Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Shirshaasana
Place your head on a mat
cushioned by blankets
supported by the cupped hands
that contain your life,
your love
and everything you have to hold and let go of
breathe in and
bring your feet in towards yourself
exhale and
lift
lift your feet
your ankles
your body
up towards the sky
towards a ceiling
that you can almost stand on
stretch your body
firm your arms
and find the strength
of mind
of heart,
of soul
to open your chest
close your eyes
and inhale from deep within
as if standing on your head is the most natural feeling in the world
and upside-down-ness is less than a state of mind
cushioned by blankets
supported by the cupped hands
that contain your life,
your love
and everything you have to hold and let go of
breathe in and
bring your feet in towards yourself
exhale and
lift
lift your feet
your ankles
your body
up towards the sky
towards a ceiling
that you can almost stand on
stretch your body
firm your arms
and find the strength
of mind
of heart,
of soul
to open your chest
close your eyes
and inhale from deep within
as if standing on your head is the most natural feeling in the world
and upside-down-ness is less than a state of mind
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Dream Repeat
In my dreams I find fulfillment
for all the things I wish for others:
consensus for some,
catharsis for others,
hope and healing grief,
sugar-free food for my granmum,
or a vacation for a tired friend.
My own dream vacations however,
never take me anywhere
because I always seem to miss the boat,
the bus or the car.
I can't ever manage get onto the train
that will take me there
because the ticket booth can't print my ticket for me,
or won't accept my fare.
Sitting at the edge of my bed,
watching the train hoot away below,
I say resolutely to my heart
that I cannot live my life for others
If I don't live it first for myself,
but then in a disbelieving flight of fancy,
I break my promises instead.
for all the things I wish for others:
consensus for some,
catharsis for others,
hope and healing grief,
sugar-free food for my granmum,
or a vacation for a tired friend.
My own dream vacations however,
never take me anywhere
because I always seem to miss the boat,
the bus or the car.
I can't ever manage get onto the train
that will take me there
because the ticket booth can't print my ticket for me,
or won't accept my fare.
Sitting at the edge of my bed,
watching the train hoot away below,
I say resolutely to my heart
that I cannot live my life for others
If I don't live it first for myself,
but then in a disbelieving flight of fancy,
I break my promises instead.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Fog
In this city by the sea
where people once jostled with familiarity
a preponderant fog has descended on
the inhabitants of this bruised, battered town.
In the wake of such terrific days that were -
moments of hope, shattered by rumouring fear -
a common conscience that was wont to lumber,
wont to deny, to drown the thunder
with its obdurate, stubborn - even insipid resilience,
stands chatised for its blinded negligence;
now exposed, stripped and naked,
as it cries afoul of murder in the name of hatred.
Like a veil of widowed, grey despair,
this keening fog hangs in the air,
the southern sun can't pierce its hold
until these mourners have let their grief unfold.
where people once jostled with familiarity
a preponderant fog has descended on
the inhabitants of this bruised, battered town.
In the wake of such terrific days that were -
moments of hope, shattered by rumouring fear -
a common conscience that was wont to lumber,
wont to deny, to drown the thunder
with its obdurate, stubborn - even insipid resilience,
stands chatised for its blinded negligence;
now exposed, stripped and naked,
as it cries afoul of murder in the name of hatred.
Like a veil of widowed, grey despair,
this keening fog hangs in the air,
the southern sun can't pierce its hold
until these mourners have let their grief unfold.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Grief
The City In The Sea
by Edgar Allan Poe
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters he.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls-
Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye-
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea-
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave- there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow-
The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
by Edgar Allan Poe
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters he.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls-
Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye-
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea-
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave- there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow-
The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Mired
Walk away now -
I said -
before time and tide have their way with you
and the compulsions of strangers become your own;
before you sense your feet twitching to rhythms
that your mind is unfamiliar with,
but which your heart
refuses to forsake.
lift
stretch
Heave yourself out of these labels,
fantastic plans,
presumptions
that swirl, swill around
your indecisive thighs,
and all your self proclaiming lies
I said -
before time and tide have their way with you
and the compulsions of strangers become your own;
before you sense your feet twitching to rhythms
that your mind is unfamiliar with,
but which your heart
refuses to forsake.
lift
stretch
Heave yourself out of these labels,
fantastic plans,
presumptions
that swirl, swill around
your indecisive thighs,
and all your self proclaiming lies
Thursday, November 06, 2008
रूह देखी है कभी?
