i'm moving. blogs, not homes.

cheerio!

A few of the many(!) things that bug me.

(yo, S- you listening?)

1. I HATE being patronised, especially with pseudo intellectual bullshit.

2. Being called 'buddy'. I ain't a dog, yeh?

3. People looking for autobiographical links to my writing. Give it up. I just wallow in the darker emotions, I'm not a mental case...not yet anyway.

4. People asking me what relation coffee has to my work. None, except that it keeps me awake.


5. Being blog tagged. It really, REALLY irks me. No, I can't think of another 7- 9- 11 people to tag. And no, I can't randomly list my favourite books or music, nor can I presume to guess why others find me attractive or the reverse.

6. Being given strange nicknames. Caffeine Addict's been chosen because I choose not to reveal my name here, but that doesn't mean that you can mangle it anyhow.

7. Being asked why I'm so angry. If I knew why, I'd probably have done somethnig about it by now.

8. Being asked 'are you indian'? what dpes that have to do with anything?

9. comments like nice blog u got here....drop by mine...courtesy demands that i do anyway.

gnite, all.

you flew in from a land of mists
with tears in your eyes
for the angels you left behind.

over tea and chilli we talked
about husbands and lovers
and a distant mysitc land.

you drove me up north
up to where the sky hangs low
and "peace comes dropping slow."

i danced for you; but your hips
are welded close, and your giggles
drowned out the music.

long walks, and Quadrant tours
are passed, and we relax
into our Easter rhythm.

So much time, so little of it,
has gone by. and the angels
call to you in dreams.

Returning home is easy
and i smile into my cup
knowing we'll meet again.

For Gaki...

Misericordia!

all is asleep, all slumber softly
hope and peace nestle side by side
my sister tosses and turns this way
and i grimace on the other side

all is asleep, all sleep quietly
within our hearts is some despair
she tosses this way, i the other
and we punch the bolster in the way

all is asleep, softly snoring
and i've got a fug in my eye
i look for you to tuck me in
but no, you're out of sight

all is asleep, all tu whit to whoo
a solitary owlet cries
i punch an imagined pillow mate
leaking tears for that empty side.

Written in a bleak (and broke) mood

Mansi sits at her laptop, calmly ignoring the pain clawing its bloody way up her left side. An old Lata Mangeshkar song plays, and scented oil clouds the air of her room. It is late March, and by all accounts, spring has sprung. She is glad of her green sweater top, and shudders at the glistening raindrops winking at her window.

A stubborn piece of code is acting up, putting her CSS design right out of reckoning. She frowns, and tests it again, on a different browser. It still does not work. She would have liked to get up and have a cup of tea, but there’s no one to make it for her. Her assignment list is miles high, and her room like a mini dump. Clothes needing laundering mix cheerfully with freshly washed ones, and the iron looks dolefully at a solitary boot. Mansi stretches her legs, and inadvertently kicks over the rubbish bin again.

She sighs, and leans towards it, and slides off her chair.

“Bloody FAKKIN hell!”

She straightens and hits her head against the table, which immediately causes the mounds of paper perched atop it to wobble. A paper landslide ensues.

“I HATE deadlines,” is followed by a string of fruity expletives. She manages to restore some order to the chaotic mess on the floor and swings up to her chair again, wincing at its hardness on her now tender arse. The music is abruptly turned off as she blinks her sleep fug off, and gets back to typing.

“Aha! A simple, stupid error. Forgot to close that bracket…” she lights her sixth fag of the day. Strictly speaking, smoking isn’t allowed in any of the university’s accommodation, but she’s wrapped a plastic bag around the smoke detector. She draws deeply, sighing with pleasure.

The rest of the code works like a dream. She tests it out on Firefox, brilliant. Firefox is the most unforgiving browser…it’s a nightmare if you’ve made any errors…

Hidden somewhere among all the junk is her mobile phone. It rings now, and she jumps. It’s past midnight, too late for her family to be calling.

“Hullo!” –snarled.

“Hello, missus, you comin out tonight?”

It’s her classmate Betty. “No, it’s late dammit, we have a project to hand in tomorrow, it’s pissin it down with rain and I’m fuckin broke. So no, I am not coming out tonight.”

She grits her teeth, and punches the wall.

...Thank you for being there, always.
And for being mine.

I don't quite know anything much. I don't know anything, as a matter of fact. I'm just your average loser.

Spudheaded.

I don't know why I went on and on about postgraduate study...a PhD, blah. I don't quite think I belong in here. Anywhere perhaps.

My world is with you...but then your world has no room for me.

Isn't it?

I don't fit into any tradition. I overdo things, underestimate other things..and walk around in a brainfreeze. I can't write. I can't market.

I can't do anything.

