Musings in Phuket

On the sea shore

Old bones of crushed decades
mixed in the white sand
cling to my toes
the waters recede and
come back with questions
demanding answers
am I grayed with past years
or colorful as the wild sun
are my latent wounds healed
or still open and raw
have I emerged unscathed
or blemished by deeds
am I worthy of being spared
or should I have been lost
and at the end of it all
do I really care
as long as the waves
keep calling to me
as long as I have
an ocean to meet

Separateness

Do not talk to me in a known tongue

I speak in the language of dry leaves

whispering on brown branches in autumn

Do not ask me to reproduce letters

I remember the lyrics in songs of birds

crooning to the green earth at dawn

Do not look for me on these dusty streets

I dance in the patterns of flaring comets

streaking across the sky in radiant abandon

Do not hold me as a being of this world

I've molded my body with the soil of otherness

gathering centuries of tranquility in my hand

The Cleansing

How do I peel these layers from my body
marks made by sulphur of worldly wants
greyish ash of burnt illusions on my feet
how do I wash my stained sooty skin

The sentences I write come out jumbled
the words I speak talk of riddles and needs
I want to argue with them but my voice agrees
from where do I borrow the language of truth

Like tall glasses of bitter potent wine
this existence enters my head and pounds
drumbeats of lists and tales of misfits
when do I let go of this drunkenness

I'm silent but my molten pain boils inside
I'm walking in lines when I was born to meander
I'm stumbling though I want to jump and fly
why can't I grow lightning like forked wings

Remake my heavy bones with feathers and flame
give me the hearts of thunder and wild falcons
dilute my thirsty blood with rivers of stillness
then maybe I can be free to meet my other self

What is love?

When dew laden grass grazes my bare feet
and fresh flower petals feel velvety to my palms,
When white mountains blow cold breaths on my face
and mellow winter sun gently brushes my skin -
Love touches me.

When a stray dog looks up at me with liquid eyes,
his warm furry body leaning on me with trust,
When my grandmother places her wrinkled hand
on my head, smiling at me with ancient wisdom -
Love comes to me.

When those rows of lost faces from frozen frames
gaze at me, from another time, another place,
When in the middle of a tedious, wrenching day,
my friend sends me a line in remembrance -
Love envelopes me.

When I get tired of the churn of daily existence
and pray till pure peace bathes my being,
When I look down at the lines I have written,
wringing my heart and cracking my soul -
Love penetrates me.

Who said love is difficult to find?

The pattern

A network of causes
a maze of actions
a cobweb of events
a cross-stiched design
a hand weaving threads
thin yet tensile
crisscrossing paths
converging to one point
and diverging again
like tributaries of a river
or winding trails on hills
going round and round
everything happening
just outside my senses
a pattern emerging
forming and dissolving
always beyond my grasp

At the crossroads
is it time to stop
and look back
at the roads I have taken
or could have taken
all the roads I haven't taken
but should have taken
would the whole map
be revealed to me
would someone come
and show me the way
would I know why I'm going
the way I'm going
would all the paths
lead me to the same
end

The abstract painting of life

I splatter some wet crimson turmoil
unevenly on an ochre morning

A dab of burnt sienna passion
merges with a cobalt violet evening

I mix a few drops of blue black madness
onto a wide expanse of indigo night

Layering iridescent white streaks of emotions
to add texture to charcoal grey senses

Source: www.wallpaperbetter.com

I apply a glazing of matted gold
to make raw umber wishes look luminous

Vivid patterns of acrylic emotions
transform rapidly under my hands

colors of feelings words of hues
shades of people brushes of dreams

All blend together on my canvas
a vibrant swirling painting

always alive
always changing

Source: www.amazingwallpaperz.com

 My thoughts:

I have recently developed a fascination for the abstract art form and the various techniques of acrylic painting such as layering, flicking, dabbing and glazing. I have also become familiar with the various shades of acrylic colors that exist and how they can be blended and transformed into something which is almost violent to look at yet strangely soothing. I realized how a painting can portray the same depth and complexity of emotions that a poem can and how it can help us express some of the turbulent emotions raging within us. Out of these thoughts was born this poem.

Home

The moth never builds a nest
flying from one plant to the next
It sits where it pleases
for an hour or a night
Then moves to another branch
its papery wings fluttering
The wind carrying it along
or breaking its flight sometimes
But the moth worries not
It's neither a butterfly
nor a little brown bird
but something in between
Its tiny feet may get stuck
on a soft wood bark
and the pollen of a flower
may seem suddenly sweet
But the moth flies on
Not knowing how to turn back
Having never seen a nest
Does it ever wonder
as it moves away
That tree I left behind
that flower I touched
Perhaps it was home?


My thoughts:

All my life, I have felt a struggle inside me between holding on and letting go, between going and coming back, between motion and inertia, between wanderlust and homesickness. Maybe it's because I have never ever known the feeling of a true home in my adult life, and maybe I have lost contact with what it means to be part of a family. I do not know if my circumstances have fuelled my restlessness or it was always in me, but here's what I do know: give me too many years in one place and I will start struggling to break the bonds of the known city.