"जिस्म सौ बार जले तब भी वही मिट्टी का ढोला
रूह इक बार जलेगी तो वो कुंदन होगी "
- गुलज़ार
रूह इक बार जलेगी तो वो कुंदन होगी "
- गुलज़ार
Monday, October 27, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
My Little Incense Stick
It is a ritual that I enact everyday -
every working day -
in which I take off my market slippers outside the door to my pink room
and arrange them neatly to one side.
As I step onto the wooden floor threshold,
my feet take up the blue rubber chappals that have been waiting patiently for me
since the last time I said goodbye.
I turn on the electricity to all my machines and devices,
pressing a little button
that buzzes into blue life as my computer powers on.
I then open the windows, and,
even before I sit down,
pull out a stick of incense
to light on the violet flame of grandma's gas stove.
With one quick flick,
the stick comes to rest in its wooden stand
and begins to tell its story for the day:
Sometimes
in its spicy smoke I smell amber
and myrrh and frankinscence.
Although I can't say with certainty
what amber or myrrh or frankinscence smell like,
I imagine that when I find them
and sniff them
one summer's day in Constantinople,
that they will remind me
of my little incense stick in my pink little room in Bombay.
On other days
it diffuses cinnamon and cardamom
and honey around our empty house -
almost like the ittar my mother bought in Dubai,
which I wear on lonely days,
and whose bottle - to my dismay -
rests in a scandalously shaped box
that imitates the Ka'aba in Mecca.
Today I am reminded -
in the midst of a ylang ylang, patchouli, Flame of the Forest haze -
of the Fabulous Destiny of Amelie Poulain:
the thought of spiced cookies and mulled wine
and the little girl who's face can never be painted
because the artist isn't quite sure what she feels like
or where she ought to be looking
while everyone around her is picknicking.
I wonder what she's thinking of
in the Sunday sunshine warmth
surrounded by the French paysage,
and I wonder about her day.
every working day -
in which I take off my market slippers outside the door to my pink room
and arrange them neatly to one side.
As I step onto the wooden floor threshold,
my feet take up the blue rubber chappals that have been waiting patiently for me
since the last time I said goodbye.
I turn on the electricity to all my machines and devices,
pressing a little button
that buzzes into blue life as my computer powers on.
I then open the windows, and,
even before I sit down,
pull out a stick of incense
to light on the violet flame of grandma's gas stove.
With one quick flick,
the stick comes to rest in its wooden stand
and begins to tell its story for the day:
Sometimes
in its spicy smoke I smell amber
and myrrh and frankinscence.
Although I can't say with certainty
what amber or myrrh or frankinscence smell like,
I imagine that when I find them
and sniff them
one summer's day in Constantinople,
that they will remind me
of my little incense stick in my pink little room in Bombay.
On other days
it diffuses cinnamon and cardamom
and honey around our empty house -
almost like the ittar my mother bought in Dubai,
which I wear on lonely days,
and whose bottle - to my dismay -
rests in a scandalously shaped box
that imitates the Ka'aba in Mecca.
Today I am reminded -
in the midst of a ylang ylang, patchouli, Flame of the Forest haze -
of the Fabulous Destiny of Amelie Poulain:
the thought of spiced cookies and mulled wine
and the little girl who's face can never be painted
because the artist isn't quite sure what she feels like
or where she ought to be looking
while everyone around her is picknicking.
