Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Love across miles and other poems!

Once upon a time I thought was a great website, and posted poetry there. I reproduce those poems here. These were written atleast four to six years back:)

Love across miles

Emotions of a long-distance caller! Love transcends all distances!

Across thousand miles
I hear your breath
In overtones of emotion
Frequencies of intimacy.

Words flow and touch
Chords of familiarity
In signals and sounds
Harmony and ecstasy.

I wish I were
A vibration that could
Transmit to your heart
Happiness eternally.

September, 2001, Akron OH
Also published in IIT BRCA magazine in 2000, and a part of my novel in verse "A Poet gone cuckoo"

Memories are like motion pictures
Meters of negatives
Which relive past moments
On a two dimensional screen;

Memories are like motion pictures
Edited shots from yore
Montage, deep focus, close ups
Selected by momentary instinct:

Memories are like motion pictures
Visions of virtual space
Where you are a mute spectator
To what silver bromide can retrace.

Written in 1999, IIT Delhi!

How did she....

How did she
Who unknown to thee
For most of your life
Turn into your only
Reason for survival?

Why this emotion
Storming your soul, self
Charmed by a dream
Is running through your all
Breath, bone and blood?

What eyes seeIn that dusky flesh
And an unknown destiny
That enraptures thee
Into avowing, admiring, adoring
A mere carnal fantasy?

Written in March 2000!
Ferozepur, Panjab!


Inspired by the musical of same name,
a tribute to the dance-drama!

Motion, melody and moves
Set your mind free, footloose!!

Chance to celebrate your moods,
Dance to eternity, footloose!!

Make yourself what you choose,
Happiness, humor, footloose!!

Talent travels in shoes,
Swim, fly, footloose!!!

Music springs from keyboard,
Makes loud splashes
I am all wet you see
Drenched, drunk, footloose!!!

Poetry penned without rules:)
Rhyme, rhythm, footloose!!!!

Akron, OH, Fall 2001


Paragraphs Of Promiscuity!

Dreams you want me to write about,
Spread them like sheets on bed of paper,
And lie on them in every possible way,
Thrust through murmurs lust into love,
And talk touches tresspassing ususal sensations,
Fantasize, Sentence your passions with meaning,
Proselytize daily reality on dusk of verse,
And move through nights with thirst and quest,
Sneak into lives, ogle at every possibility,
To write, create paragraphs of promiscuity!

Again IIT Days, I think in 1999, part of "A Poet Gone Cuckoo"


Thousand trivialities punture my powerless soul,
And tissues split out in rebellion, tyrants they too,
All blame my emotions of arrogance and greed,
And fleece me of passions as I bleed,
A lump of past and a ghost of future,
Materialise into a sword of present severe,
And abstract each hope from my vision,
Silence growls in darkness that grows after each scission,
As I grope in illusions, illusions melt too,
Disappear into fissures draped in mud and blood
And when I try to sink, disappear into my shallow self
You call me renegade, coward, saying I have fled.

Another IIT Days, maybe 1999, part of A Poet Gone Cuckoo


Stand by me!

When darkness engulfs me,
And I can hardly see,
Darling! Take my hand,
Stand by me!

When world breaks apart
And becomes a misery
You keep holding my hand
Stand by me!

When I succeed in becoming
What I want to be
Triumphantly you raise my hand
Stand by me!


Walking Whispers

Whispers walk from dust to dawn
In the empty pulmonary spaces
Restless and relentless insomniacs
Seeking sense in cells of life

Written during those insomniac years in IIT again...
This might be from 1998!

Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence

D. H. Lawrence excels in presenting human emotions of love and lust, hate and hope, faith and passion. The main protagonist, Paul, is said to be an autobiographical account of Lawrence's own self, and perhaps that explains why Lawrence is able to present his array of emotions as well as he manages to do in this novel. The novel is about the relationship between mother and sons, and about the lovers of the respective sons.