I have recently left a city where I had lived for more than 8 years and moved to a totally unknown city. As I try to settle in my new environment, I discover in me the same strange tug-of-war - between longing for the familiar landmarks and much-loved faces of my old city and anticipation to explore a new territory with new ways of living. Even while I am writing this, I'm still struggling with this irrepressible desire to take a trip back to meet old friends and run away from this alien place, even if only for a few days. Trust me, this change is not easy and I'm still coming to terms with it after two months. But the bigger question is: was it required or was it just a bye-product of my restless nature?

I recently heard from someone about an 80-year old man who is appearing for a Master's Degree because it is something he had always wanted to do but had never got around to. On my trek to the formidable Tiger's Nest in Bhutan, I met a 60 plus man who was laboriously trying to climb a steep cliff, because he had never managed to visit this monastery in his youth and had always wanted to. What drives these people to do such things? They know it will not be easy at their age. They no longer have anything to gain financially from accomplishing such things. These are ordinary people just like you and me doing out-of-the-ordinary things for no apparent, practical reason. Such stories force me to stop and think.

The human spirit is said to be indomitable, the lifetime as a human is said to be the most coveted of all reincarnations. Why? Is it so that we can complete the designated years of education, do a 9 hour job, earn an acceptable amount of money, live in a standard family and stay within the four walls of the apartment we have bought with our saved money? Or is it because we are all born with the power to make most of our seemingly implausible dreams possible?

As I reach middle age, I often ask myself - if 60-70% of my life is now over, have I done the things which I have always wanted to do? Or have I been too afraid of letting go of the things I currently treasure and those I feel I can't do without? Is my desire to belong somewhere stopping me from acknowledging the high I feel when I set my foot in a new place, stand in front of a tall mountain, or sink my feet into the waves of an endless sea? If I have always wanted to paint or learn how to play the piano, what is stopping me from learning them? If I want to retire to a small cottage in the mountains with a dog for company, what is holding me back?

Is our affinity for home and security keeping us from realizing what we were meant to be? Is the fear of being out there alone real or perceived? Are we using love and family ties as excuses to cling too tightly to our comfort zone? How much are we willing to risk to open ourselves to new experiences and new learnings? Are the barriers to reaching our dreams outside us or inside us? That, my friends, is what we all need to ask ourselves.

The vagabond

The west wind blows
through my window
keeping me awake
night after night

It saturates my mind
with smells of other lands
and rubs my arms
with dust of unseen roads

It whispers strange tales
of people not yet met
and hums haunting tunes
of songs still to be sung

I will follow the west wind
and jump out one night
balancing on the shadows
weightless and free

I will not wait for anyone
and I will not stop
I will move on and on
Till the horizons drop

I will unclench my soul
to release my words
and I will make my dwelling
in no land anymore

Tutto a te mi guida (Everything leads me to you)*

The storm that seethes
buried in the sky

the wind that crumbles
stars on the ground

the smoke that darkens
candles on the window

the face that flickers
smudged in memory

the moment that scatters
lingering within the soul

the lifetimes that fade
echoing in my ears

the end that awaits 
each pathway I take

are all you.

*This Italian phrase is supposed to have been inscribed on a ring gifted by Marie Antoinette to her alleged lover, Axel von Fersen. I borrowed it as the title of my poem as it aptly describes what I want to convey through this poem.

Where felines rule!

After some heavy topics, I thought today I would add a dash of humour to my blog post!

Do you know which poem first got me interested in writing poetry as a child? One of my school textbooks had a poem called "Macavity: The Mystery Cat" by T.S.Eliot which I completely adored. It is a portrait of a feline felon, albeit written in a humuorous way. Every line of this poem is a wonder - the poet gives the cat all the traits of a criminal mastermind, yet manages to retain Macavity's cat-like characteristics - his unbelievable powers of levitation, his enigmatic attitude, and his ability to mysteriously disappear from the scene of crime (which is what all cats do!). You do not have to be an animal lover to appreciate this poem, though it helps if you are :)

Macavity: The Mystery Cat

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw—
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it's useless to investigate—Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
It must have been Macavity!'—but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumb;
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN'T THERE !
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

I was so influenced by this poem that I wrote my own version of a cat poem. I had, at that time, watched Michael Jackson dancing in one of the Grammy Award ceremonies and my fertile imagination conjured up the poem reproduced below :)

Merrybingo!

The world is full of many a singer
Some are old and some are new,
But wherever you go, you're sure to hear
Merrybingo's renowned mew!

Merrybingo's the most revered of them all,
His voice has a fame so much
That even kittens who can't crawl
Will lick the ground his paws touch!

His purrs are the generation's craze,
(They say even Michael Jackson imitates a few!)
And when he gracefully bows on the stage,
His feline looks make females swoon!

Merrybingo's a unique Siamese,
His albums are all super-hits,
And everybody dances to the tune of his
"I saw you over a bowl of fish!"