I wonder what she's thinking of
in the Sunday sunshine warmth
surrounded by the French paysage,
and I wonder about her day.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Contenedores 2
En un cajón de mi conciencia
escondo tu nombre
por oscuras fotografías, papeles, hojas de inscripción,
entre tarros de tinta negra
y lentejuelas poquitas
-trocitas de todo
lo que yo espero
Pero a veces,
cuando estoy segura
que nadie me da cuenta,
yo le quito
y le escrito
para recordar
como le siente
entre mis manos
(*)
Containers
Inside a drawer in my awareness
I hide your name
with dark photographs,
papers, application forms,
in between jars of balck ink
and tiny sequins -
fragments of everything I hope for
But occasionally,
when I'm sure that no one's watching,
I take it out
and write it down
just to remember -
to remind myself
what it feels like in my hands
escondo tu nombre
por oscuras fotografías, papeles, hojas de inscripción,
entre tarros de tinta negra
y lentejuelas poquitas
-trocitas de todo
lo que yo espero
Pero a veces,
cuando estoy segura
que nadie me da cuenta,
yo le quito
y le escrito
para recordar
como le siente
entre mis manos
(*)
Containers
Inside a drawer in my awareness
I hide your name
with dark photographs,
papers, application forms,
in between jars of balck ink
and tiny sequins -
fragments of everything I hope for
But occasionally,
when I'm sure that no one's watching,
I take it out
and write it down
just to remember -
to remind myself
what it feels like in my hands
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Contenedores 1 o Vaganbunda
En una caja de mi conciencia
guardo a una vagabunda -
una planeta,
cometa sin órbita
que vague entre deseo y odio,
furia y tanquilidad,
entre determinación y destino
en su espacio de infinidad
A veces yo puedo domarla,
e a veces ella me frustra;
pero cuando no puedo soportarla
yo la abandono
hasta ella se portará
Pero ella es mi estrellita:
en verdad, mi voluntad-
y a cambio de mi paciencia
ella guarda mi alma,
mi razón
y mi generosidad
(*)
Inside a box in my conscience
I keep a little vagabond -
a planet
like a comet without an orbit
that wanders between desire and hate,
fury and tranquility,
between determination and destiny
in her infinite, infinite space
Sometimes I'm able to tame her
and though, at other times she frustrates me,
when I can't deal with her anymore,
I leave her alone until she behaves herself
But the truth is,
that she is my little star:
my own willpower
and in return for my patience
she gaurds my generosity,
my reason
and my soul
guardo a una vagabunda -
una planeta,
cometa sin órbita
que vague entre deseo y odio,
furia y tanquilidad,
entre determinación y destino
en su espacio de infinidad
A veces yo puedo domarla,
e a veces ella me frustra;
pero cuando no puedo soportarla
yo la abandono
hasta ella se portará
Pero ella es mi estrellita:
en verdad, mi voluntad-
y a cambio de mi paciencia
ella guarda mi alma,
mi razón
y mi generosidad
(*)
Inside a box in my conscience
I keep a little vagabond -
a planet
like a comet without an orbit
that wanders between desire and hate,
fury and tranquility,
between determination and destiny
in her infinite, infinite space
Sometimes I'm able to tame her
and though, at other times she frustrates me,
when I can't deal with her anymore,
I leave her alone until she behaves herself
But the truth is,
that she is my little star:
my own willpower
and in return for my patience
she gaurds my generosity,
my reason
and my soul
Venus
Twilight tortures the twinkling star
Venus - goddess of goodness-what-you-are
If, even you,
in all your might,
can't change this heart or share some light
Venus - goddess of goodness-what-you-are
If, even you,
in all your might,
can't change this heart or share some light
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Monday, June 09, 2008
The Curse of the Locksmith (or the Secretkeeper)
the locksmith knows the working of locks -
their mysterious levers,
clutches and chinks;
he knows how to pry forth
from their machinations
treasures, fortunes and dark desires
can unravel their enigmas,
lay bare their twists and tricks
in the blink
of a broken promise
.but he doesn't.
-this secret keeper
is no oath breaker
- is no one to steal pleasure
from the prepetrator
their mysterious levers,
clutches and chinks;
he knows how to pry forth
from their machinations
treasures, fortunes and dark desires
can unravel their enigmas,
lay bare their twists and tricks
in the blink
of a broken promise
.but he doesn't.