Maybe we're better off alone?

the words are going, fading fast.
un coeur brise.

shadows knocking at the locked gate to my memories, wrapped in the sable folds of everlasting night. they demand entry, they demand recognition...they claw at my memories.

and i must unfasten the door and wash the filth of their graves off them.
and i must give them my last words.

and then...stop, forget Lexia and my pitiful scribbles.

maktub.
'tis writ.

un coeur brise...

Silences scream so loudly sometimes
yours touched me most of all.


And still I watched as you regressed
Into a mockeried babyhood
In silence.

And still I watched as they fed you
Through drip tubes and knocked out your teeth
In silence.

And still I watched as they bore you home
Dressed in flowers and crimson streaks
In silence.

And quietly crying, watched you leave
On that final journey
From whence, none return.
As you left, in silence.

haiku

high heeled boot-
stuck to the sole,
a leaf.

lamplight reflected,
a twin for
my room.

a webcam winks
weighted down
with a pebble

frying fish
flesh gleaming as if
hit by sunshine.

C. A.
14.03.2006

I'm not happy.

don't ask me the whys and the wherefores, I am not an animated Doordarshan television programme.

why
why
why
why

do i

W R I T E? ? ?

when its all so full of

S H I T E ? ?

Juvenalia

“Why did Sherlock murder Bugs Bunny? “

“Objection, me lord!” Watson exploded. “Unless it is proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the defendant, my client, was actually responsible for the death of the deceased, the question is not only out of bounds, but, but,” Watson floundered a bit, then added with a sudden burst of creativity, “but also absurd!”

Judge Porky Pig had had enough.

“I throw this case out of court!”

Yes, yes, well done, Watson, thought Holmes abstractedly. That was the way, keep em guessing and then confound them at the end. That was the way to do things. It wasn’t as if anyone really cared about what happened to a stupid rabbit anyway. All he used to do was munch carrots the whole day and bug people no end with his quintessential line- “What’s up, doc?”

Asinine question, what’s up. I mean it was so obvious, Watson. The sun, the moon, the stars, they were all UP, weren’t they? And if it irritated me, I know it must have been hell on you. I sympathize, Watson. Completely. Imagine him insulting your intelligence with that awful question, when all the reading public of the world knows that you’re a doctor, for Christ’s sake! M.D! Or was it M.B.B.S? What was it, Watson, old buddy, old friend, old pal? Well I can be forgiven for forgetting! I’m aging, slowly, but surely. Ripening like fine wine, maturing, but aging all the same. Yes, thanks, the morphia helped my gout.

That rabbit was a pest, was he not? Disgusting habit of spewing carrot slivers whenever he munched and talked simultaneously. And that was often enough! No table manners, obviously a finishing school dropout. Why he ruined my last Waterford crystal, totally jammed up the finish with desiccated carrot. I haven’t got all the bits out yet.

And that absurd question of his drove you crazy didn’t it? I know you retired long back, on my account. His question brought it all back didn’t it? The thrill of chase, the feint and counter feint of the pursuit. You missed it didn’t you? And his questions only made things worse. Reminded you of what you and I couldn’t do. Reminded you of all the roaring good times we used to have. You, me and old Basks.

Now don’t tell me your memory’s failing. You remember Basks don’t you? Why how could you forget your old best friend? The hound of the Baskervilles? For shame, old chap. Stiff uppers, let not anyone see you cry. Be a man, by Jove!

Ah leaving so soon? I know you’ll be hungry. You had a hard couple of hours, Watson. Join me at Baker Street. We’ll have a nice time of it. You, me and Morphia. Oh, can’t stir a step without it now. Old Hudson made some stew yesterday. Good stew it was too. I know you’ll enjoy it.

Oh yes, it has parsnips. And potatoes, onions, leeks and meat. What’s a stew without meat, old chap? It’s just a little stew with a bit of everything in it.

Oh no, not lamb. I’m allergic to it remember? It’s rabbit stew. Very good too, I must say.

its surprising, the rubbish that tesco will palm off to you, pretending it's wine.

its vinegar!

(i'm tipsy)

tumtitumtitum...

life keeps pushin and pulling me from past to future, and past and present and whoa...instant vertigo.

i think james stewart is HOT.

mmphh.....he's so adorable as mr. smith!

huh watwasiatagain?

oh yeh. the tenses. people id dropped on the way...well i got dropped too, keep comin back. one of em is T- dont mind my lang girl, i've been takin the piss, who reads my blog...TeeBee.

i like the way my mouth smirks wen i say T.

do you remember maaroing free booze and fags off gaurav the orge, girl? him with his black lips n pot belly...UGH

i hate my boyfriend. :(

i want it to be 20 degrees here too.

do ye think i cud be an ice queen?!?!?!

findin old ppl messaging....akshay messagin among others...

damn im bad at keepin in touch

suds pal gettin married finally! after going about with a married man et al...

funny how all my classmates always thot id be first...

it seems nice n idyllic to be married young sometimes.

not.

some part of my legs has just turned to jelly. raspberry flavored, i hope.

i want my mummy

except shed slap me silly if she saw me boozed up.

any one wantin to do a proxy?

