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Friday, May 18, 2012

Odina' O' Sylvia!

“Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.” 
--Sylvia Plath

Two days back I chanced upon this profoundly beautiful yet lingeringly melancholic quote by a woman who chronicled her pains into one of literature's finest pieces. 
Someone, a stranger, in a random chat, once said, " Even gold becomes the purest when it goes through fire."
Pain. It creates us. It moulds us. We become children of fire. Of desire. The same desire which gave us the same pain. The same strength. To love and to be reborn.
Rumi had once said, " It's a human's continual pleasure to be mesmerised by the confusing pain that the joy of love gives us." A woman as Sylvia who saw a replica of her much beloved father in a man who would later on drive her to the zenith point of depression enough to place her head in an oven and thereby intoxicate the deepest language a soul could speak, never knew how naive a human temperament could get when fondled in the embrace of a huge feather, such as love. For it is light, it is soft, it makes us feel good but will it always be there when the strongest gusts of wind blows by. Equal respect given to the situation on either sides of the line of love, it could be a feather, it has also been iron. But would we humans know when we are in bliss, what danger really lies ahead? Danger of desperation, danger of heartbreak, danger of trust being or not misplaced. Yet how comfortably we ensconce ourselves into this crevice never knowing how deep the gorge actually is. 
Great are those who have given themselves into every tumult love and its despair has caused and immortals are the ones who have died with the same love in their hearts. What we make of ourselves with the other person, accounts for what conviction we hold in the affairs of heart. With a lover, with a friend, with a parent, with a child. 
To kill oneself in love would have been an easier way, but to die in love is no small feat. 
Countless sleepless nights, unending streams of tears and a solemn bidding goodbye to all the rosy moments till now, only to enter into a hemisphere of darkness and a not so fastidious strength of heart, succumbs the creative intellect and man's mind's ability to perceive happiness. 
But do we care?
We still place this fragile thing called heart in another human's powerful fist yet again, the deep dark recesses of whose minds we have yet found unfathomable. 
Pain and joy are sisters. Their mother being love. They love each another. They resemble each another. But they are born for different purposes. To sulk. To live. 
Let the mother therefore decide, how the bearer seeds in his beliefs for each of her child, for no good human ever known has not gone through pain to attain the joy of realisation. The joy of life. Let everyone learn from Sylvia, never to wallow and drown in the whirlpool of love, but to struggle and swim this rough ocean to reach the shore of life and certain meanings it might teach you. For which love has ever been there for a reason, unless fallen in and found out!

Wednesday, May 16, 2012


And she stood there
This little angel,
The magic of the stars 
Across the sky,
With her in
Every charm.
She once wore 
A frock ,
As colorful as the rainbows,
Such as
You and I never saw.
A yellow for her smile
A blue for her eyes
A vivid pink for her,
Everflowing heart.
A red for the ones
Who'd cry without her,
A green for every 
Land she awed upon,
A violet for all the 
Flowers she knew
Should have some colour on,
An orange for
All the merry times
She will once cherish
When the rains fall on a slate gray day.
But she for one
Born of a million brilliant lights,
Never kept them in her bag,
For a  smile passed on to her
From every vagabond ,
She stripped and lay the colors
On road,
Bare and running.
And they picked and smiled and waved and vanished,
Into lands she thought were her homes,
Luring colors with flowers that were never fragrant,
A wistful smile upon a wishful face.
Alas! the girl in the rainbow dress
She is left with nothing but
Shadows of colors
Beckoning ghosts of
That were hers

Image courtesy: www.jwestphotography.com ( Joanne West photography)

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

The Moon Man

Brown liquid
In the marred moon's heart,
Black vision
In aeons of nebulas.
In stupor 
He sees.
Sometimes vague, sometimes paralysed,
Sometimes marooned, sometimes jaded.
Yet a smile visits
A tender kind soul like his,
That could light up 
A thousand Christmas trees,
When his Venus arrives,
On the same nebula
Where he was
An insomniac,
Dreaming of what could have been.
This small marred
Marooned Moon of mine,
Oh such love that brought
Heaven nearer from the horizons,
And when the tides rose higher
To wash his spirit down,
The jealous sea
As blue as the Venus
He ached for,
He just inflated
Bigger and mightier
Fighting with the cruel Neptune
As hard as it could be,
With nothing
But a smile and a heart,
Even the lion couldn't help
Bringing in.
So this is for my moon
My loony moon,
Who looks bereaved 
Yet has arrived,
And conquered the whole paradise
Silent and small, he still sat!