-this secret keeper
is no oath breaker
- is no one to steal pleasure
from the prepetrator
Semi-colons
twelve leagues under a sea of darkness
sinking with the weight of summer,
the ghost of last year's unforgiving slumber
filled up my drowsy thoughtfloat bubble
with a series of
silly lemondrops
"Semi-colons!" I cried
much to my dismay -
but they hadn't a care
for my fullstops
they only shoveled and pummeled
every one of my memories
that would've rather just stayed away
from this fray,
from being dragged out into the open
into this melancholic display
sinking with the weight of summer,
the ghost of last year's unforgiving slumber
filled up my drowsy thoughtfloat bubble
with a series of
silly lemondrops
"Semi-colons!" I cried
much to my dismay -
but they hadn't a care
for my fullstops
they only shoveled and pummeled
every one of my memories
that would've rather just stayed away
from this fray,
from being dragged out into the open
into this melancholic display
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
I live precipitously from moment to moment,
sifting sand and dirt from
grimy thoughts that stray into my mind,
folding in wonton déjà vus
and prophetic lines
that bear no resemblance to a place or space
or any state to which I'm inclined
except in a wistful haze
of wanting-ness
wanting and not knowing-ness
of things locked in entangled mazes
sifting sand and dirt from
grimy thoughts that stray into my mind,
folding in wonton déjà vus
and prophetic lines
that bear no resemblance to a place or space
or any state to which I'm inclined
except in a wistful haze
of wanting-ness
wanting and not knowing-ness
of things locked in entangled mazes
Monday, May 26, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Mar / Sea
a veces
yo olvido como nombrar algunas cosas –
camas, tazas, sillones -
como se llama una idea en esa lengua
o en esta –
anoche
dentro de unos de estos peleas,
me subí a la espuma-
a las olas que no olvidan nada
y no recuerdan todo
pero ya lo saben la lógica de vivir,
conocimientos de ser
y la verdad sobre el lugar
donde amor se va
cuando no puede soportar su peso propio
yo las pregunté muchísimas cosas
pero ellas no me contestaron nada
solo adelantaron, me tocaron y volvieron a su rutina
de pronto
me di cuenta
que en lugar de cada ola atrasada
una mar me haya envuelto
(*)
At times
I forget the names of things –
beds, cups and armchairs –
how to call things in this tongue
or in that
last night
in the midst of one of these fights,
I went down to the surf –
to the waves that don’t forget everything
and don’t remember everything either,
but already know
the logic of living,
the knowledge of being
and the truth about where love goes
when it can no longer bear its own weight
I asked them many things
but they didn’t reply
they just rose up, and, touching me,
returned to their routine
and all at once
i realised
that in place of every wave that had abandoned me
a sea had risen to envelope me
yo olvido como nombrar algunas cosas –
camas, tazas, sillones -
como se llama una idea en esa lengua
o en esta –
anoche
dentro de unos de estos peleas,
me subí a la espuma-
a las olas que no olvidan nada
y no recuerdan todo
pero ya lo saben la lógica de vivir,
conocimientos de ser
y la verdad sobre el lugar
donde amor se va
cuando no puede soportar su peso propio
yo las pregunté muchísimas cosas
pero ellas no me contestaron nada
solo adelantaron, me tocaron y volvieron a su rutina
de pronto
me di cuenta
que en lugar de cada ola atrasada
una mar me haya envuelto
(*)
At times
I forget the names of things –
beds, cups and armchairs –
how to call things in this tongue
or in that
last night
in the midst of one of these fights,
I went down to the surf –
to the waves that don’t forget everything
and don’t remember everything either,
but already know
the logic of living,
the knowledge of being
and the truth about where love goes
when it can no longer bear its own weight
I asked them many things
but they didn’t reply
they just rose up, and, touching me,
returned to their routine
and all at once
i realised
that in place of every wave that had abandoned me
a sea had risen to envelope me
Cornered
(*) from what corner of my mind
do I gather the memories of your voice,
your touch
when we have never met;
when you don't even know
how I feel
without you
No tengo las palabras
(*) I don't have the words
to tell you who I am
and who I am not
I only have these pages
to show you a window, an image
of a girl reflected in these mirrors
Si yo te dije
si yo te dije que haya una tormenta dentro de mi -
una mar furiosa por la que yo no puedo navegar sola
me acompañarías hacía la luna -
hasta llegaremos en un campo iluminado,
pinchado por memorias estrellitas
a un cama donde podemos soñar en paz -
el paz de los angelitos,
en el silencio de unos millones deseos?
(*) if I told you that there is a storm inside me -
a livid ocean that I cannot navigate alone,
would you accompany me to the moon
until we arrive in a twinkling field
pierced by starry memories,
and lie in a bed where we can dream in peace,
in the angelic peace
and the silence of a million little desires?
una mar furiosa por la que yo no puedo navegar sola
me acompañarías hacía la luna -
hasta llegaremos en un campo iluminado,
pinchado por memorias estrellitas
a un cama donde podemos soñar en paz -
el paz de los angelitos,
en el silencio de unos millones deseos?