NOTICE

Please note that henceforth, I shall not comment upon any blogs that have word verification turned on. It might help you to junk any spam comments that you might or might not recieve; but it is HELL on my eyes, regardless of whether it is day or night.

You are free to return the 'favour' by not commenting on mine either- although, as you might note, I don't have the miserable thing turned on.

Pax,

Caffeine Addict

What this started out as was a personal love poem; and while it remains that, it has morphed into a terza rima (of sorts). I have taken liberties with the form, (feel justified to have done so), and this is now a sort of apostrophe- an address. This is part of the theme for my next poetry portfolio- apostrophes. Of course they're not all going to be for him; that would just make it a mutilated sort of canzonierre- but willalso include address poems to people I've loved over the past years- especially my family.

Hope Anup especially enjoys this, as a poet himself. I'm waiting (eagerly, I might add) for the promised villanelle, Anup.

Poem for Sh---

You feel like a child reaching for the moon.
Last year you were invincible; nothing
Could hurt you. The bubble burst too soon
Maybe.

You look about you dazzled; with loathing.
The moon was a toy and the stars silver dust,
And the sex and the filth could not bring
Happiness.

You are saddened and sickened by the lust
And barrenness you see; this daily grind
Makes you forget yourself, and then you thrust
Me out.

Escape into the Shangri La of your mind,
I know you will pull through and smile again.
Retreat now with me and pull down the blind
And be as you were.

Till the next post; whenever that may be...I have my screenwriting module submission deadlines leering at me...help!

conished priory; ulverston; cumbria and me

i do not believe in god. this is a fact that must be clearly understood. i do not believe in god, fate or anything of the sort. i do not believe in rebirth or karma. i simply believe in cause and effect.

why then was i daft enough to go to a buddhist meditation centre for the long weekend, spending ten odd hours on the road either way in the freezing snows of english winter?

it was a quest of sorts- my own search for a holy grail of sorts. i want answers.

i was not an agnostic before! oh yeah i had as much blind faith as any average brainwashed (unthinking if you like) mortal.

then i started to ask questions. which remained unanswered.

it was a long and painful process. stripping myself of my values and beliefs felt like stripping my skin off; and i wasnt moulting...in ways i'm still raw.

i would like answers that satisfy me. i would like to believe. how often have i wished that i could just fuckin believe!

but it doesnt happen any more.

two years back, my then 17 yr old nephew laughted at me for my long discourses on the bhavgvat gita and faith with his grandmum...

how are thou fallen, o caffeineaddict!

i feared sin. i feared hell. i feared the unknown, i suppose; i feared for my immortal soul.

i dont think i have a soul.

reading paradise lost nearly killed me.

or not.

no one could satisfy me.

not meditation. it brought back troubled memories i'd blocked out for years.

the blind faith of most people infuriated me.

yeah on the surface it was very civilised; lovely really. a gothic priory with vaulted ceilings and stained glass and wood with a silky patina. morecambe bay with shingles and snow. the fells.

but an unquiet mind...

unquiet mind
never at peace.

Snow in Swansea



(The real deal might or might not show properly- but hopefully you can make out the flakes falling)

I leave for Ulverston tomorrow a.m. For a Buddhist retreat- to discover inner peace- if such a thing exists- and a time out from illness and dependence.

Have a good weekend.

I thought I would write something terribly clever, oohing and aahing over my own magnificence. Oh yeah, I thought to myself, come out with a kicker.
But it didn’t happen.
Swansea has seen some snow this season.
And when I wrote that I decided that I was being a bit too clever. Consonance and assonance and all that. But I don’t owe this cleverness to myself. No, I owe it to Mrs. Nathani of school, who set us exercise after exercise of metonymy and synecdoche, made us go through entire chapters of the ubiquitous Bose & Sterling book of rhetoric and prosody.
I did not know that some seeds were being sown.
But there I go being clever again.
Cynghanedd and englyn- what Nigel, my poetry tutor calls Welsh S & M. Singing in chains. Singing songs in chains of silk.
I was not trying to be clever, honest.
In my own roundabout, half bureaucratic way, I suppose I am thanking Mrs. N- wherever she may be, for instilling a love of language into me. Not literature- although it was she who introduced me to Keats- but language. Sounds. Phonetics. Ejukashun.
Creating links between rudra and red; me and mein. What’s mine is mine; what’s yours is also mein. English as an absorbent, evolving entity.
There I go again- and without even trying!

Diolch I Mrs. Nathani.
I owe you so much.

