You pulled me in
rescued me from that unsettling sea
but the rope you used was tattered
and it was thrown with intent for me
the passionate tune you played
distracted me from your chaotic ways
a bittersweet defeat
I was smiling before you brought me down
Spinning spinning
Heart pumping speeding
Blushing and blood rushing
I loved it
Never wanting to regain balance
And you were holding me so tight
With open hands
Eventually you lost grip
No, you just let go
I was thrown into that ocean once again
You silently sailed away and left me unanswered
Drowning in my mistake
My heart slowing slowly all so deceiving
It broke within me and I stopped breathing
You saved me with false valiancy
Then let me sink because the water too covers your face
Once my hero, now my heartbreak
by Alchemy Sole
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Fruit Gathering
The Cloud said to me, "I vanish"; the Night said, "I plunge into the fiery dawn."
The Pain said, "I remain in deep silence as his footprint."
"I die into the fulness," said my life to me.
The Earth said, "My lights kiss your thoughts every moment."
"The days pass," Love said, "but I wait for you."
Death said, "I ply the boat of your life across the sea."
Tagore (Fruit-Gathering)
What a Story!
I've nothing, nothing to comment on this story! I'm in the awe of it and in no mood to come out of it. Have a read here, and join my awe. :-)
http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/2005/
The Last Leaf - one of the O Henry's short stories!
http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/2005/
The Last Leaf - one of the O Henry's short stories!
Courage..
Completed a telugu novel, just few moments back. Had tough time reading it, as I always do when the protagonist is a spineless confused soul, unable to decide about himself and the world around. What prompted me to complete the novel was that the fella, at some point, he started analyzing and understanding what's with him that makes his life hell. And the best of the part of the novel is the ending. Btw, the book is Alpajeevi by RaaVi Sastri, for ppl who are interested.
The afterword by the author had an interesting quote:
"Courage is reckoned the greatest of all virtues; because, unless a man has that virtue, he has no security for preserving any other."
Boswell: Life
I can't agree more! And the book will linger long in my mind, at least because of this quote.
The afterword by the author had an interesting quote:
"Courage is reckoned the greatest of all virtues; because, unless a man has that virtue, he has no security for preserving any other."
Boswell: Life
I can't agree more! And the book will linger long in my mind, at least because of this quote.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Books v. Cigarettes
It was an unexpected call for a B'day party. Very common with me, to forget the special days and dates, so it comes as no surprise for anybody. The lunch was planned to be in City Center. The only reason, if ever I get excited to visit a mall is that there might be a possibility to spend a while in bookstore. (Honestly, I like the elaborate lunches too ;-) ) Since there was no possibility of sneaking in time when guest at a party, was there with least excitement.
Luckily for me, and not so luckily for many ravenous guys around, we were asked to wait. That is when I literally ran to Crosswords and straight to the classic sections. Wanted to pick, Tagore's My Life in my words, which was not to be there in the whole lot of new collection. I've been quite impressed by the collection of classics at these place. Italo Calvino's book was what I was looking for, when my eyes caught the title "Books v. Cigarettes". George Orwell's name next to the title exhilarated. Never heard about it, a quick browse of the book, helped me accrete the exhilirtion. Marcel Proust's My Reading Days was the other unkown book I fetched.
Having the books on my desk was like having a very close friend waiting for you in the reception of your office and you caught up in an ineffectual meeting. Thankfully, time passes! The moment I was back home, I just couldn't wait for a moment to stop myself from the book. Opened, this particular one, my hands round it, my eyes all busy collecting the black letters on the white page, mind engaged with the thoughts behind the letters and the constant smile on my lips. It got a li'l over my head at times, with no intention of complaints though. The intense conversations were with: a writer at places, a disappointed ex-book salesperson, an obligated book reviewer, a lucky enough patient in a Latin hospital and the best part, a school kid with all insecurities.
One of the reasons why I hook so much to the presence of books is that, the "listener" in me is at work. No, I'm not silent in it. As a matter of fact, it's me whole completes the conversation :-) At times, you meet some people during travel, absolute strangers, yet you strike the chord and keep talking about all the things or the earth. And you just keep listening to them, sometimes excited, sometimes bored, sometimes with wavering mind but most of the times very interested. The experience of the book as more or less the same for me! "I loved it!" is the statement the usually comes to my rescue.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Feminism..
Had I not been tagged on the topic of Feminism, I'd never blog about this. It is one of the topics I'm most confused about and wonder how much my cumbersome writing adds to the chaos. Mahi, this is just for you.
Before I even start writing about Feminism, let me introduce the kind of person I'm.
This was two years back I guess, fresh in my first job, was juggling with the heavy equipment that I was supposed to work on. Quite over-ambitiously tried to place a weighty server from one end of the room to the other. One of my colleagues, who was keenly watching me until then, came running to help me and had he not been that prompt, I would have surely injured my hand. Instead of thanking him for the favour, almost took to him saying, "It was my work, why the hell you wanna come my way?" He was startled enough, but then knowing me pulled me into a conversation..
"So.. you don't help me. Even when you are struggling, I shouldn't be helping you?"
"Yes, that is supposedly my work and I'd do that. You needn't bother!"
"So.. you think women and men are equal?"
"I don't know all that. All I'm sure is if someone wants paying me less, just because I'm gal, I'd.. I'd.. whatever.. I'll never accept that and would fight with them. When in office, you and I are same, if that was what you were looking for!"
"Then, why do women need reservation?"
" I don't know.. I'm always against that, all kinds of reservation to that matter. I never wanted it, you know.. go and ask people who fight for it, not me."
"Okay.. I had the same question to my sister and she answered that, wanna know?"
"hmmm.."
"She says that, though men and women are equal and we have to accept that as a fact, women were left behind for various reasons, be it socio, economic sphere or anywhere. For them to come forward and match men shoulder to shoulder, they need some special attention or help now. And these reservations are exactly there in to enable women get out of their shells and prove themselves.."
He did say a lot many things, the bottom line being reservations are helpful in narrowing the differences between the males and females.
Now, the other reason I cited this conversation is that, at that moment and also a long while after that, I never thought I should be called a feminist. It took sometime for me to know what is not feminism and I'm still very unsure of what it is.