(*) if I told you that there is a storm inside me -
a livid ocean that I cannot navigate alone,
would you accompany me to the moon
until we arrive in a twinkling field
pierced by starry memories,
and lie in a bed where we can dream in peace,
in the angelic peace
and the silence of a million little desires?
Friday, May 09, 2008
Upon learning a new language
Upon learning a new language,
one discovers - among other things
that pictures can be squares,
that sense is not always sensible
and that mothers - like the Universe - give light to new borns.
Now ensconced in the ruffling of meanings,
I realise that,
as if identity wasn't already a tricky creature pinned to a picture and a piece of card,
it becomes a looming idea
fraught with the travails of being,
becoming
and, having been,
of something thought -
fidgeting somewhere between flighty fancy
and the permanence of stone.
One discovers then,
that there are many ways of being,
many ways of seeing
and in a moment - in a word -
the act of collecting eternity and all its allusions
into a single string of sounds
played out in a melody
of beautiful syllables throbbing, alive and unbound.
(*work in progress)
one discovers - among other things
that pictures can be squares,
that sense is not always sensible
and that mothers - like the Universe - give light to new borns.
Now ensconced in the ruffling of meanings,
I realise that,
as if identity wasn't already a tricky creature pinned to a picture and a piece of card,
it becomes a looming idea
fraught with the travails of being,
becoming
and, having been,
of something thought -
fidgeting somewhere between flighty fancy
and the permanence of stone.
One discovers then,
that there are many ways of being,
many ways of seeing
and in a moment - in a word -
the act of collecting eternity and all its allusions
into a single string of sounds
played out in a melody
of beautiful syllables throbbing, alive and unbound.
(*work in progress)
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Monday morning's a nice shade of blue
was it Monday after all
roads afresh
sparkling gold
alert, engaged
green-lit sentry poles
to gaurd my way
on a calm new day
when my hapless heart
was already astray?
was it Monday -
- sprightly, gay -
or was it just you
after all?
roads afresh
sparkling gold
alert, engaged
green-lit sentry poles
to gaurd my way
on a calm new day
when my hapless heart
was already astray?
was it Monday -
- sprightly, gay -
or was it just you
- or maybe me-
after all?
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Even...
Even mariposas must wait
for autumn to turn to spring
for flowers to bloom
(*) mariposa = butterfly
¿Quien eres?
¿Quien eres?
¿imagen del que esta anhelado
O testigo de los trocitos de mi imaginación?
y porque no me vuelves
para volar un poco,
flotar un poco
en la sombra del verano
feliz, de las estrellas?
(*)
Who are you?
an image of one who is awaited
or a witness to the fragments of my imagination?
why not return to me
to fly a little
to float a while
in the shade of a happy, starry summer?
¿imagen del que esta anhelado
O testigo de los trocitos de mi imaginación?
y porque no me vuelves
para volar un poco,
flotar un poco
en la sombra del verano
feliz, de las estrellas?
(*)
Who are you?
an image of one who is awaited
or a witness to the fragments of my imagination?
why not return to me
to fly a little
to float a while
in the shade of a happy, starry summer?
El futuro es espacio - II
(*) I wish I could understand my future
but the future is space-
space the colour of my soul
soul of a dream
where nothing exists
not even time
only a moment complete
Friday, March 21, 2008
Volando en los cielos
(*) Flying with my thoughts
Verily, is it verity
that birds are the souls
of my curiosity?
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Contemplating tomorrow
If tomorrow my eyes would close
and forever be laced with slumber
my only regret, just one at all -
would be that only I had seen this lonesome sun
set into burning orange and fiery amber
and forever be laced with slumber
my only regret, just one at all -
would be that only I had seen this lonesome sun
set into burning orange and fiery amber
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Diarios despues de cervezas
(*) After a couple of beers
I like playing around with my thoughts.
They're a lot more lively
and I'm in a good mood
when we can understand each other.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Epiphany II
I will make it my happy song again:
the one you so unfairly ursurped and interrupted
whilst I was being myself around you.