Enfold me in a silver glow
A Villanelle

Enfold me in a silver glow

Tomorrow, yesterday and today

Hold me close when I am low.

Our time is short, don’t you know

We’ll fall like flowers on the way

Enfold me in a silver glow.

Tramp with me through ice and snow,

Or summery fields full of hay

Hold me close when I am low.

And, from the first cock crow

Drink from me, be blithe and gay

Enfold me in a silver glow.

Till cranky, withered and old we grow

And all we have is memories of May

Hold me close when I am low.

Shield me from life’s little blows

Today, tomorrow and yesterday

Enfold me in a silver glow

Hold me close when I am low.

AS I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP!!!

jagged, distorted images flash before the eye. sleep, visions, get thee gone.

the stripper, the ripper, the candlestick maker...

gangbanging on the narrowbarrel; off with you.

give me novocaine; get thee gone.

enduring love with justify

the alcopops that went over your tops.

screams of fruition.

that bind you and i.

flesh of my flesh and all that.

fizz and double sided knitting needles.

and dreams of sex in a field of violets.

it is a starry night but the bed is cold. three pillows crumpled under my head, the fourth crowning my tousled curls. soft white sheets under icy feet, releasing hidden vapours of tesco original washing powder.

this is it, i think. this is one of those making memories moments.

the laptop winks back confidentially at me. ym status is set to OI GOT A BLINKIN EDAIKE!!!

tumhe koi aur dekhe
to jalta he dil

unbidden his image comes to mind. i try to push the phantom out. no; you're not welcome right now; i need some sleep; i...i...

stop haunting me, dammit!

and i drift off into wonderland. tra la bloomin la.

chocolate kisses come to mind. the sandman and the mad man grapple.

they come to an impasse. i sleep; but i dream.

and wake. something digging into some part of my anatomy. sleep fugged brain refusing to respond. well the hallway's cold; the loo's gonna freeze yer arse; you best think dry and sleep.

push straps back onto shoulders.

was it a vision or a waking dream?
fled is that music
do i wake or sleep?

eyes shut. black inside and out.

and then skype rings.

oh for goodness sake, stop haunting me will ya!!!!!

badi mushkilo se fir
sambhalta he dil

no i can't let you off so easy.

remembering home...

walking down the road. Calcutta's roads. with a C A L and drop the friggin Ks. The Left front acting precursor to ekta bloody kapoor's k mania.

it rained last night; the potholes are filled; little grey puddles; a private swimming pool for every bloody crow the city breeds. splash, splish splosh, and someone rams their heavily shod foot through one; displacing the little corner of sky it had reflected.

exiting the train station. sol smiles and all the world is gay.

busy and bitter perhaps; not gay. not unless you count metsex man standing beside his boyfriend, pierced ears glinting silver. i count five studs. five studs, wasted on a man who aint never gonna sire anything.

bloody waste.

the heat, the heat. it slam dunks into my astonished face. i am not ready for this- i dont have my sunglasses on yet; no hanky at the ready, black office trousers letting sol's intrusive rays into my pale skin cells, sweat popping from every pore.

the earth sweats too. slowly releasing pheromone like vapours into the mucousy air.

her dampness reminds me of something.

i am suddenly reminded of my own femininity.

Every morning as I wake

And feel the swirling mists of morn

You are the first thing that I see.

And the last as well as I retire

And lay trembling in my rickety bed

Missing the velvet of your voice.

You are the stranger I fled from

Through all my childhood dreams

Creeping under the bed in fear.

United with me and my destiny

Tangled up in the skeins

Of my unromantic existence.

Perhaps you know me and mine

Quite as well as no one will

Sometimes that scares me too…

Deride me when I am drunk

Or eat a chocolate muffin too many

I might then agree that you are real.

Real. And not a djinn of the night

Haunting my consciousness

With your gleaming ebony skin.

Several ages of development have passed

And fairy stories are myths

And I am not a Cinderella.

But stewing softly in the hearth of my mind

With the ugly sisters of life about

Perhaps you may yet charm me…

But no, I will not idolize you

You have feet of clay as well

And I see you weeping in my dark…

And whispering memories of pain

That you and I would do well

To forget and efface.

Forget and efface. Can it be done?

But maybe we can stop looking back

And thumb Jim Porter in the eye.

tanhaiyaan aaj bhi hain aur kal bhi thi
fir aaj yeh akelapan kyun kaat raha he?

zindagi kal bhi yuhi chal rahi thi
fir aaj maut kyun haseen lagti he?

ye raat apni parchayi mere paas chod jaati he
subah ki dhoop bhi ise aag nahi laga pati

kagaz ki zindagi aur khoon ke phool
dhundhli si zindagi
aur...
aur kya?

grant me my frenzy.