His voice causes waves of cat hysteria,
His songs can even cure diphtheria,
For never before did the world know
A singer as great as Merrybingo!

I wrote this when I was 15 years old and it was my second published work. It was published in the Children's section of  The Statesman, Kolkata edition. Granted, it can't be compared to the maturity of my later poems but it will always hold a special, warm place in my heart :)

The dance

Happiness

A bounce on a cloud
Leaping on a treetop,
A giddy little spin
Till the birds join in.
A twirl on tiptoes
Balancing on a flower,
A waltz in the wind
Blowing leaves from my hair.
A jump from a mountain
Swaying with the mists,
A beat in my blood
Repeating a whirling tune.
Blurred swirling days 
Drunk on my dreams,
Dizzy flitting nights
That never sit down.
Like a skipping river
That has gulped rainbows,
From one wave to the next -
I dance.

- Sometimes words bubble up within me, out of nowhere - feelings that are clamouring to be expressed. Yesterday was such a day. I felt inexplicably happy - as if every particle of dust shimmering in the sun was filled with happiness. I felt like I could dance with the whole of universe, deliriously drunk on the magic of life. Out of that ecstatic feeling, this poem was born.

The land of lost love..

The Search

As anyone who has been perusing my blog knows, I have a strong belief in the concept soulmates. My fascination with the idea of reincarnation started since adolescence, when I saw the famous director, Satyajit Ray's movie called "Sonar Kella" (The Golden Fortress) and heard an evocative recitation of Rabindranath Tagore's poem "Unending Love" (described in detail in Wildaboutthewrittenword's blog post). By the time I had reached my teens, I had read a number of stories on reincarnated lovers by the prolific Bengali writer of historical and mystery novels, Saradindu Bandyopadhay (who readers outside Bengal may recognize as the creator of the famous sleuth, Byomkesh Bakshi). Some of these stories were set in the desert, with one of the pair of star-crossed lovers still roaming the mortal realm as an unfulfilled spirit, trying to lure the living lover. Around this time, I also read Tagore's "The Hungry Stones", the story of a ruined, abandoned palace exerting a strange, otherworldly pull on an unwary traveller. All these served to add fuel to my love of history, romance, folklore, paranormal and reincarnation.

However, the incident in my teens that caused my fascination with the concept of soulmates to really take hold, was  a visit to Rajasthan in western India - the desert land of kings and valour, myths and legends. The abandoned forts sprawling across rocky hills, the peacocks sitting on broken ramparts, the ever-changing sand dunes slowly submerging the ruins, the decorated camels leisurely crossing the desert and the bejeweled Rajasthani dancers swaying sinuously to soulful folk tunes - all combined to fire my imagination. I felt a strange kinship with this land where the past was ever-present, and experienced an inexplicable feeling of having been there before. As I walked around desolate forts, the feeling of deja-vu intensified - I could almost hear the clash of warriors' swords, the hoof-beats of galloping horses, and the tinkling of maidens' anklets resonating across the old stone courtyards.

After coming back from the trip, I had the urge to put down my feelings in words and from that, my first ever poem was born. In later years, as my hold on language and expressions improved, I modified it a bit, keeping the spirit of it unchanged. I've reproduced that poem, "In Rajasthan", here today, urged to do so by a close friend who wanted me to share more of my poems on this blog.

In Rajasthan

A peacock turns to look at me

from the top of a broken pillar,

a solitary eagle circles the sky,

high above the fort ramparts.

The whole of nature  

seems to hold its breath - 

as if these abandoned stones 

are about to breathe secrets.

From far away in the desert,

the strains of an old ballad
drift to me, carried by

the warm westerly wind -

some unknown folk singer 

strumming the sarangi -

its soulful tone merging

with the beat of my heart.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply.

The babul-scented breeze 

tinged with dry sand, 

settles like a shroud over my skin,

bringing with it the smell of the past,
whispering words in a dead language -

as dusk begins to descend 

slowly down the fort walls.

Source: www.distancebetweencities,co.in

I feel as if the wind is telling me 

that it had blown thus, centuries ago - 

when all the lamps of this fort 

had shone brightly, 

and I had meandered with you

along these cobbled paths,

intoxicated by your words -
as the moon had risen over the desert.

Perhaps I had worn a garland 

of fresh blossoms round my neck,

perhaps my silver anklets 

had jingled to the rhythm
of your flute's music,

perhaps the darkness of my hair 

had merged with your tunic -
to weave patterns into the night.

Source: www.notimetotravel.com

But as I open my eyes,
crumbling walls are all I see

standing on this desert land.

Now, through the broken towers,

the howling wind rages,

and the sand creeps slowly 

upon the same golden stones

your hands had once touched.

I turn to leave, confused and sad.

Suddenly I hear a flute playing -

a tune I somehow know as mine.

The velvet-darkness comes alive with promise,

fireflies appear along the narrow lanes,

and my feet head back into the ruins -
to roam all night, searching for you...