What's not feminism?
Then, what is it about? Fundamental principles:
Forgetting all these terminology for sometime, here are my serious suggestions for the 20-somethings of the 21st century.
Before I even start writing about Feminism, let me introduce the kind of person I'm.
This was two years back I guess, fresh in my first job, was juggling with the heavy equipment that I was supposed to work on. Quite over-ambitiously tried to place a weighty server from one end of the room to the other. One of my colleagues, who was keenly watching me until then, came running to help me and had he not been that prompt, I would have surely injured my hand. Instead of thanking him for the favour, almost took to him saying, "It was my work, why the hell you wanna come my way?" He was startled enough, but then knowing me pulled me into a conversation..
"So.. you don't help me. Even when you are struggling, I shouldn't be helping you?"
"Yes, that is supposedly my work and I'd do that. You needn't bother!"
"So.. you think women and men are equal?"
"I don't know all that. All I'm sure is if someone wants paying me less, just because I'm gal, I'd.. I'd.. whatever.. I'll never accept that and would fight with them. When in office, you and I are same, if that was what you were looking for!"
"Then, why do women need reservation?"
" I don't know.. I'm always against that, all kinds of reservation to that matter. I never wanted it, you know.. go and ask people who fight for it, not me."
"Okay.. I had the same question to my sister and she answered that, wanna know?"
"hmmm.."
"She says that, though men and women are equal and we have to accept that as a fact, women were left behind for various reasons, be it socio, economic sphere or anywhere. For them to come forward and match men shoulder to shoulder, they need some special attention or help now. And these reservations are exactly there in to enable women get out of their shells and prove themselves.."
He did say a lot many things, the bottom line being reservations are helpful in narrowing the differences between the males and females.
Now, the other reason I cited this conversation is that, at that moment and also a long while after that, I never thought I should be called a feminist. It took sometime for me to know what is not feminism and I'm still very unsure of what it is.
What's not feminism?
- It is not an "anti-men" philosophy. If you are feminist, it doesn't mean you've to necessarily hate men. And if you can empathize with men, befriend them, that won't stop you from being tagged as feminist. Simply put, it is NOT "fight against men."
- Feminism isn't an "antonym" for chauvinism. Chauvinism is a more or less a cultural trait, whereas the former was a "movement" against the cultural trait.
Then, what is it about? Fundamental principles:
- Men and women are equal
- There is systemic and systematic oppression of women imposed by the society.
- Women need to stand up for themselves because no one else would do it for them - not their father, husband or son.
Forgetting all these terminology for sometime, here are my serious suggestions for the 20-somethings of the 21st century.
- Follow you heart, do what you wanna do. And while following heart so religiously, don't let the mind wander. Make sure it gets to the business as well.
- Better restrict the generalization of your experiences. Don't ever go on saying, "all gals are like this.." or "men will be men" kind of statements. They do no good, and everyone person is special in many ways. Be it a gal or a guy. There is only one "me" and only one "you". Note that.
- Respect others on merit of their personality. I've seen people running away from "lady" bosses. Be sure when you are doing that is what I can suggest.
- It hardly matters you being tagged as "feminist" or not. All matters is what you think about yourself and how you wanna go about life.
Ahem.. Sachin spoiled me too..
My day has been full of cricket. Having nothing to work at work, I've been mostly in cricinfo site. And sharing the "wows.. oohs.. aahs" with people in (gtalk) and around (me). So.. India won, won convincingly enough. That's good news, but the post isn't about that.
Out of the blue, I dug out my gmail chats to find out the link recommended by a friend, sometime back. He stated it pretty clearly that it was about the way we group watching cricket, it was by Siddhartha Vidhyanathan, that it is a must read and a lot other things. Being busy at that point of time, just kept it away. The only thing I do with something postponed is to postpone. Now the news is, I READ it! ;-)
And the bad part of the news is that I feel like talking / blogging / writing about it, just as Siddhartha did. But how to start and where all to touch, wish walking down the memory lane was easy. So, what I'm gonna do now is, just copy, paste few of the lines that I loved in the post.
Sachin Tendulkar spoilt us. He commanded that we sit in front of the television sets. He ensured we got late with homework, he took care of our lunch-break discussions. He was not all that much older than us, and some of us naïve schoolboys thought we would achieve similar feats when we were 16. We got to 16 and continued to struggle with homework.
For me, he was more than all this. (Just like he's for everyone else too.) Being in an all-gals school, and talking about him all through day, I was kinda "pick the odd". Hero was supposedly Shahrukh or Aamir, only few had an idea of Sachin, thanks to his endorsements. Atleast during the 96 WC that I found hard to share the excitement at School. Things then changed, cricket penetrated so deep into everybody's life, that like it or not, you had to live with it.Thankfully, gained a lot of friends just because of cricket. To date, if I've prayed it was for Sachin Tendulkar. I pray whenever he plays. I prayed for his health, for the serious backache he had halfway through career. Was li'l grown up, but yet worried a lot for his tennis elbow. And I prayed hard, that he shouldn't be part of any scams and scandals.Had he been associated with any of these, my trust about humans would have shattered forever.
I never ever tried to emulate him, for the simple reason that I was never keen on playing the sport. I seriously wonder, why couldn't Sachin inspire me to pick up the bat. But the lessons he taught, were all helpful in making me better person. What amazes me is the "BALANCE" he achieves, be it on the field and off it. Watching him bat is like heaven. I desparately wanted to whistle for his super shots. Alas, that's something I can't practice. That way, he leaves with me a sense of nonaccomplishment.
Did Sachin spoil me or not? Without him, my childhood would have been deprived of much joy and happiness. Not sure if Sachin's retirement would mark an end to the first quarter of my life or any such things, but surely he's the one who would let the child in me intact. Which means, I can be a kid whenever I feel like and that way, yeah.. he did spoil me. It's tough for people around to handle me as a kid, and when going gets tough, people just start complaining. ;-)
(This is "half baked" stuff from me. Supposed to be posted on Nov 17th! Untimely too.. )
Out of the blue, I dug out my gmail chats to find out the link recommended by a friend, sometime back. He stated it pretty clearly that it was about the way we group watching cricket, it was by Siddhartha Vidhyanathan, that it is a must read and a lot other things. Being busy at that point of time, just kept it away. The only thing I do with something postponed is to postpone. Now the news is, I READ it! ;-)
And the bad part of the news is that I feel like talking / blogging / writing about it, just as Siddhartha did. But how to start and where all to touch, wish walking down the memory lane was easy. So, what I'm gonna do now is, just copy, paste few of the lines that I loved in the post.
