Thursday, 23 June 2011

Movement


On the move. Movement. Motion.
And then, there is
A small puddle of calm-
Like an accustomed darkness
In the flicker of a candle-light
In the distance.

There is laughter
Like a soft breeze that
Frustrates the still stillness in the air.
We have always maintained that
“There will be time. There will be time.
A time for you. And a time for me.
And time for a hundred indecisions.”

And that time, is now-
Knocking at the door,
There is the cold calculation of time,
And the wavering, wafting images
That plead to defy the ticking of the clock.

Cold calculations always win-
Perfect in their perfection,
Deadly in their accuracy.
And once more, the wafting mind
Begins its slow, trembling journey,
Picking up its pace,
Losing track of a much demanded stillness-
Once again

Wednesday, 8 June 2011

'Spring' Cleaning

In America, what I was just doing goes by the name of spring cleaning. It's summer here, so I guess I would have to call it summer-cleaning. Well, anyhow, I was rummaging through all the notebooks that I have in my cupboard, which amounts to quite a bit, and I ended up doing what I always do when I clean- reminiscing. I realised that I had a store-house of written material, none of which is even remotely worth the read. It was just a passing fancy that my mind chose to indulge in. Yet, thinking about the stories that I wrote (yes, I admit I wrote stories, but no, they aren't leaving my cupboard) took me to a world that, especially for these past two years, I had left far behind.
In college, and before, there was a secret pleasure in writing, oh I don't know, scripts, stories, random quotes. And the period between 2009 and 2011 June has seen very little of these sojourns of mine. And, I'll admit it, I miss it. Except, I do not seem to be able to get that flare for random scribbles any more. What I write seems to require a backing, some sort of reference and research. This is good in many ways, but it has taken away what is integral to anybody- the "pleasure-dome" of the mind. Now, what is created seems to have to be cultivated terrains where "walls and towers were girdled round". [I'm not sure if that comparison works, but if you want the poem, look up Kubla Khan.]
In connection to those rather juvenile attempts at writing, were not only short stories (minus a plot) but also really idealistic, enthusiastic, terribly dragging narratives. It was about the period in time when questions about life and living were asked. Well, the poems of the sixth or seventh grade student, is understandable. But the writings of the twelfth-grader are the most painful recollections one could ever go through. The ideas and the thought that goes into the work is quite mature, like that of an adult, but the style is oh-so-childish.
So, cleaning up was only showing me how much my own mind had filtered out, and how much I had refined my pages. And though we do look for gardens filled with decorative flowers, amidst the corners of our mind we always find the occasional weed (no pun intended) that grows with random abandon.