Steal you away

My eyes search for you in the crowd,

Like the flight of a butterfly in search of its prized flower,

Alighting gently on you, the rest of the world dissolves in a blur,

Love heats up up the passion in my blood,

and I ache to reach out to you and steal you away only for myself.

Random poems written during random fourth dimensions - Part 2

UPON SEEING A DEAD SNAKE

Vast open space
and a dead snake
beneath the dead blue sky
lying close to the guilty stone that killed it – gravity its ally
the hiss of the wind cutting across the weapon of murder
ghost of the dead? or a requiem for the dead?
hungry ants and angry beetles
attend the funeral in the hot sun
the slithery skin glistens fiercely
its reflection creating stars for the night
in the dead blue sky, when the blue sky dies
the sight fills me with wonder and disgust
death of ferocity, violence ‘crushed’ by a ‘gentle’
boulder, nature keeping a check on the unchecked
disgust – futility, dying without love, without love
I walk faster, my body washed with a shiver
I have work to be done, loved ones to be loved more
tears, hugs and warm kisses.

Random poems written during random fourth dimensions

The sun warmed dew and a blooming flower,
The chirping birds and a slow dying hour,
Morning’s a delight, a poem,
Oh my sweet love come, come,
Sit with me and hug me tight,
till the day leisurely dies and becomes the night.

Tree growing out of a chimney ?
Chimney, the root for a tree ?

Pic taken in a cell phone

Self Portrait

Self Portrait

O me! O life!...

Life is a myriad of dream, secrets, desires, ambitions, passions interlinked so intricately that makes it , well, hmmm, that makes it, ahhh, (that makes it?), LIFE.

Futility so regularly knocks (bangs is more appropriate) at the doors of life, that whether you open the bloody doors or not, you realize you are doomed anyways. “**** life” is one of the statement that has started playing on my lips regularly these days. And then these small, tiny weenie passions, dreams, secrets remind me of the fact that the “powerful play” is still damn going on and that I better stop bullshitting , philosophizing about it and start “contributing” instead.

To those of you who aren’t familiar with Mr. Walt Whitman’s poetry, here’s one of his fabulous poems,

O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities fill'd with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light--of the objects mean--of the struggle ever renew'd;
Of the poor results of all--of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest--with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring--What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here--that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

Look at this guy, I mean imagine saying something like this, its like saying “**** you” in my face when I say “**** life”. I mean, I love this guy for making it so easy for you to believe you that are grossly mistaken in assessing the futility of your own existence. Hmmm, hats off to him, nothing to match the power and potent of those words. It sometimes cures headache, cold and fever too.

But then the question “what is my verse gonna be” chews my head off. It’s a BIG question and the answer changes, undergoes metamorphosis, and transmogrifies everyday. But, consider this, isn’t my existence itself contributing to the play? My verse is my existence. The entropy and confusion that I set forth due to my being here on earth itself ought to be a big contributor to the “powerful play”. Maybe. Maybe Not.

My existentialist friends wouldn’t agree better. “Existence precedes Essence”. So the fact that I am already there before I even have a chance to find out why I am there leads me to believe that ,one, I am there and therefore already contributing to life and two, I do have the option of switching the role that I play, or at least, change my makeup.

So, do I have a proposition arrived at by logical reasoning that must follow from the major and minor premises of a syllogism? (I mean a Conclusion). Hmmm, I do not. My own prose obnubilates my intentions of writing it.

Story - What is the point?

This story comes in the film Nuovo Cinema Paradiso, an italian film written and directed by Guiseppe Tornatore.

The ending is very powerful and maked a very deep impression on anybody who reads it. But "what is the point?" is a question that most ask after reading it. But the question is, does a story need to have a point?. I believe that there are certain stories whose "point" or "moral" depends on the reader and the answer is there with the reader himself. The story does have a point. Go on, read it and explore.

Once upon a time a king gave a feast and there were all the most beautiful princesses of the realm. Basta, one of the guards, saw the king's daughter: she was the loveliest of all! And he immediately fell in love with her. But what could a poor soldier do compared with a king's daughter?!...One day he managed to meet her and told her he couldn't live without her. The princess was so struck by the depth of his feeling that she said to the soldier 'If you will wait a hundred days and a hundred nights beneath my balcony, then in the end I'll be yours.' Christ, the soldier ran off there and waited! One day, two days, ten, twenty...Every night she looked out of her window, but he never budged. Come rain, wind, snow, never budged! The birds shat on him and the bees ate him alive! After ninety nights he was gaunt and pale and tears streamed from his eyes but he couldn't hold them back. He didn't even have the strength to sleep any more. The princess kept watch...And on the ninety-ninth night, the soldier got up, picked up his chair and left!