Sachin Tendulkar spoilt us. He commanded that we sit in front of the television sets. He ensured we got late with homework, he took care of our lunch-break discussions. He was not all that much older than us, and some of us naïve schoolboys thought we would achieve similar feats when we were 16. We got to 16 and continued to struggle with homework.
For me, he was more than all this. (Just like he's for everyone else too.) Being in an all-gals school, and talking about him all through day, I was kinda "pick the odd". Hero was supposedly Shahrukh or Aamir, only few had an idea of Sachin, thanks to his endorsements. Atleast during the 96 WC that I found hard to share the excitement at School. Things then changed, cricket penetrated so deep into everybody's life, that like it or not, you had to live with it.Thankfully, gained a lot of friends just because of cricket. To date, if I've prayed it was for Sachin Tendulkar. I pray whenever he plays. I prayed for his health, for the serious backache he had halfway through career. Was li'l grown up, but yet worried a lot for his tennis elbow. And I prayed hard, that he shouldn't be part of any scams and scandals.Had he been associated with any of these, my trust about humans would have shattered forever.
I never ever tried to emulate him, for the simple reason that I was never keen on playing the sport. I seriously wonder, why couldn't Sachin inspire me to pick up the bat. But the lessons he taught, were all helpful in making me better person. What amazes me is the "BALANCE" he achieves, be it on the field and off it. Watching him bat is like heaven. I desparately wanted to whistle for his super shots. Alas, that's something I can't practice. That way, he leaves with me a sense of nonaccomplishment.
Did Sachin spoil me or not? Without him, my childhood would have been deprived of much joy and happiness. Not sure if Sachin's retirement would mark an end to the first quarter of my life or any such things, but surely he's the one who would let the child in me intact. Which means, I can be a kid whenever I feel like and that way, yeah.. he did spoil me. It's tough for people around to handle me as a kid, and when going gets tough, people just start complaining. ;-)
(This is "half baked" stuff from me. Supposed to be posted on Nov 17th! Untimely too.. )
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
A Truly Special Day..
No.. it's not my b'day! I wasn't promoted, nor I met a dream hero or any such stuff. This day has been truly special, yet so simple. I knew one event was awaiting me, and I kind of had mixed feeling for it, partly confident and partly perplexed, overall excited. But everything else contributed it to be special.
Got up late ( nothing unusual after a very late night), with dozy eyes started reading a mail. I could hardly see the font, but the "feel" was getting in. Yeah, I get to know, when people praise. Someone appreciated me in such affectionate terms that swept me. It wasn't praise, but the manner in which it was put, that left me "singing and swinging". Nothing till I reached office, actually nothing until the lunch hour. Was packed with work all through the day. Still could manage to play the game. What I really liked about my game today was that I completed dominated. I exactly knew what was I doing and why. It gives you immense pleasure, when you know your play, the ball landing with the spin to your liking, the part of the court you intended for its landing and just with the right speed. It's wow..I loved it. Good thing was that I continued the same form ( I know, big words ;-)) all through the day. The kind of kick it gives is a feeling out of earth, at least for me.
Amidst the chaos at the workplace, I could manage to answer "ledu.. ceppu" to the usual "busy?" question in gtalk. Was assuming that the talk would help him, but in the end realized, it helped me to find out an answer to one of the simple questions, why I read books. I gave top four reasons, and I loved them, each of them. After all, they are the friends I resort to.
While waiting for the moment that would have termed this day as special, I sneaked in some time to have a chat with a colleague, sitting in a cozy sofa. Loved every bit of it, retrospecting a good deal of people I met and the impacts, about how I talk and why I don't. Finally the moment arrived, shook hands with the first eye contact while the words "Hi.. This is Purnima" was reaching the other end. Then the momentary decision to hang out was made in no time. Had a lovely dinner and came back home.
Was all overwhelmed by the rendezvous, that I wanna it to be in words. But, the day still isn't over! Had a surprise call that led me saunter on the terrace, late in night and talk, laugh, talk and laugh. So much of laugh that the throat has to be cleared more often than not. A hearty conversation, that makes me amuse, wonder and what not!
So.. that was the summary of a truly special day. And I'm least hesitant to appreciate myself for this special day, while thanking all the people who came my way and made these moments. Were you thinking of a word called "modesty" and me together?! Ahem!! ;-)
Btw, end of the day the conclusion is.. I'm a typical hyderabadi! :-))
Got up late ( nothing unusual after a very late night), with dozy eyes started reading a mail. I could hardly see the font, but the "feel" was getting in. Yeah, I get to know, when people praise. Someone appreciated me in such affectionate terms that swept me. It wasn't praise, but the manner in which it was put, that left me "singing and swinging". Nothing till I reached office, actually nothing until the lunch hour. Was packed with work all through the day. Still could manage to play the game. What I really liked about my game today was that I completed dominated. I exactly knew what was I doing and why. It gives you immense pleasure, when you know your play, the ball landing with the spin to your liking, the part of the court you intended for its landing and just with the right speed. It's wow..I loved it. Good thing was that I continued the same form ( I know, big words ;-)) all through the day. The kind of kick it gives is a feeling out of earth, at least for me.
Amidst the chaos at the workplace, I could manage to answer "ledu.. ceppu" to the usual "busy?" question in gtalk. Was assuming that the talk would help him, but in the end realized, it helped me to find out an answer to one of the simple questions, why I read books. I gave top four reasons, and I loved them, each of them. After all, they are the friends I resort to.
While waiting for the moment that would have termed this day as special, I sneaked in some time to have a chat with a colleague, sitting in a cozy sofa. Loved every bit of it, retrospecting a good deal of people I met and the impacts, about how I talk and why I don't. Finally the moment arrived, shook hands with the first eye contact while the words "Hi.. This is Purnima" was reaching the other end. Then the momentary decision to hang out was made in no time. Had a lovely dinner and came back home.