"grant me an old man's frenzy
myself must i remake
till i am timon or lear
or that william blake
who beat upon the wall
till truth obeyed his call. "

frenzy to jump into the clear blue beyond...

"and singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest..."

to climb higher and higher, like a ball of fire.

i want it all. i will not be content with a mouthful of sky.

...

on the non impressionistic level- alan plater's play. only a matter of time.

hilarity combined with philosophy- history- a little bit of every -tory and -sophy.

the best laughter is the kind that provokes thought, like a springboard produces splashes and ripples.

i love the welsh!

dinner with david cobb and ken jones. THE haikuists and haibunists of britain.
i should have been overwhelmed- but i was not.
i should have been at my sparkling best- but i was not.

there is something about this country itself that overwhemls me. the people; the cultural contexts and the linguistic subtexts are alien to me; and conversatino with people i dont know scares the bloody hell out of me.

you feel judged. slid under a scanner and considered. like a piece of old haddock at the fishmarket. accepted- but nly just. not marginalised; but subtly patronised.

silence is the only defense.

this is not my land. these are not my people.

it is only living abroad that gives you this perspective. i was so bloody sure of myself back home; so damn secure in my place in the intelligentsia.

here i might as well be the ethiopian with little english and no grammar.

why; they ask; when i tell them that i hope to return home and work.

why not?

it is not a weakness; a refusal or an inability to adjust. coping and changing are different ball games altogether.

i can cope. i dont want to change.

even the rain is different. damn right.

its sucked all the creativity out of me. im too busy coping; adjusting to work; defeating the entire purpose of my being here.

work without hope draws nectar in a sieve.

but sieves by nature will sift it off. and all that will be left will be the dregs of my dreams; aspirations; hopes and all those other big and emotionally charged words.

life is not only about adjustment, change...surviving.

life is also meant for living, dammit.

fun in the sun and rain.

why cant you get that?

CAFFEINE ADDICT smiled and all the world was gay!

the vapours arose from the shiny cup
COFFEE! that makes the politician wise
and see through all things with half shut eyes...

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning; Sonnets from the Portuguese)

Happy, happy Valentine's Day S-.
With all my love.

Happy Valentine's, everyone.

recover post? i wish i could recover me.

why is it so hard to be your daughter? why the excesses of psychosis that damage all our lives?

its hard to let go of you; but its harder still to live here; alone; while you slowly kill yourself there- and trigger a chain reaction here.
you're killing me as well.

marriage. is it a joke to you? on and off...something to do for the lack of any other way to kill time?
i'm not ready to be manipulated like this- and yet...and yet..you manipulate me every damn second; every damn day of my life.

whats compassion and affection got to do with it?

you cant divorce emotion from action. you think you can right now.
i hope you cant do it.

it seeps through me slowly. whats your agenda anyhow?

i'm so tired of defending myself; my actions; my choices to you.

i'm tired of justifying his presence in my life..what do you want me to do- get rid of him?

i wish it were that easy.
i wish you were easier to manage.

what do i say to him anyhow...marry me or else?
else what, huh, dad?

you'll tie me down to someone else?
or throw me off the damn howrah bridge- i wudnt put it past you.

i give up.
you havent even left me achoice.

not you. not him.

no one.

very well then.

this I promise you

I will be there.

Always and forever.

I will be yours.

why are we all so angry?

you. me. the original rebel without a cause.

seems that anger at the unnatural order is the rule of the day.

and anger is so damn impotent.

God is born of an inherent necessity in the majority of the human race to believe that we are not mere accidents of evolution and that our being here has some purpose; most men need faith to ward off the fear that we are only another link in a mechanistic chain of evolution.

i guess we all wallow in shite. we love to immerse ourselves in it; we derive masochistic glee out of it; even in our misery we are supremely happy, because we know then for sure that we're alive and not yet part of the great ghostly chain of being in the beyond.

no, cheesecakes don't make you cry. but they don't hug you close and murmur be mine either.

raspberry flavoured gum doesnt blow you a bubble big enough to fly to the moon.

and bubblegum pink trainers cant make you achampion sprinter either.

i have now officially joined the ever swelling ranks of the girlie wurlies. with my colour coordinated pink shirt, socks, necklace & earrings, bag and trainers. all thats needed is hot pink knickers and ill be completely transformed into a big whorl of cotton candy.

you went xx at cell division time
and yet you pretend to be a man

no skirts for you;
i guess you 'wore the pants in your house'

high tops instead of heels.
er- balls of steel instead of breasts of silicone.

you wake. you work. you sit. you stare.
dark eyed with worry and an inherited insomnia.

you chopped up your tresses and all of your dresses
and give them to the altar of duty.

sitting in vinyl covered seats chewing pencil stubs
doing the algos; working out the math.
no phone- cause of his pacemaker
no noise because they sleep light.

