interesting or the other with an old poem. Those in the know of the history of said poem may notice why we are amused; but irrelevant ironies apart we do happen to be rather intrigued.
On another (slightly petty?) note, should it feel smug or appalling when popular people start to — as the expression goes — “rip off your style”? We have a suspicion this has to do more with insecurity than possessiveness: the distaste for being eventually thought of as a copycat of people you don’t even particularly admire, rather than the loss of what you cherished as a private quirk. If D happens to notice this paragraph, we must dissect, discuss and absolutely demolish the (ahem) philosophy/psychology behind this emotional response on a particularly insipid college afternoon soon enough, alright? That will show ’em sequin-dripping little ghouls, yes. :|
The plan to write a post for each day in July has foiled itself long ago. There isn’t much to write of except a few books read, little daily heartbreaks and a series of careless, clumsy accidents. Like a battered nose duly earned from running down college corridors without stopping to look. Being mildly electrocuted because you tried to pull a stubborn plug out of its socket without turning off the switch first, and then lying down curled on the floor shuddering shuddering shuddering and wondering when this will stop (if this will stop) and whether human beings can be earthed and if you haven’t discovered yet another not-so-disagreeable way to die. Sleeping pills were one. Not that I have any intention to die yet. But one plans, like one plans everything, for the sake of comfort and reassurance. One imagines life will be like this, although life nearly always turns out otherwise, but one must have means to fill the void in imagination.
Okay, don’t read the emo tripe. It’s just that I had to mention the electric shock because it happened right now.
Last night, I wrote this for D on my phone before I went to sleep:
I love you much, it matters not;
You’ve cast your die in with the lot
Of magic, men and mean machines.
You’ve torn your heart from verdant greens
And patched it up with bones and rags,
Cats in hats and tricks in bags;
You’ve lost it, tossed it like a toy,
And grieved it like a foolish boy.
I think he likes it a little or maybe he doesn’t. I miss D very much although I’ll never get the knack of saying things entirely warm or cheerful. I wonder if he minds that I put this up on the blog?
I’ve finished setting up the new sound system in my room and in a while (I’m hoping) the new printer will get crackling and when I go to bed tonight I’ll be technologically fulfilled and happy.