Was all overwhelmed by the rendezvous, that I wanna it to be in words. But, the day still isn't over! Had a surprise call that led me saunter on the terrace, late in night and talk, laugh, talk and laugh. So much of laugh that the throat has to be cleared more often than not. A hearty conversation, that makes me amuse, wonder and what not!
So.. that was the summary of a truly special day. And I'm least hesitant to appreciate myself for this special day, while thanking all the people who came my way and made these moments. Were you thinking of a word called "modesty" and me together?! Ahem!! ;-)
Btw, end of the day the conclusion is.. I'm a typical hyderabadi! :-))
Monday, November 17, 2008
The Gift - Tagore
If you would have it so,
I will end my singing.
If it sets your heart aflutter,
I will take away my eyes from your face.
If it suddenly startles you in your walk,
I will step aside and take another path.
If it confuses you in your flower-weaving,
I will shun your lonely garden.
If it makes the water wanton and wild,
I will not row my boat by your bank.
Rabindranath Tagore
I will end my singing.
If it sets your heart aflutter,
I will take away my eyes from your face.
If it suddenly startles you in your walk,
I will step aside and take another path.
If it confuses you in your flower-weaving,
I will shun your lonely garden.
If it makes the water wanton and wild,
I will not row my boat by your bank.
Rabindranath Tagore
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Saddest Poem
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
Pablo Neruda
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
Pablo Neruda
Absence
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
-- W.S. Merwin
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
-- W.S. Merwin
Walking around - Pablo Neruda
Walking Around
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
--- Pablo Neruda
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
--- Pablo Neruda
Blank poem...
Perhaps it was towards you that I had directed this thought
that turned into a word
Perhaps it was towards you that I had directed this word
that turned into blood
Perhaps it was towards you that I had directed this blood
turned into a creature
Perhaps it was towards you that I had directed
this love and hate
Perhaps it was towards you that I had directed
this non-being
which you accepted
and keeping silent smiling and watching
you taught it to keep silent
(that is to yell)
to smile
(that is to cry)
to watch
(that is to forget)
Perhaps you are its life
(since you are to it
the death of oblivion).
(A Blank Poem, trans. by Dan Dutescu)
that turned into a word
Perhaps it was towards you that I had directed this word
that turned into blood
Perhaps it was towards you that I had directed this blood
turned into a creature
Perhaps it was towards you that I had directed
this love and hate
Perhaps it was towards you that I had directed
this non-being
which you accepted
and keeping silent smiling and watching
you taught it to keep silent
(that is to yell)
to smile
(that is to cry)
to watch
(that is to forget)
Perhaps you are its life
(since you are to it
the death of oblivion).
(A Blank Poem, trans. by Dan Dutescu)
Eloisa to Abelard - Alexander Pope
In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.
Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies:
O write it not, my hand — the name appears
Already written — wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.
Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.
Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.
Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.
Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.
Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name;
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love.
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee.
How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies,
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove,
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires;
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all:
Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
All then is full, possessing, and possess'd,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.
Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.
Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou canst — and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.
Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd,
And Paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)
But why should I on others' pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.
Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain,
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.
Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,
Confess'd within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.
Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake — no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more — methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.
For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.
Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;
Ev'n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves.
Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.
What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me,
Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,
With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.
While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul:
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!
No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!
Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!
See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.
"Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say)
"Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here."
I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah no — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;
And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.
Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,
From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.
May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
"Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!"
From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n,
One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n.
And sure, if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.
Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies:
O write it not, my hand — the name appears
Already written — wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.
Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.
Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.
Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.
Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.
Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name;
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love.
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee.
How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies,
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove,
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires;
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all:
Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
All then is full, possessing, and possess'd,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.
Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.
Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou canst — and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.
Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd,
And Paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)
But why should I on others' pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.
Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain,
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.
Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,
Confess'd within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.
Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake — no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more — methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.
For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.
Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;
Ev'n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves.
Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.
What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me,
Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,
With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.
While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul:
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!
No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!
Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!
See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.
"Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say)
"Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here."
I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah no — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;
And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.
Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,
From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.
May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
"Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!"
From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n,
One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n.
And sure, if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Fashion - All about chasing dreams
I watched this movie "Fashion" only a couple of hours ago, and that it's images are still so very fresh in me, seems like this the moment to put it in words. Not only that, ever since I came out of the theater, though I've been through the bustling city to get back home and then surrounded by decent enough set of noises around, few of which are now taken care by the midnight; yet I've this strange feeling that I'm surrounded by deafening silence. May be, I'm out of the theater, but not out of the movie. Hmm..may be.
So, did I like the movie? I liked it! "Hum jab sapne dekhte hain, tho koi yeh nahi pataata ki hume kya kuch khonaa paDegaa?" is one the lines of voice over (Priyanka Chopra) and that really sums up the story. We all dream, dream big! And some of us really have the guts to chase these dreams. They go all out, they give it themselves, so much so that there is no single moment to track back without the dream. Alas! But only to realize that they have lost everything and anything in the process and right now, there are amidst the ruins of their success. It's like on the top of the mountain, you feel empty! The promos said "... you lose more than your morals.." and I wondered what that could be! It is losing SELF, becoming an absolute stranger to one's own self!
For me, the fashion world was realistically portrayed, not that I know a whole deal about it! Time and again, I felt I've been witnessing the stuff here and there, in particular the Shonali (Kangana Ranuat) episode! I get to see these fashion news at times and it did look all so familiar for me, though the shades were unknown. What I loved about the movie was that there was no "bollywood" kind of treatment to it. Her first love/affair wasn't waiting for her to realize her mistake and he would be the rock kinda stuff to her. The lady in the lead was just an other ambitious gal, who thought she knew her business and lost the path. There aren't any social dramas, a gal from a middle class Chandigarh family grows into a India's No.1 Supermodel and falls down, just exactly as it happens in real world.
There is no moral treatment to the story. It was not preaching about what is good and what's bad in our society. It was only about how can you get along the path of your dreams, when the thorns of reality are pricking. Can you still hold onto self or would you in the mad run, lose to yourself? In this be-always-on-top competitive world, it's so hard to hold onto dreams/success and self together. Most times it is one winning over the other.
