Happy Valentine's Day?

Since we hung up last night, it’s been raining cats and dogs. 

Thoughts are so personal.

Yet we love to share them from time to time. Why?

Because we are compulsively optimistic that the other person will understand and feel it exactly the way we do.

Language is a barrier. It disconnects. Sigs, smells, patting an eyelid, a gentle hand movement, a subtle pout – those are the things that connect. Not language. 

Words, yes they are hollow and so is everything else. But we are a curious set. We know this and yet we make that attempt to communicate.

Sigh. I am solving Eigen Vectors. You still punching Kafka?

A minute went by and then an hour. He grew tired of waiting. The still rain kept on beating on the sill with the insouciance of an addict.

 Naa, no Kafka or anyone. I was inebriated the whole time. Even while I was talking to you.

How did I miss that? Do you know what I did today?

Tell me.

No, I won’t. It doesn't matter.  What did you do?

No tell me. As if everything else that we talk will go on to make the great epistolary novel of the century.I’m interested.

Precisely that’s why I can’t tell you.

The word mundane doesn’t have enough mellifluous synonyms.

If you didn’t want to share why did you mention it in the first place? That’s why I don’t like anyone other than me. At least I can moderate my own behavior.

I wanted to coax a reaction out of you. Because in this story, like you said, we exchange places, poet and muse, muse and poet.  Happy Valentine’s Day.

Eh? Not the 'happy' ending I imagined. 

You too. 

Poetry Four (Stanford On Avon)

The old Grecian tunics would rain all over the place.

Anointed and bedazzled with the aroma of an exotic flower

The entire town would come, with their

Coal-miners and fisher-men.

It was told long ago, about today, when

Garbled thoughts would be made

Into words,

Words that would

Enable a thousand league deep pathos

In all of their hearts.

 ‘But this is just a show.

Three pence a ticket.’

He should not go for that.

But alas, the wicked ways of the heart, would pull him in

Hiding him in the veil of the crepuscular crowd,

And he would wait patiently for the aria to burst, when

She would lift the veil, and in

Her secret pout, he wouldn’t miss the wave of fervor.

Her odor would belittle the foreign stylizations

And the remnant fishy smell would vanish

Like an ominous comet.

He would marvel, with the townspeople, forgetful of

The miseries, as beauty blinds the best.

The best of fishermen.

Long ago, in the drunkenness of youth

He had found a good teacher,

An artist of thoughts,

A woman, a mother, a daughter,

A goddess, like those sculptures in Indian temples.

Silently he would ramble through the words, memorized long ago,

In dreams and in theaters, in fishing boats drunk on the sea.

He would hum it now

       No she won’t hear

                    A little louder

                         She would scorn?

Perhaps then, the pinnacle of in-between, when

                      The wave is in midair waiting to crash,

Oh the uncertainty of art.

“I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.” 

Poetry Three

Austerity
I saw girls adorned in blue, red, pink, yellow,
magenta, orange, meaning variegated colors,
like in rainbows and dreams inviting me to their lustrous
harems. They winked and danced and swallowed
lusty shards, but I had to sit, my legs were tethered like
trees with roots that make bitter fruits. 
The birds were all singing and the
bard had to write.

‘Lust is for tomorrow.
Today I shall love.’

Stupid bard.

Remember me?

She mostly belonged in his diary, in words weaved out of warm memories. Sometimes he would write about her kittens too, little things with claws looking at him with suspicion.

Could they smell the love in him, he so desperately tried to hide from her?

Poetry Two (Ballad of a Cold Man)

Through pink escapades and bitter

Delirium my winter slowly fades,

Knocking whomsoever in chilly raids.

I look upon trees whose dead branches

Slowly climb the clear azure, making flames

More beautiful than faces and the wind whistles

Through ashen fireplaces of human dust.

The heart was a fireplace that

Needed assurance.

‘Words, you charmer.’ She said.

Yet, she condoned her needs

And went away swiftly like

Frivolous paper boats in

The Danube (Rivulet of Queens?).

Through pink escapades and bitter

Delirium my winter slowly fades

Sifting for her in the land of half-dead,

Alive or dead.  

The Strange Foggy Night

There is so much fog here tonight that even the ghosts have lost their way and one can find them looking for directions in those half-lit scary boulevards, where dogs were sometimes being mistaken as wolves and friends as lovers, even in a normal day.

Poetry One

Yet, and yet again
Death becomes an art
And the palates of the artists go weary in crimson.
Gory pages fill up the novelists’ appetite
And suddenly there’s nothing trite to write.

Death is romantic, if you are beautiful.

Through generalizations of fabulous Comrades the
Numbers pile up and then as history says years
Later, people learn the facts and not the
Sensibilities, the awkward sensibilities that
Should have healed mankind of the
Plague.

Ideas rot like a dead rats, and from the
Carcass of the old, the new born
Flies pollute the world, and then perhaps in a peasants’
Home a sweet speaking angel shows her tender breasts
And helps prolong the dream.
   

The larger self creates the larger things
The puny self indulges in the larger things.