The character of mother is actually the one around whom all the story is woven. No one writes about the feelings of woman as well as Lawrence does, and like in other novels, he captures the feelings through delicate and beautiful descriptions of seemingly trivial events. Paul's brother William and the woman he loves Gypsy, present the life of London in backdrop of romance between a highly intelligent male, and a blonde-like bimbo. Paul's own romances with Miriam, a simple, homely girl, who is religious and respecting, and with Clara, a much older than himself and modernist in views female makes this novel a classic study of passionate love and sexual attraction. Among all this, is the role of mother whose compensates for her unhappy marriage by devoting all her energies to her sons, and then in later years has to deal with loves of her sons that threaten to tug them away from her.

The story is also a story of struggle of a family, where a young wife must come to grips with a drinking husband, where children must grow in shadow of the strained relationships of their parents, where Paul, William and the other siblings will grow from childhood into an age where they will fall into love, find vocations and finally the family will grow into a happier, richer bunch. Like typical Lawrence, all relationships are treated with rich and emotional descriptions, and the innermost thoughts of characters are spread out in beautifully written prose. The novel captures commotion of love and lust quite well, and eventhough Lawrence has refrained from talking about sexual attraction in a way that cause much consternation in his times, the descriptions are lush and unforgettable.

I have always loved the way Lawrence describes nature. Sunlight, leaves, forests, evenings, stars in the night sky, clouds, sea and seashore: all nature itself is woven into the fabric of this novel in very artistic fashion, very poetically and imaginatively. Lawrence, I repeat, is the novelist of last century that no one ought to miss, and trust me his world is run by universal emotions that only writer of his talent, perception and feeling can write.

Lastly, this is a classic, it requires time and effort. The beauty of the writing is in the descriptions, rather than the sequence of events. From seemingly mundane lives of few family members, and using seemingly trivial daily events, Lawrence tells a story of romances, relationships and (I believe one of the best accounts of)mother-son relationship. Its a kind of story that stays with you, makes you understand yourself better, and is wonderful to remember!

Friday, March 18, 2005

APS: March Madness, Los Angeles, Chaos, Upcoming Travel, etc.

The week was a frentic one at work, with too much to do in research, and my literary indulgences provided the required comic relief.

The weblog at sulekha garnered some good responses:

Poems (posted here as well, with different titles)
Loving an intelligent girl
Loving a bimbo

Short story:
Kalpit: A love story

India seems to be in good position in the Kolkotta test, and I hope we will not snatch a loss or a draw from the mouth of victory again!

The days before a conference are the most productive (and nutsy) for a graduate student like me. APS March meeting in Los Angeles (hence March Madness) begins on Sunday, March 20. I will be displaying my work on chaotic mixing on Monday and talking about Nanorod dynamics in centrifugation (governed by Brownian motion: Randomness) on Tuesday. So the week starts with chaos, diffuses into randomness, and after that should be fun! So my spring break would be dedicated to APS: In the year of Physics, that is perhaps most apt thing for a physicist to do anyways:)!

I hope to be back with a bang after the March Madness! HAPPY SPRING BREAK, Happy Holi, Happy Birthday, and Happy () : Pick whatever applies!

au revoir!

Monday, March 14, 2005

Why you ought to leave her (Another version for other people)!

She remembers it all, all trifles and trivia
And ranks among the best of the intelligesia
Your every opinion is subject to her scrutiny
She knows of each pact, knows each mutiny
She demands equality of body and spirit
And has thousand citations in her ambit
If life is a chessboard, she knows all gambits
And wins without fail, for she never submits
She cares not about your desires or dreams
Her life is the center of the world (it seems)
She is not brought up to be easily satisfied
She seeks the moon and is never gratified
She mulls in moods that she calls freedom
Toys with ideas of inducting you into serfdom
Her eyelashes obey the planned ploys of her heart
She speaks in puns, with satire her phrases start