I felt the concentration was li'l too much on the big leads in it and the super success lives in the fashion world. Which I felt was incomplete. Modeling is such a tough job, a single scar on the face or a single fumble on the ramp can ruin the entire career. It's not always the money-minded sponsors or the ill-intentioned guys that spoil the party. I wish, the movie had those kind of insecurities, the challenges, the struggles, the hardwork, the emotions and the actual workouts, to make it complete. Insights into models' own mind would have made it even better. Would still take, because this is supposed to be a work of fiction, and not really a documentary.
I don't know if to call it typical bollywood ending, as Priyanka Chopra rises from the disasters and proves herself, all over once again. She gets a standing ovation at the end, but I felt when you have such a support as she had, be it friends or family, that it is not that impossible. As her one of the voice-over lines states.. "kuch rishte aise hote hai ki, unhe apnaane ke liye haat bhi phailaaana nahi paDtaa"! Lucky ones are the few, as the rest are dusted as Shonali.
Am I out of the movie? No, not yet! :-)
So, did I like the movie? I liked it! "Hum jab sapne dekhte hain, tho koi yeh nahi pataata ki hume kya kuch khonaa paDegaa?" is one the lines of voice over (Priyanka Chopra) and that really sums up the story. We all dream, dream big! And some of us really have the guts to chase these dreams. They go all out, they give it themselves, so much so that there is no single moment to track back without the dream. Alas! But only to realize that they have lost everything and anything in the process and right now, there are amidst the ruins of their success. It's like on the top of the mountain, you feel empty! The promos said "... you lose more than your morals.." and I wondered what that could be! It is losing SELF, becoming an absolute stranger to one's own self!
For me, the fashion world was realistically portrayed, not that I know a whole deal about it! Time and again, I felt I've been witnessing the stuff here and there, in particular the Shonali (Kangana Ranuat) episode! I get to see these fashion news at times and it did look all so familiar for me, though the shades were unknown. What I loved about the movie was that there was no "bollywood" kind of treatment to it. Her first love/affair wasn't waiting for her to realize her mistake and he would be the rock kinda stuff to her. The lady in the lead was just an other ambitious gal, who thought she knew her business and lost the path. There aren't any social dramas, a gal from a middle class Chandigarh family grows into a India's No.1 Supermodel and falls down, just exactly as it happens in real world.
There is no moral treatment to the story. It was not preaching about what is good and what's bad in our society. It was only about how can you get along the path of your dreams, when the thorns of reality are pricking. Can you still hold onto self or would you in the mad run, lose to yourself? In this be-always-on-top competitive world, it's so hard to hold onto dreams/success and self together. Most times it is one winning over the other.
I felt the concentration was li'l too much on the big leads in it and the super success lives in the fashion world. Which I felt was incomplete. Modeling is such a tough job, a single scar on the face or a single fumble on the ramp can ruin the entire career. It's not always the money-minded sponsors or the ill-intentioned guys that spoil the party. I wish, the movie had those kind of insecurities, the challenges, the struggles, the hardwork, the emotions and the actual workouts, to make it complete. Insights into models' own mind would have made it even better. Would still take, because this is supposed to be a work of fiction, and not really a documentary.
I don't know if to call it typical bollywood ending, as Priyanka Chopra rises from the disasters and proves herself, all over once again. She gets a standing ovation at the end, but I felt when you have such a support as she had, be it friends or family, that it is not that impossible. As her one of the voice-over lines states.. "kuch rishte aise hote hai ki, unhe apnaane ke liye haat bhi phailaaana nahi paDtaa"! Lucky ones are the few, as the rest are dusted as Shonali.
Am I out of the movie? No, not yet! :-)
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
On the Platform of life...
We four of us were like. what? Lemme think of a metaphor! Oh yeah.. were we not like passengers who arrived from different destinations, sharing a single railway platform and were heading towards different paths again? It was all so momentary meeting, so busy with our own lives and plans. Somehow we got held for a moment, a common cause or a common trouble, and then each of us were woven into the comfortable "WE"- we are now not individuals, but a group called friends. How we met holds such li'l importance, when actually realize how beautifully did we tread this path.
First Impressions:
Raghava was for me, "the Ctrl C+ Ctrl V" guy for me, in the nine months that we got along.
Vicki was always the gaming guy for me, so keen in mobile gaming, always associated with Priyanka.
Santosh, I' not sure if I really knew before actually getting along. But I know, you still remember me as the anti-killer instinct agent! :-)
The Start of Our Journey:
The first 6 months never gave us any opportunity to mingle and we would have remained so, if things have worked smoothly for us. It was not that the sky was coming down on us, but true: we did worry / fumble / ran around wondering where we were heading towards. It was as if we were standing on a hill-top on a foggy night that we couldn't see our own near feature. We were blinded in most senses, in knowing what we are landing on. And the common pain, held us together. Well, should I call it pain still?
Inspirations:
"Blinded" reminds me something of Vicki.. his philosophy was best suited for darkness. (Right? Vicki). "cheekaTlo baanaM" or the "andheri mein teer" or "shoot in the darkness" attitude, which may not allow you plan and execute perfectly, still makes sure you atleast give a try with bare minimum inputs. Thanks for the input, Vicki! It does help, at times.
Then we came together for a common cause, we wanted to take care of our own destinies though we were flunking despite trying best. Remember Raghava, the guy who asked you to pay to work for him? Santosh, you're struggling to get into what you like? You and vicki, in that company? Haa.. that makes some interesting part of a story.. right?
It's WE:
Don't know if you remember this story of Pankaj Sir: "Once in a meeting, the chairperson announced "So, here we have 30 years of experience over here" and everyone looked startled as the most experienced among them was only with the industry for 10 yrs. The chairperson calmly continued, I'm talking as a group, aren't we 30 together!" That holds true for us as well. Three years together, each of us had a unique journey, very special in most senses, yet we are for each other. What amazes me is "your experience" has been "our experience" for each one of us!