no placements; because you're head nurse.
no life; just work and work.

happiness is a certain state of mind.
and you've said that time and time again.
are you? or aren't you then...

neutered on the edges of youth
vitality and virility
or is fecundity a better word?

every word you say slaps me in the face.
spit bullets of steel and bile.

the last time i saw you
that day i'll always remember
a muffled sigh as you
pluck

the hundreth grey hair off your dandruffed scalp.

slowly and silently the trees grow
watered and fed by the earth

a fragment.

i wish i was better.

at something.

sit by my fireside- dont mind the gas flames
let them flicker and lull you.
see my reality and hear my tale.

i'm not a writer- no, not me
i 'm too tiny to stand out in a crowd.

don't open my notebook, dont read that
poetry for now is dead.

i've filed away my confused ramblings
even archived, they hang heavy on my soul.

transpiration
like tears on my
window.

they failed, the haiku did
and something within me has died.

rejected and dejected
the I.

sporus, that thing of silk
that delicate white curd of asses milk?

flipped and flopped.

stonefaced and rigid
assembly line motions
humanoid faces covered with skin
wake up, for once, goddammit!

wake wake wake up mortal
dont break on the jagged cliffs of time
deep inhale- feel some air
for one sublime moment- live!

look at the sky above you mortal
and the flowers below

look at your palms, mortal
erase those goddamned lines
let all the poison flow free
unlock the pain inside
carve new lines out for yourself
gash them out with your teeth
for one glorious moment, FEEL
live like you've never dared

wake, wake, wake, mortal
dont break upon the cliffs of life.

spindrift on the sea
fish shine as if
freshly fried

the new year has seen a more somber, a more thoughtful me. a more, i would like to believe, at peace with myself me. oh no, that is not to say that i have turned into a zen zombie.

it is all a question of accepting oneself as one exists.

know thyself.

but knowing; accepting; understanding and embracing are different. each emotion has its own paradigm. and these keep shifting.

it took me forever to understand. and i am still working on - sorry to sound trite here- love.

sometimes i wish the voices in my head would just bloody shut up!

i do not know if my newly discovered affection for the haiku and haibun have anyhting to do with this- well- epiphany is too strong a word- but something near to it- or is it the reverse.

a quiet, more meditative outlook. i have never written so recklessly before- been so audacious, experimental. i have never been so in love with poetry.

funny that one leads to another- but then- everything in my life is a balance (of a sort) between contraries.

and as blake said, without contraries there is no progression.

i am the lamb, meditating in the bath.
i am the tiger, ripping open words and verse forms.
digging into the marrow of existence.

i am the babe; i the harlot.

the voice of innocence; the rasp of experience.

i am brilliant and jaded all at once.

i look. and look again.

know then thyself, presume not god to scan
the proper study of mankind is man...

oh no, again?

i have struggled all my writing life to avoid being put in a box
wrapped up neatly and packed off you might say
i rebelled against metre, i rebelled against rhyme
i even rebelled against writing in a line
but powers the great they have the final word
and a SONNET, good mama is what they decreed
that my mind should wrestle with
my brain turn to mush.
BUT audacious and wily as ever i was
i hem and i haw and i put in a clause
i'll write you a SONNET, good men, i say
but rhyme, no they won't, good men, no way
unmetered and rambly my lines will be
and then my SONNET will flow free.

there are cycles to life

bang on- there was the cliche.

look past the jaded ole surface. cycles and cycles within cycles. nested loops. A leads to B and C leads you right back to A. its all to do with coming full circle anyway.

sometimes i wonder if i was born with deja vu. or is it just the realisation that things have an inner movement- and will come right back gyral like to haunt you?

being accosted by whats past is ghostly, innit?

how much of your past can you hide-efface-forget then?

the lost time (and money) you invested on ships-that-pass-in-the-night relationships/flings/whatever...

the lost nights when you got home too drunk or stoned to remember who paid or who dropped you back or who sat on your lap? all your life you wonder whether eating chocolate out of someones mouth was an x rated dream or omifuckingawd did it actually happen?

pretend you werent awake when ma and pa went at it hammer and tongs and broke every glass bottle in the house?

pretend you didnt slice yourself open every first of january just to see the blood flow...denumb yourself...pretend you were alive and a real feeling human for once?

wish you could take back the several times you called god- or something like him an uncaring puppetmaster- and worse

wish you never had a crisis of faith

wish you could just fuckin believe!!! in something?

believe in forever?

believe that you'd be loved to madness---for what you were inside and not for your tits and arse?

or courted by people who wanted to pinch your notes?

past's well...past. and it all comes around. but it doesnt necessarily have to have to power to hurt you.

it wasnt all bad.

if you could raise the past..what would it be like

to relive falling in love all over again?