She loves your praise, lusts for your soul too
And dismisses your passions as unpure, untrue
What can satisfy her is the most difficult to possess
She seeks Einstein in head and Hercules in undress
She contrasts your each word to the best ever spoken
And unaccomplished feats are always promises broken
But most of all, you are spineless, and you exist in vain
If for her you give it all, if for her you adapt or abstain
Your each act is governed by the influences on history
And your present is scaled by what it offers to posterity
Even bestial desires in her are tamed by religious fervor
The higher good of humanity is required to get her favor
She knows anatomy, medicine, and politics for good
And chides household chores from her childhood

She can sweep you off your feet, she can mystify you
She can work magic with words, she can glorify you
She will manage your life and accounts to perfection
No nothing will ever escape her erudite attention
And by her very nature she will always be a control freak
And tell you mind your own business in Latin and Greek
She can love, but her love will compete with her reason
Every emotional upheavel will be subjected with her derision
She will be by your side, but fear of her leaving will remain
For she will never show whatever she goes on in her big brain
She is poetry, a prized possession, the pride or a source of inspiration
But a perfect wife, never my friend, never in your wildest imagination
Make her friend, connect to her on the platonic ground
But never tangle in her love, for never it will unwound
Never will you accomplish enough to become her dreamt one
So run like hell my friend, if you are falling for like this someone!


Sunday, March 13, 2005

Why you ought to leave her?

She has no memory, she has no wits,
She always appears in such high spirits,
She struts elegantly in splendid shades,
Always candidly simpers during debates,
Sure, she has quite a remarkable bust,
All the more reason to arouse mistrust,
Surely among the prettiest of her tribe,
She possesses the weapons of your demise,
She seems to glow in your company,
And makes you feel smart and funny,
But all your ego boosting is in vain,
She never stepped into your thought train,
She flits like a butterfly. She always flirts,
Keeps all interested with the skimpiest skirts,
She often uses the word mundane for arcane,
And airthmetic short circuits her pea-sized brain,
She will forget you. Soon you will fade away!
No intense emotions in her, ever hold sway!
Its capital, its criminal, it is quite asinine
To pander, to procure such a pestial concubine
She will keep you and your life in chaos
Live not by the libidos, evoke your ethos
My friend, a stitch in time save nine,
Leave her now. It is about time.

PS: For a friend, who has parted with his reason to stray into death valley of a desire that is not worth pursuing in the first place!

Right now the inspiration comes from my reading of Sons and Lovers by DH Lawrence, for Williams falls for Gipsy who happens to be like the girl described above, and if I knew or befriended Williams, I would have advised him thus!

Also there is no resemblance to anyone living or dead (beyond accident or coincidence:)

Pablo Neruda

Great poets transcend the barriers of language, creating original ways of describing the mundane and the beautiful, and Neruda dazzles in translation like any other (Tagore for one)!

‘I do not love you as if you were brine-rose, topaz,’
XVII From: ‘Cien sonetos de amor’

I do not love you as if you were brine-rose, topaz,
or barbed carnations thrown off by the fire.
I love you as certain hidden things are loved,
secretly, between night and soul.

I love you like the flower-less plant
carrying inside itself the light of those flowers,
and, graced by your love, a fierce perfume
risen from earth, is alive, concealed in my flesh.

I love you without knowing how, whence, when.
I love you truly, without doubts, without pride,
I love you so, and know, no other way to love,

none but this mode of neither You nor I,
so close that your hand over my chest is my hand,
so close they are your eyes I shut when I sleep.


The Stroke
From: ‘Las Manos del Dia’
Ink that entrances me
drop by drop
and goes guarding the trail
of my reason and unreason
like a large scar that’s barely
seen when the body’s asleep
in its discourse of dissolution.

Better perhaps if
all your essence
were to have emptied in one drop
and thrown itself on a single page
stained it with a single green star
and that only that stain
were to have been all
I had written in the whole of my life,
without alphabet or interpretations:
a single dark stroke
without words.


I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Pablo Neruda


Your Feet

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses, my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me

Friday, March 11, 2005

Reading in March: East, West; Leaf Storm; Agatha Christie; Riot, SONS and LOVERS

In just last ten days, I finished reading:

So Long and Thanks for all the fish by Douglas Adams: another one of his loony novels, full of humor that suits my fascination with "fun in science"!