Friends are so important in our lives, but yet they are so limited; limited by time, by space, by ambitions, by plans. What enthralls me is not that we have got together, but how we remain together challenging the limitations. How much do we long to see each other, talk to each other and how we convert every single chance into a possible chat / talk / meet. That amazes me and all of a sudden I feel I'm lucky!
Raghava, you asked me to put us in words. And I've decided, lemme be very straight with it.. like an open talk. Still there is so much to talk about, so much to linger upon, many a moments to cherish. Those waits in the classes, those "working without work" days, those talks, those funny moments, those drooping shoulders, those subtle fears, those yahoo conferences, those attempts to combinely do something, those steps of idealabs, where we hang around.. those good old days.
Actually those good old days are inspring me to live this moment, at its best and giving a hope that everything that's coming our way is just better! (Santosh.. your funda, in my words! :-))
Wish my words had the same magic, as we had togther - the magic life brought us and the magic we bestowed on life. Have a blast.. life's waiting for us.
(I'm waiting to see a response from you guys, make some time for it :-))
First Impressions:
Raghava was for me, "the Ctrl C+ Ctrl V" guy for me, in the nine months that we got along.
Vicki was always the gaming guy for me, so keen in mobile gaming, always associated with Priyanka.
Santosh, I' not sure if I really knew before actually getting along. But I know, you still remember me as the anti-killer instinct agent! :-)
The Start of Our Journey:
The first 6 months never gave us any opportunity to mingle and we would have remained so, if things have worked smoothly for us. It was not that the sky was coming down on us, but true: we did worry / fumble / ran around wondering where we were heading towards. It was as if we were standing on a hill-top on a foggy night that we couldn't see our own near feature. We were blinded in most senses, in knowing what we are landing on. And the common pain, held us together. Well, should I call it pain still?
Inspirations:
"Blinded" reminds me something of Vicki.. his philosophy was best suited for darkness. (Right? Vicki). "cheekaTlo baanaM" or the "andheri mein teer" or "shoot in the darkness" attitude, which may not allow you plan and execute perfectly, still makes sure you atleast give a try with bare minimum inputs. Thanks for the input, Vicki! It does help, at times.
Then we came together for a common cause, we wanted to take care of our own destinies though we were flunking despite trying best. Remember Raghava, the guy who asked you to pay to work for him? Santosh, you're struggling to get into what you like? You and vicki, in that company? Haa.. that makes some interesting part of a story.. right?
It's WE:
Don't know if you remember this story of Pankaj Sir: "Once in a meeting, the chairperson announced "So, here we have 30 years of experience over here" and everyone looked startled as the most experienced among them was only with the industry for 10 yrs. The chairperson calmly continued, I'm talking as a group, aren't we 30 together!" That holds true for us as well. Three years together, each of us had a unique journey, very special in most senses, yet we are for each other. What amazes me is "your experience" has been "our experience" for each one of us!
Friends are so important in our lives, but yet they are so limited; limited by time, by space, by ambitions, by plans. What enthralls me is not that we have got together, but how we remain together challenging the limitations. How much do we long to see each other, talk to each other and how we convert every single chance into a possible chat / talk / meet. That amazes me and all of a sudden I feel I'm lucky!
Raghava, you asked me to put us in words. And I've decided, lemme be very straight with it.. like an open talk. Still there is so much to talk about, so much to linger upon, many a moments to cherish. Those waits in the classes, those "working without work" days, those talks, those funny moments, those drooping shoulders, those subtle fears, those yahoo conferences, those attempts to combinely do something, those steps of idealabs, where we hang around.. those good old days.
Actually those good old days are inspring me to live this moment, at its best and giving a hope that everything that's coming our way is just better! (Santosh.. your funda, in my words! :-))
Wish my words had the same magic, as we had togther - the magic life brought us and the magic we bestowed on life. Have a blast.. life's waiting for us.
(I'm waiting to see a response from you guys, make some time for it :-))
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Best Images of Saurav Ganguly - 1
I believe this should be an interesting excercise. To track down the memory lane and search for the images of the man, I suppose had a huge influence on me. Saurav did inspire me to the core and here's an attempt to recollect how it happened.
First Image:
This should be more than a decade back, I just have returned from school in the afternoon finishing that day's exam Tuned into the TV just for a while and saw him clad in the white clothes with a thoroughly black background and saying "Everybody else walk out for tea, I would take a break for Tata Tea!" and the my immediate response was "Wow... Handsome!" Hardly did I know, that he was Saurav Ganguly playing his first test for India.
Somehow, I really can't get to the moment that I took him to the idol. May be there is no one such moment, probably it was a gradual process.
The Kochi Image:
He was out of the Kochi one dayer against Aussies, as he was penalized for denying the umpire with the ease he usually does. He was in the commentary box for a while and talked a bit, quite well. The one incident that he narrated which I still precisely remember, talking about the hawk-eyes of cameras on the ground.
"During a test match, the square leg was yawning uncontrollably and at the same moment the camera was focused on him. Realizing it the umpire got back to business, but I started giggling over it. In no time, I was the prey for the camera!"
I also remembering him saying that the tender coconut is called as "Tata" in bengali. Now, I can't gurantee that! This match was so special because Sachin took 5 wickets and ruined Aussies party! Jadeja scored a fitting hundred.
The Bangladesh Trophy:
It was the season of Independence trophies, on the eve of 50 years of Independence in the sub-continent. Pak's trophy was taken by South Africa I guess. India's was taken by Sri Lanka and Sri Lankan's had to give it back to India. And in the Dhaka stadium, Pakistan and India were fighting it out to claim the Bangla's trophy! 300 plus target is daunting be it any team, but Saurav played a superb centurion innings helped by the masterly Sachin and timely Robin Singh.
It is was darkening out there in the east, Dhaka stadium didn't support full-fledged flood lights then, but undaunted by all the challenges, Saurav accomplished the task. He denied (it comes natural to him) to walk off while the opponents and the umpires wanted to call off the match, due to bad light! Bravo.. Saurav!!