I will sing to it again,
rise up above the alpine air
and smell the fresh snowy day
when I knew it was my tune
and that my time and place had come:
when I had stood outside of myself
in perfect exstasis
and seen that destiny had come a-knocking,
that yesterday was only a tangle of memories
waiting to be undone.
This is already my song today
I have nothing more to win now
and nothing left to lose.
the one you so unfairly ursurped and interrupted
whilst I was being myself around you.
I will sing to it again,
rise up above the alpine air
and smell the fresh snowy day
when I knew it was my tune
and that my time and place had come:
when I had stood outside of myself
in perfect exstasis
and seen that destiny had come a-knocking,
that yesterday was only a tangle of memories
waiting to be undone.
This is already my song today
I have nothing more to win now
and nothing left to lose.
La poesía
"Y yo, mínimo ser,
ebrio del gran vacío
constelado,
a semejanza, a imagen
del misterio,
me sentí parte pura
del abismo,
rodé con las estrellas,
mi corazón se desató en el viento"
- de La poesía, Memorial de Isla Negra
por Pablo Neruda
(*) The following translation is by Alastair Reid
"And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
and my heart broke loose on the wind."
ebrio del gran vacío
constelado,
a semejanza, a imagen
del misterio,
me sentí parte pura
del abismo,
rodé con las estrellas,
mi corazón se desató en el viento"
- de La poesía, Memorial de Isla Negra
por Pablo Neruda
(*) The following translation is by Alastair Reid
"And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
and my heart broke loose on the wind."
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Celebrity Crush
In coming face to face with a childhood god
I suddenly remember
that first tingling of skin
as goosebumps parched the throat
and I became aware of
a heart-skip-beat-thump
at the sight of a long haired t.v. man
who played music to my ears
in between glimpses of delight to my eyes.
Dance shimmy shake away I say!
I suddenly remember
that first tingling of skin
as goosebumps parched the throat
and I became aware of
a heart-skip-beat-thump
at the sight of a long haired t.v. man
who played music to my ears
in between glimpses of delight to my eyes.
Dance shimmy shake away I say!
Friday, January 25, 2008
Meses Pasados
En serio,
estos días han sido tan tercos conmigo
¿Qué te puedo decir?
Sus horas me odian
Y yo no tengo paciencia con pierdas
(*) I doubt if the translation works, but here goes anyway
seriously,
these days have been so stubborn with me!
and after all, what can I say?
their hours loathe me
and I don't have any patience with stones
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Home, Rajpur Road
What I love most about your home
is not the half a dozen or so dogs
scrambling for a hug or a pet at the sniff of my coat,
it is not the walk down from the road
past the quaintly composed garden
with its archways and cobble-stone-sounding paths,
it is not the sunny chaises basking in your balcony overlooking a bubbling ravine,
not even the wooden steps up to meet you both
or the gravel in the driveway with its octave cowbells,
it is the simple silence that surrounds us,
our glasses tinkling, punctuate our stories
as I imagine a faint hum rising from the Tibetan home beyond.
is not the half a dozen or so dogs
scrambling for a hug or a pet at the sniff of my coat,
it is not the walk down from the road
past the quaintly composed garden
with its archways and cobble-stone-sounding paths,
it is not the sunny chaises basking in your balcony overlooking a bubbling ravine,
not even the wooden steps up to meet you both
or the gravel in the driveway with its octave cowbells,
it is the simple silence that surrounds us,
our glasses tinkling, punctuate our stories
as I imagine a faint hum rising from the Tibetan home beyond.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Time Lost
were the memories I'd divined of my grandfather
in the years since his passing
which from every corner of my mind,
I had gleaned and dusted
and then attached
onto its bright orange dial.
How resolute they all looked there, side by side
the green digits neatly arranged around the circle of their hands!
Shining back at me through every one of my trials and tribulations,
they had joined together to bring me luck
and to soothe my pain
everytime the seconds hand
glided over effortlessly collecting moments like faery dust
for the sprinkling of a little girl not ten years old.
taking with it,
for all the time in the world,
the time I'll never have again.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Me, myself and i
I'm a selfish sort of person
I love what I like
and I like what I know best.
Which is not to say that I'm hard to please
I'm just not that easily distracted, that's all.
I love what I like
and I like what I know best.
Which is not to say that I'm hard to please
I'm just not that easily distracted, that's all.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Sunday, January 06, 2008
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