feel the first kiss of the first raindrop of my first year?

the first breath of spring air...the first step?

the wonder of learning to read- to sing- to write?

writing the first poem...the first jointed paragraph...learing to write in a 'joined hand'?

the wonder of smelling my first rose

eating my first chocolate

the first bubble bath

cooking my first meal

learning how to change my first nappy...the first time naman puked on my shoulder...the first time my baby sister was put in front of me...

worshipping my baby brother from afar

loving my parents so intensely that i thought i ould burst?

hating them intensely as well at times- sadly.

baking my first rabbit cookies...and marble cakes

that first date by the seaface

first illnesses. flushed face while i puked discreetly and he just held me as i shivered later.

initial thrill...and fear while applying for the MA

getting my first- and only- gold at college

wearing a sari- trying not to trip over my high heels---being hugged by the princiapl

gunjan..my first friend..the one that got away..and i never knew where.

we dont always have to look back in anger. the pictured of edwardian summer garden parties might have been posed for and rehearsed..and damn right, jim- it must have rained sometimes. but didnt the photographer capture a portion of ephemera...in that instant when there was just a hint of rain, and old auntie meg's wig blew away and landed on top of the cream cakes?

yes. life comes full circle.

dulci et amo...

well, what do i do, there's no accounting for tastes!

a lot of people i know were surprised when Sk and i got together. hang on, they said, we thought you needed a sensitive type? you know the sort of guy who dries tears, not causes them to flow as freely as the bloody danube?

sensitive, caring. a smorgasboard of qualities. he should be this and he should be that.
my ideal man?
my IDEAL.

you made one mistake in your brilliant analysis of my sometimes fucked and sometimes brilliant relationship.


ideals don't exist except in your head. they never have in mine.

ideals are yardsticks you will never measure up to. no i will not meet tall dark and handsome unless im blonde beautiful and busty.

ideals work both ways, luv.

breakfast in bed with red roses on the side?

how about semi burned eggs and toast eaten off the frying pan?

drinking champagne out of each other's glasses?

what and twist a tendon while twining arms? how aboutdrinking white straight from the bottle? a swig for me, and another for you.

romantic luncheon dates with lots of salad and finger food.

steak with all the trimmings, and guiness downed in a gulp.

long late night phone conversations.

they dont get longer or later, lah!

no, he isn't ideal but that doesnt stop him from being perfect. in just about every which way.

maybe he isnt as sensitive as you would have liked him to be, but...

what about the times he dried your tears?
when he kept awake till stupid o clock to psych you for your doctor appointments?
called you long distance just to say hi?
held you while you slept?
and while you wept?
kissed you good morning and good night?
kissed you for no reason at all?
said i love you and meant it?
what about the times you watched him sleep
and struggle to be what you wanted him to be?

i am your wonderwall you say to me, Shubhendu.

You are mine.

You're my redemption.

and i love you so....

why go dancing in the dark?
when feet turn to lead and the eyes begin to cringe
when four and four make two and the worlds all nonsense
dunk your head in a barrel then; why go dancing in the dark?
philosophy and ethics make sense now
and all the worlds a bloody stage
and you're the bemused audience
drink on, keeping on then
why go dancing in the dark?

the night is still young, she smiled. what do you want to do now?

my face fell. oh i dont know, S-, I mumbled. i have a curfew...i need to be home by ten.

S-s, smile wobbled. in her defence, it was a pretty good attempt to hide the laughter. it didnt last too long. i dont quite know how to describe how she laughs. part cynical snort, part disbelieving titer, part good old fashioned humour. S is my closest and oldest girl friend, but it is at times like this that i wish she weren't quite so...S like.

i downed my breezer (yeah yeah its the cheapest alcopop they have back home) and grabbed my glittery little bag. i have to go, i mumbled.

oh don't leave like that, she grinned. one last dance?

love to, babes- but me heels are fuckin killin me.

and i was gone.

....

this is the start of one of the most cynical short stories i'll have written so far- yes note the tense, it is unwritten so far. COPYRIGHT!!!

I have been tagged before; I haven't much liked it. I don't like to be very up close and personal. Anyway, let's get this over and done with (I'm sorry to sound ungracious, Anup, but his is how I am).

Sex of my perfect lover: Male ( I'm straight)

Qualities he should have ( alas, ideals don't exist)

8. Accept the fact that women are born nags. But we only do it because we love you so much. :)

7. At least pretend to be clean!

6. be committed; and honor that committment. On again off again things aren't for me.

5. Accept that while I'm a mind reader of sorts, I'm not the bloody Oracle. So don't sulk and pretend everything's okay when its not.

4. Don't pretend to be interested in things I like if you're not, dammit! And don't expect me to understand or like the Godfather.