Walking back in Eden Gardens:
It was almost lost, only formalities left when Saurav Ganguly was returning to the pavilion on the third day of that epic Kolkata test match. I surely lost hope, just was waiting for the castle to crash into pieces. Rahul is walking to the pitch to complete what can be called as the "last recognized batting pair." Saurav on his way stops him, hand shakes and pats his back. I didn't get a clue of it. "What the hell would Rahul do now? Agreed, he's the most capable in terms of batting out sessions, but here the team is in such a deep grave, how could he pull it! At the most he can bat all the day tomorrow, but then the rest of the team should hang on. Is that possible. To bat out almost four sessions, without losing as many wickets? With what confidence did Saurav wish him?".. so were my thoughts! Later what happened, is now part of history!
To be continued.. :-)
First Image:
This should be more than a decade back, I just have returned from school in the afternoon finishing that day's exam Tuned into the TV just for a while and saw him clad in the white clothes with a thoroughly black background and saying "Everybody else walk out for tea, I would take a break for Tata Tea!" and the my immediate response was "Wow... Handsome!" Hardly did I know, that he was Saurav Ganguly playing his first test for India.
Somehow, I really can't get to the moment that I took him to the idol. May be there is no one such moment, probably it was a gradual process.
The Kochi Image:
He was out of the Kochi one dayer against Aussies, as he was penalized for denying the umpire with the ease he usually does. He was in the commentary box for a while and talked a bit, quite well. The one incident that he narrated which I still precisely remember, talking about the hawk-eyes of cameras on the ground.
"During a test match, the square leg was yawning uncontrollably and at the same moment the camera was focused on him. Realizing it the umpire got back to business, but I started giggling over it. In no time, I was the prey for the camera!"
I also remembering him saying that the tender coconut is called as "Tata" in bengali. Now, I can't gurantee that! This match was so special because Sachin took 5 wickets and ruined Aussies party! Jadeja scored a fitting hundred.
The Bangladesh Trophy:
It was the season of Independence trophies, on the eve of 50 years of Independence in the sub-continent. Pak's trophy was taken by South Africa I guess. India's was taken by Sri Lanka and Sri Lankan's had to give it back to India. And in the Dhaka stadium, Pakistan and India were fighting it out to claim the Bangla's trophy! 300 plus target is daunting be it any team, but Saurav played a superb centurion innings helped by the masterly Sachin and timely Robin Singh.
It is was darkening out there in the east, Dhaka stadium didn't support full-fledged flood lights then, but undaunted by all the challenges, Saurav accomplished the task. He denied (it comes natural to him) to walk off while the opponents and the umpires wanted to call off the match, due to bad light! Bravo.. Saurav!!
Walking back in Eden Gardens:
It was almost lost, only formalities left when Saurav Ganguly was returning to the pavilion on the third day of that epic Kolkata test match. I surely lost hope, just was waiting for the castle to crash into pieces. Rahul is walking to the pitch to complete what can be called as the "last recognized batting pair." Saurav on his way stops him, hand shakes and pats his back. I didn't get a clue of it. "What the hell would Rahul do now? Agreed, he's the most capable in terms of batting out sessions, but here the team is in such a deep grave, how could he pull it! At the most he can bat all the day tomorrow, but then the rest of the team should hang on. Is that possible. To bat out almost four sessions, without losing as many wickets? With what confidence did Saurav wish him?".. so were my thoughts! Later what happened, is now part of history!
To be continued.. :-)
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Proof to be alive!
Just now, read a short story by Rabindranath Tagore named "Living or Dead?" They say, "Seeing is believing". No, actually we see only what we believe or want to. And for me, this is what the story hold. You got to prove, time and again to the world, according to the beliefs and senses it holds. What's living and what's dead is what is thoroughly failed to understand.
Few lines, that I loved in this story:
Love cannot prove its claim by any document which society accepts, and does not wish to prove it; it merely worships with double passion its life's uncertain treasure.
Every one knows that, even when there is no sign, life is often secretly present, and may begin again in an apparently dead body.
...in the House of Yama, where there is nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to do, only an eternal watch.
Men and ghosts dread each other, for their tribes inhabit different banks of the river of death.
...when a woman cannot understand a thing, she either destroys and forgets it, or she shapes it anew for her own use; if she fails to deal with it in one of these ways, she loses her temper with it.
By dying, Kadambini had given proof that she was not dead.
Few lines, that I loved in this story:
Love cannot prove its claim by any document which society accepts, and does not wish to prove it; it merely worships with double passion its life's uncertain treasure.
Every one knows that, even when there is no sign, life is often secretly present, and may begin again in an apparently dead body.
...in the House of Yama, where there is nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to do, only an eternal watch.
Men and ghosts dread each other, for their tribes inhabit different banks of the river of death.
...when a woman cannot understand a thing, she either destroys and forgets it, or she shapes it anew for her own use; if she fails to deal with it in one of these ways, she loses her temper with it.
By dying, Kadambini had given proof that she was not dead.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Signature!
నీ సంఘర్షణలో నా సంతకం చెరిగిపోయిందనుకున్నావు
నేను నీలోనే కలిసిపోయానని సంగతి మరిచావు
True that I'm mere impression for you, yet wonder the way you snubbed my passion.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Why Read James Joyce?
Well, I'm advised time and again to "Read him, rather than read about him!". Still, I find an unknown joy to see the greatest of men, in words. Kinda obsessed with words I guess! Anyway, here is an excerpt on Why Read James Joyce?
Joyce was a writer dedicated to recording human nature with as much authenticity as possible, with all its attendant satisfactions, hesitations, doubts, revelations, joys, delusions, and disappointments; and if that commitment lead him from the opera house to the outhouse, from the cathedral to the brothel, and from the open pub to the open grave, his pen was never reluctant to follow his instincts. But the hand that held that pen was guided by the muse of genius, and Joyce knew that he could do much more than record life, he could try his best to capture it, to pin it down to the page, heart still beating, frail wings undamaged. And if that took some radical rethinking of his instrument, then so be it: prose style, narrative technique, even language itself would all be bent to his will, and he took a fierce delight in playing with his medium – but all to a purpose; in Joyce, there is always a purpose.
