so we sit
and throw our tantrums
crying like spoiled children;
while the mai-baap government
plods steadily on
grand as a sunset
so we sit
another old one-the one because of which AC called me an anarchist, and which i used in 'black hole sun' (yes, yes, i know soundgarden have a song by that name. quite like it, actually). should re-do that sometime.
the gods are dead, their chariots fall
from grey uncertain skies
eternal truth is now a never ending bore-
drown me in seas of red that i might thirst no more.
i walk the streets, i search
for signs of flaming blaze,
but all i seem to find are crackers damp with rain.
i watch my tired feet
until there's no more pain.
an old one...
commit your mortal dreams
to this undying flame
the rabid angel's song
is fading on the rise...
steamed up windows
and hung to die
this is here becasue i want to read it. and i want to read david bayles and ted orland's "art and fear".
linking in to a poem ryan sent me. by a chap from sohra (kynpham sing nongkynrih). no, not all of us are terrorists, you know. we even have poets.
'fraid i stole this handy link from andrew burke's blog. least i can do is link to his, i think. unless he asks me to take it off...http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
interesting-ish essay on indian folk art. i've never been a fan, myself...indian art has always been to 'flat' for me tastes. in "a passage to england", nirad c. chaudhuri talks of how the sunlight falls differently in the more northern climes, and how things look more "rounded" because of that. he compares that to india (specifically north india, i think) and how the sun overhead makes things look 'flat'. makes sense t me when i look at indian and english paintings, though i do not know if he had that in mind.
having said that, though, i love cave paintings, and the really raw manifestations of indian folk art-example the worli art. (http://www.craftsinindia.com/folk-art-paintings/warli-paintings/) is a sample.
mamma had a book of dalit poems, transalated from marathi, that had a fantastic piece on the cover. it was a face and hand, and the hand was squeezing out the sun. wish i could find that piece again. am so sick and bloody tired of indian art being so stuck up and gallery based. when will we have a banksy?
suddenly have this insane urge to ride. from shillong to cherra, specifically. considering i'm stuck in bangalore, AND running late for a meeting, i'll content meself with posting another bit o "work".
might as well start with this! written a while ago, but me first writing in a while.
Evening winter sunshine on glass. Glass. And shards of memory invade the quiet smoke under the trees. Like the time she wore the jasmine garland around her neck. I should have kissed her then, ignoring the weekend throng on MG Road. Maybe if I did things would have been different. Shards and bits of stained glass maybes. The stained glass window we made of thermocol and bits of plastic, reflecting our earnest satisfied faces in its afterglow. It was always Christmas and never winter. How love grows and changes! Sometimes fresh and green and breathless like a pine sapling, or warm and mellow like the sunset we watched on Om beach, with the sea lapping at our toes and the crabs scuttling first this way then that, scurrying about like hassled managers in the long call-centre night. It has been stormy, bringing rain and lightning; it has been hot and dry and parched. Someday, I hope, it will stand like the old hotel in Wellington, rock solid and covered in ivy, and people will look at us and feel beautiful.
We make strange traveling companions, she with her poetic name and uncertain ancestry, I with my poetic pretensions and uncertain efficacy. I lost our way in the woods in Kotagiri, and was happy enough to find another way around. She was upset that I’d lost the way. That was a strange trip. This whole thing, now that I think of it, has been a strange trip. The telephone is supposed to bridge distances, to bring people closer. I am sorely afraid it has driven us apart, keeping me from crossing the seas in my desire to be with my love. It is too easy to make a call, to send a text message. A poor substitute, true, but enough of a substitute to keep me sane. Even a cursory reading of Shakespeare must show that sanity makes for poor romance. But holidays do make for better love-making-talking, and we happily have our share of those. Strange, and mostly happy.
And now we are at a crossroads. She always wanted me to write a song for her. A little jealous of all the other female titles in my songs. I am rather superstitious about that-I really want to stay in this relationship. I tell her that she is my song. She refuses to believe me, but Lord knows she is.
Change, they tell me, is a good thing. I don’t know about that. But I do know we have changed. For better or worse I could not tell you. She has been out there, winning wars and saving lives, while I sit here at home and till the earth. Not that I have much to show for it. What I have gained is an incredible itch in the seat of my pants to ride, ride, and ride a little more. Does a membership in a motorcycle club indicate a portent towards settling down? No? How about a motorcycle club that does more e-mail sending than actual riding? Wouldn’t that qualify? Evening winter sunshine and online agony aunts would still say no. I could convince the sunshine to shine on a chromed silencer pipe instead. But she probably has more access to the online aunties.