3. I like romance sometimes. And compliments. But not fake or syrupy ones. And not red roses; they're so damn passe!

2. Understand that when I'm upset I retreat into my shell. Just hold me close and I'll be okay.

1. Love me like crazy...and no one else.

I'm demanding am I not? I'm not tagging another 8 odd people...this skein ends here.

Hang on- perfect lover? Tsk tsk tsk...I don't like to live in sin.

oh jolly good show old girl, exceptionally well done.

brain, thou marvelous appendage. work for once, will you?

screenshot one. an idea is born in the sweltering heat of summer. madness and anarchy, a novel with a grand design and a far too complicated to be plausible plot.

ugh.

screenshot two. relocation to the united kingdom; an MA and all that. work work work on shorter peices different genres and everything else nice and nasty. that brilliant idea is pushed aside. it simmers and steams. it sticks to the stove.

enter a new module. the ART of the SHORT story. the novel is split up into two loooong stories.

too too damn complex. too many voices, too many stylistic devices. too much to say and not enough of a canvas to say it in.

me da fool.

it will never work as a short story.

brilliant, absofuckinlutely brilliant job, for le caffeine addict. jarred on by sugarless coffee( mind the diet, see)...for once that rusty old brain actually exhaled something.

a novel is born.
no.
a novel is created.
plotted; drafted and redrafted.
classical techniques. iconoclastic and melodramatic techniques.

welcome, one and all to my anagnorisis.

i would recommend you to Butcher's translation of Aristotle's Poetics to get a handle on that word.

maybe that chimney sweep was lucky...although fictional; although a movie; although Dick Van Dyke; although a terribly false cockney accent.

if this is this, then that.

how bloody logical.

gute nacht- ich muss machen gut geschlafen...excusez moi Francais, ladies and gents- no thats german...

no, not rum.

i gave birth to an idea today.

high...

on my self...

you should try it sometime.

chim chiminee chim chiminee chim chim cheree
a sweep is as lucky as lucky can be...
chim chiminee chim chiminee chim chem cheroo
good luck will rub off when he shakes hands with you...

a weekend of reading. pushkin and chekov. ken jones and david cobb. haiku and haibun. of arsenic and old lace and mary poppins. frank capra and citizen kane.

the railway children and fruit salad.

diets.

the week that was.

Union

The pillows are thrown far away

Icy feet

Fire within

My stomach wiggles

Cellulite’s setting in

Body blossoming slowly

Ragged nails

Filed to the quick

To minimize scarring-

Will he draw first blood tonight

Or will I?

We wrestle with the heavy duvet

It’s too cold to do without

Candles are lit.

Dig deep into his skin

Leaving half moons of desire

I’ve done it; drawn blood

He responds wildly

Slavering over my chin

Sipping at my breast

Knotting my tresses

Drawing out my sighs

I pull him in; he pushes away

And bites

I yank his ear

I climb on top

Inhale his scent

His soft, soft hair

That adorable stomach

Those lean hips

And that smug grin

Push and pull

Time flies out of the window

Beads of sweat on my body

Mine? Or his?

He collapses. Dead to the world

I’m dead. And alive.

I stretch

Newborn.

give me a reason, i beg of you.

to stay or to leave. to relocate or revamp myself.

winter gales
a bird poops
on my window

i haikuist?

i writer, i poet.

the egotisitcal sublime. keatsian, oh so sensuous. abnegation of self?

not bloody likely.

abnegation of what, then?

what is love?
tis not heareafter
present mirth hath present laughter
whats to come is still unsue
in delay there lies no plenty

and yet, and yet...
a wait, an endless wait.
for SOMEone SOMEthing, something, yes.

the le lotus bleu.

cordon bleu, with roasted chicken and vegetables on the side. pavlova and shortcake for dessert,

life is a tea table.

The day his world went boom

You sat placidly eating your curds and whey. I hummed along to golden oldies.

Logs cracked and fireplaces smoked. Pink Floyd strains filled the air, and the bathtub bubbled merrily. I shampooed in apple scented splendour and you shaved with the smell of rain. We played solitaire showdown on the computer and cooked spaghetti in salt water.

Mum cooked pineapple chutney and a bird crapped on my window.

Oh yes, life was good the day his world went boom.

An alien skyped me from Carmarthen, and the Jolly Roger went down with all hands.

Basho’s haiku solaced me while you fed on Impressionist art.

I cleaned my room that day.

That day when his world went boom.

filibuster.

i, firecracker.

unflinching, unforgiving.

to err may be human, but to forgive isn't my job.

arsenic and old lace. violent and vituperative.

everyhting in life comes full circle- and then closes. ceases to be.

hallelujah.

bushwah.

migrained mind, jaundiced brain.

anonymity is a boon.

anonymity is a boon.

sometimes.

life. love. career. studies. the entire cake and a few cherries too.

give it up, girl.