So is Joyce difficult? Yes, but so is life. If Joyce's writing is dense, it is because even our most mundane thoughts are surprisingly multilayered. If it is elusive, it is because our minds do not always follow the logic of wake-a-day grammar. If it is filled with obscure allusions, it is because we first learn universal truths through their reflections in the immediate world around us. If his prose twists and turns like a maze, it is because the infinite convolutions of the human heart demand no less an honest account. To read Joyce is, as he himself put it, to read "as human a little story as paper could well carry." And, to return a last time to Shakespeare, like the Bard, Joyce's works are truly meant for everyone – not just professors; but plumbers, printers, and pubcrawlers, too. Anyone who has ever grown teary-eyed over a sad song, fought for a lost cause, or tried to capture their first kiss with a slipshoddy poem written on the back of an envelope; anyone with a desire to say yes to the great question of existence.
So why read Joyce? Because in the artful eye of his prose, in the art-full lie of his fiction, Joyce is reading us.
Joyce was a writer dedicated to recording human nature with as much authenticity as possible, with all its attendant satisfactions, hesitations, doubts, revelations, joys, delusions, and disappointments; and if that commitment lead him from the opera house to the outhouse, from the cathedral to the brothel, and from the open pub to the open grave, his pen was never reluctant to follow his instincts. But the hand that held that pen was guided by the muse of genius, and Joyce knew that he could do much more than record life, he could try his best to capture it, to pin it down to the page, heart still beating, frail wings undamaged. And if that took some radical rethinking of his instrument, then so be it: prose style, narrative technique, even language itself would all be bent to his will, and he took a fierce delight in playing with his medium – but all to a purpose; in Joyce, there is always a purpose.
So is Joyce difficult? Yes, but so is life. If Joyce's writing is dense, it is because even our most mundane thoughts are surprisingly multilayered. If it is elusive, it is because our minds do not always follow the logic of wake-a-day grammar. If it is filled with obscure allusions, it is because we first learn universal truths through their reflections in the immediate world around us. If his prose twists and turns like a maze, it is because the infinite convolutions of the human heart demand no less an honest account. To read Joyce is, as he himself put it, to read "as human a little story as paper could well carry." And, to return a last time to Shakespeare, like the Bard, Joyce's works are truly meant for everyone – not just professors; but plumbers, printers, and pubcrawlers, too. Anyone who has ever grown teary-eyed over a sad song, fought for a lost cause, or tried to capture their first kiss with a slipshoddy poem written on the back of an envelope; anyone with a desire to say yes to the great question of existence.So why read Joyce? Because in the artful eye of his prose, in the art-full lie of his fiction, Joyce is reading us.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Oh.. these farewells!
Just got started with "Catcher in the Rye" by Salinger and was pondering on the following text.
..I was trying to feel some kind of a good-by. I mean I've left schools and places I didn't even know I was leaving them. I hate that. I don't care if it's a sad good-by or a bad good by, but when I leave a place I like to know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse.
For the past three years, I've been so busy bidding adieus. Many walked in and walked out. I wish they just did that in and out business and never left such indelible impressions, that made farewells, a lot tougher. To reflect on the past three years and capture them in the words, would be a real tough task! Anyway, lemme keep this post about not individuals, but about the business of doing so.
Farewell, is the most inevitable, yet so tough to handle. Sometimes, I tend to feel that, let there not be any farewells at all. We never celebrate someone walking into our lives, we even don't know when they have walked and when did they become that significant for us; we never really plan and celebrate the moments we have together. It's more or less, like getting along the tide. Then why farewells?
But yeah, the above text has sense in it! Good or bad, it helps to know that you are parting away. Hopeful or hopeless about meeting again, you're sure of that this has come to an end. You most probably would meet again, and start again, but this particular thing has now no future. And having a sense of that, though awful, is a must.
PARTING AND MEETING ARE THE WAYS OF LIFE!
..I was trying to feel some kind of a good-by. I mean I've left schools and places I didn't even know I was leaving them. I hate that. I don't care if it's a sad good-by or a bad good by, but when I leave a place I like to know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse.
For the past three years, I've been so busy bidding adieus. Many walked in and walked out. I wish they just did that in and out business and never left such indelible impressions, that made farewells, a lot tougher. To reflect on the past three years and capture them in the words, would be a real tough task! Anyway, lemme keep this post about not individuals, but about the business of doing so.
Farewell, is the most inevitable, yet so tough to handle. Sometimes, I tend to feel that, let there not be any farewells at all. We never celebrate someone walking into our lives, we even don't know when they have walked and when did they become that significant for us; we never really plan and celebrate the moments we have together. It's more or less, like getting along the tide. Then why farewells?
But yeah, the above text has sense in it! Good or bad, it helps to know that you are parting away. Hopeful or hopeless about meeting again, you're sure of that this has come to an end. You most probably would meet again, and start again, but this particular thing has now no future. And having a sense of that, though awful, is a must.
PARTING AND MEETING ARE THE WAYS OF LIFE!
Ahem! Yet another one..
I keep denying people, but in a way or two "Yes, I'm addicted to blogging". At the same time, I can still be very sure of the fact that the association is of highest quality, especially those with the Telugu. Kinda feel that, it has given me a new sense of life in certain ways. I was under the impression that it was all about getting better at my own language, but the truth is that I gained a lot more than that.
Anyway, lemme try and answer this question, why yet another blog? As one of my friend claims, why am I so keen of eating away blogger accounts (he says so!)? This blog is nothing but a personal space for myself, just to jot down anything and everything that comes to my mind.
And how did I freeze that name for this blog? Simple again, passions and impressions actually sum me up and also I just started exploring Pablo Neruda. So.. you see!
This could be just another attempt among several others, that I could mess up with. But one of my policies these days has been, "It's okay to mess it, rather to miss it completely!"
p.s: This would be blog in all the languages I know. Very keen on including Urdu in it as well. ;-)
Anyway, lemme try and answer this question, why yet another blog? As one of my friend claims, why am I so keen of eating away blogger accounts (he says so!)? This blog is nothing but a personal space for myself, just to jot down anything and everything that comes to my mind.
And how did I freeze that name for this blog? Simple again, passions and impressions actually sum me up and also I just started exploring Pablo Neruda. So.. you see!
This could be just another attempt among several others, that I could mess up with. But one of my policies these days has been, "It's okay to mess it, rather to miss it completely!"
p.s: This would be blog in all the languages I know. Very keen on including Urdu in it as well. ;-)