The obvious thing

Grandma looms

with love

her warps and wefts

into this brocade

which you drape

and wonder

if its the silk

that keeps you

warm.

Something for the season: Happy Halloween

Abode

The woodwork was like filigree. A tubelight inside shone through like sunbeams through soft clouds. That's where butterflies once rested and vendors thronged everyday. The worn out brass latch is still cool to the touch. I can still see so vividly how perfectly my fingers fit into its notches.

The tiles, arranged in mosaic, were something I always examined at nose's distance. That was me trying to say I do not wish to leave - do not make me go. I tried so hard to dig out the cement with my nails so I could carry some of the tiles with me, but they never came off.

There used to be a sliding door with a picture of the sunset. There used to be a wooden clothes hanger where I swung like a monkey. I can see the household with everyone sleeping, no one stirring. I remember how my heart thumped when I walked alone in the corridors in the dead of the night. I remember how I would stay awake to count the cars under lamplight and talk to the moon.

I remember how they all woke at 4:30 am every day; the tumblers were always arranged and how the steam made the air dance over the vessel brewing the morning tea. How I waited for 'misri' and dreamt of crossing the road alone.

-
The house is still there, ripped apart. There are no people. The woodwork is at some scrap-yard, my tiles are chicken feed. My latch is melted into a temple bell and the hanger, burnt by the slums to make hot water years ago.

Even if I ever go back, it will never be the home it was. Which is probably why, my heart still thumps when I walk alone in the corridors, in the dead of the night.

-

Penned Thurs, Oct 29, 2009.

Infusion (Oct 29, 2009)

Edging forth
ever so slowly
the sheer silken drape
of a smile, drawing
the warmth of the morning sun
brims over
casting
a welcome lazy shower.

Birthday Girl (short fiction)

‘The resinous mass trudges along forward; an undiscernibly bulbous, homogenous mesh of translucence drawing forth the other. Groove drawing groove, smoothly as if with reins unseen. Contained within a relatively impervious exoskeleton, like the see-through covering of a capsule, it is evidently in no hurry. Or perhaps time is only something we invented.

There are many such in transit, bobbing in another translucence, less dense and of questionable nutritive value. Our mass protagonist non-extraordinaire, is not tipped off (yet) on his sole purpose, something defined by design or intuition in the known human world. But our barely formless friend is submerged in formless translucence. His existence consists of endless movement, endless bobbing and the occasional bumping into, thereby changing course for more bobbing.

Once in a while, a speck previously un-encountered and unusually corrosive chews through this capsule, meeting no near resistance. Whether it means mischief or not we will never know; for our mass non-extraordinaire, is resinous and this speck is soon coated to abate friction, adding to its overall granularity. Sounds smart no? - For something so amoebic yet non cellular.

There are also occasions of diffused illumination when certain instances of brightness – sporadic or prolonged get directed onto our friend non-extraordinaire. There is no warmth coursing through him then, for what does he know of sensation beyond the accustomed bumping? Although a few subtle currents do ripple through his resinous containment, bouncing off his speck-poxed capsule.’ …

“Are you done dreaming Tumpa?” hollered Mother, storming her way onto the terrace, the clock striking moments past six in the evening, the house streaming with the aroma of maangsho-ghoogni, in anticipation of the many guests to be fed. Gazing at the setting sun, young Tumpa, just 14, momentarily blinded, gazed at Mother, a little stunned, eyes shining with hues of the ascending dusk.

“What are you doing? Who will get ready now? All your cousins will be dressed in their best for your birthday. Julie-di needs to plait up your hair as well,” Mother muttered, yanking Tumpa downstairs by the very bony right arm.

“Standing and gazing at the clouds all evening! Can you imagine that? At least when Father does it, he returns with a theorem or two to show for the time. All those books on the stars you keep reading won’t make them fall out of the sky for you. Go, go get ready now! The guests should be home any minute”

_

Any comments? Pls message on Twitter.

Penned, Oct 24, 2009

Por una cabeza http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1eYH0YN_2jE

Word for sound (begins @second 1.09)
Locked entwirling
streaming spools of sky
melting in harmony
bursting prussian fuschia
making own floor
hypnotic
endlessly swirling.

Penned, Oct 21, 2009

Sous le même ciel,
étoilés en mille lumières,
on respire.
Le matin, jusqu’à la nuit.
Comme ça, nos vies
roulent.

Under the same sky,
spangled with a thousand lights,
we breathe.
From morning till night.
And that is how, our lives
pass (by).

Glad to have come across this...

In My Craft or Sullen Art
- Dylan Thomas

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.


Source: http://www.poetrysociety.org.uk/

It happens

Gently seeping
this invasion
settles to levels
Unarrested
Finding ground
Its very own.

-
It feels good to be writing again. After a long time.