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie: A mystery novel that you can read at phenomenonal speed, limited only by the theory of relativity, and the inevitable blinking of eyes!

East, West by Salman Rushdie: A collection of stories, characterized by the usual erudite Rushdie. But these stories are more amenable to easy reading and more funny than any Rushdie writings that I have ever encountered. Leaving Shame and Fury, I think I have read it all! There was one particularly hilarious one about Columbus and Queen Isabella: worth a laugh riot!

Part one of SONS and LOVERS: Like Rushdie, DH Lawrence is my another favorite. He is easier reading though. Lawrence writes most beautifully about all kinds of human emotions. His attention to detail and his depth of feeling always blows me away. After Lady Chatterley's Love and Rainbow, Sons and Lovers confirms why Lawrence is an author of such repute!

About half of THE RIOT: by Shashi Tharoor. This is written in an unusual style, in form of interviews, newspaper reports and diary enteries. Still not done with it, but its fascinating so far!

Half of Leaf Storm by Gabriel Garcia Marquez: My journey into magical realism continues. Marquez is maestro to say the least!

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

A cup of Tea - FIVE!

For all my friends who refuse the offers of tea
For in past years, the refusals have become calamity!

(Actually like all others, this poem needs revision: will do so later!)


Why do you decline a cup of tea,
Why settle for a life of depravity,
Why sin against the sweet syrup divine,
Why not savor the nectar of ecstasy!

What don't you like, if you don't know the taste
Quitted without even trying, oh! what a waste,
What reason or trauma purports your inhibition
Why incriminate tea, if in toto you aren't chaste!

What heavenly aromas daily escape your senses
What trifles you miss in your tea-time absences
What flavored waters never flowed in your veins
What elixirs could have glorified your performances!

Why must you have no excuse to sit, stare or stay
Why must a soft "no" always greet a tea's tray
Why must you be insocial, non-commital, stoic
Why cannot your head your heart's wishes obey?

Why refuse a few drops of trust, few sips of sweetness
Why not douse your sorrows in brewed bits of bitterness
Why not share the warmth of the fluid of amiability
Why not just bow and savor every cup of happiness!

A cup of tea, ah! Do listen to my entreaty
A cup of tea, ah! I will like you entirely
A cup of tea, ah! Its sounds so pretty
A cup of tea, ah! Just drink it for me!

A cup of tea - Four!

(Poem in progress)

A cup of tea, for only ruppees three
Sold by a twelve year old illiterate fellow
A cheap alloy's kettle on a kerosene stove
A roofless shop, under the tree in a ghetto!

A cup of tea, what other drink there could be
To kill hunger and thirst, so cheaply, effectively
Brewed in boiling bitterness over brazen heat
Cup of contentment, always warm and sweet!

A cup of tea, linking disparate masses of humanity
The pluckers of leaf, in the nations of uncertainity
The gentlemen in suits, with shiny black boots
Shirtless, shoeless kids who deliver with dexterity!

A cup of tea, one for three, under the tree
Twenty ruppees a day earned for a family
For four bodies bare, four empty stomaches
Every cup sold brings smiles and half-lunches!


Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Macavity by TS Eliot!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PS: Actually the cup of tea series inspired by the cat poems of TS Eliot and this one is my favorite!

A cup of tea - THREE!

There's many a slip
Between a cup and a lip
For movements rash
End in spills and splash!

In dancing, deft hands
Sways a cup like wands
Her magic mesmerizes me
But fails against gravity!

In the puddles that form
Feelings murky and warm
Generate transient patterns of congeniality
That get wiped away with timid impetuosity!

And as she sips, from her leaky lips
Tea trembling with joy, jumps and trips
Maybe my words too, are sipped as her tea
And in spills and splashes, lose their intensity!

A cup of tea, so delightfully majestic
With drips and drops, becomes artistic
But for all her mess, and all her spills careless
She is the joy that fills my heart's dark abyss!