Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
Maybe we post small excerpts from our prose or poem or anything else and leave a link to our personal blogs, and request Rimi'di to link them at the sidebar, as Bodhi's novel-in-progress was once linked?
Just my opinion though.
Two wet floors.
Three clips alone left upon the string.
--All in a life of silence.
Till a sound like human hand appears!
May no such human hand appear!!
Words waiting in a cue for a mouth.
Four horizontal lines upon a white page.
And words becoming mouths!
May such mouths ever move in tears!
Till the words are well mouthed into fear!!
Perplexed hands then, Utpala's, dipped in hot, boiling milk. Hands almost fully white, further whitening, Utpala's. Day in and day out, this dipping, this dripping! Some inexplicable comfort, as if, Utpala's! Each time, when she lifts her milked, whitened and further whitening hands from the bowl, a child gets designed (ah! only to be a figment!)amid her finger-lines. After that, a strange anger, Utpala's, which can kill and does kill as she strangulates the mis-imagined child, dipping it into the hot, boiling milk. Utpala can create as well as uncreate.
Had to stop in this bush. The body, nearing stagnation, could hardly move on. But, still enough understanding left to realize that I had had an erection. The thing had stiffened so much, that it was becoming exceedingly difficult to crawl forward. Could not even stay on my back. There were bullets in the shoulder and underneath. Tried to dig a hole with both hands. The soil was soft due to rain and went in comfortably. Then I opened my zip and entered the thing straight into the hole, I had dug. It went deep, out of visibility. The pain started to soften. My eyes were closing in ease.
Hands dipped in hot, boiling milk. Utpala. Almost the dead of night. Subimal arrives pretty late these days. Must be some secret meeting again! With a pain that had started to soften, Utpala lifted her hands from the milk. There was something in her hands. Utpala observed. A bullet. Bloodless. Utpala looked at the blank wall, which was in front of her. Then, she threw the bowl full of milk, towards it. Little columns of milk started to make their way down in the form of streams. The wall had become partially wet with milk. There was some heat too and perhaps the surface of the wall shook a little as there were little twig-like rings of smoke, making their room from it. By that time, Utpala had closed her eyes and got stuck into the bullet with her sharp, boiling teeth. Even the bullet had to be silenced, silence.
There had been one such thread, sometime back. Taking life. A pigeon's left wing had come under its power, impairing the ability that may have led to flight. Then, the dog's turn arrived. I could not do anything for the bird. The thread was the similarity between the two events, the lack of a kiss over there, the difference.
Now, I could see the thread, up in the air, going round and round like a web and linking the remaining tree-tops all across the maidan. It had started to emit a tremendous energy of darkness, blanketing the blueness of the afternoon-sky with a dusk-like madness, as if the whole sky was about to turn into a giant wingless kite. She had been mute all along. Not even a sound had come out of her. Could she peep into my thinking? I looked at her. She was looking up towards the sky. She finally broke her silence, of my thoughts and of her words---"Can we get married now?"
I’ve often wondered what the colour of a scorching summer afternoon should be. Should it be white or should it be yellow? White, said a poet, but I decided yellow. Sure it looked yellow as the sun rays flirted with the tree tops, it was the exact shade of a fire cracker whirling about madly on some festive surface. The crazy buzz of a cracker, I noticed the other day, sounded exactly like the distant drone in a shopping mall that despite the music fought into my ears. You shouldn’t wear purple lipstick, I read in a beauty magazine, it makes your teeth look yellow. The girl’s lipstick was purple. Did her teeth look yellow? I didn’t notice but her dress reminded me of a woman I once saw on a local train. She had spent the entire length of the journey weaving a yellow thread onto plastic rings. The rings would embroider some dress whose owner no doubt would be oblivious of those nimble fingers and the face behind the hands. Meanwhile the current goes off again. The deep yellow of the street lamps give way for a single strand of pale flame that flickers on in my one- roomed apartment. It casts a yellow shadow on the legs my girl…she has fallen asleep.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
And you throb among the skyline…your wings shine…a vampire slips into your mind…around you now is the forest…where guitars charm the graves…electric trees sink into the poem…and find the keys to the soul of winds…the car gathers speed….broken city offers its homes…its windows…its cold forgetfulness…
It is good to be forgotten…to be an ancient king’s sword in the museum…it is good to be forgotten at times.
And the smells of the day linger in her veins…and won’t let her die…
so you kiss her endlessly…remembering the birth of deserts…the sands hide too many secrets...you must not learn of…the cold mystery burns like sweet incense…you want to unlearn the meaning of words…
the car moves through the sleeping souls…a mole tunneling into the bones of lone women…who clasp the vampire’s teeth to their breasts…even the skyline is unaware of their secrets…the guitar stabs his muscles…his memory tussles between windscreens and the smell of panthers…
and may the city never wake again…never take its morning tea with friend and enemy…never mend its torn shoes…never remember whose hands were crushed by the machine…
and my enemies are dead now…I can see their ghosts dining in the old
And among the music…among the fragments of the dead sky…among the windows and the shadows of trees…the road unfolds like her skin…tonight her smells remind you of the meaning of time…of the soon-to-die forests in your blood…
But you choose the blade…and make a cut on your forehead…so the winter seeps in with its own stories…my enemies are dead.