For muses, who believe I misrepresent them

They say, in my verse
I misrepresent the fairer sex
Either I engineer phrases
latent with flattery or
concoct elegant excuses
for glorifying their physical attributes.

They say, in my verse
I misrepresent the fairer sex
My characters are just caricatures
and my devices laden with satire
my compliments usually underline
just what is imperfect and concealed.

They say, in my poems
I unleash a subtle attack
On their ambivalent dispositions
My emphasis is misplaced for
females live in the gray scale
and I insist on black and white.

They say in my poems
I unleash a subtle attack
on attention they relish, though
must underplay, as modesty demands
my words are like guilt trips
bittersweet, tangy soulstirrers.

They say, I must write
verses that emphasize qualities
revel in ideas, extol their intellect
talk about their exploits, their
ability to mobilize humanity into
rigor and vigor of survival.

They say I must write
verses that emphasize qualities
not of flesh, but of mind
They insist, guilt trips must go
as must my personal vendetta
to remind them of their limitations.

I smile at these responses
The allegations of the fairer sex
'Truth is beauty, beauty truth
In women, never twain shall meet,
Vivek, you seem to underplay it'
Say guys, demanding me to be less indiscrete.

I smile at these responses
The allegations of the fairer sex
Praise is flattery and the rest
seems to become misrepresentation
O enigmatic existances, you may dismiss my
poems as artefacts of my flawed imagination.

I insist, my poems mean
Whatever they comprehend in them
for I present just snapshots
of events or emotions as it is
this is not propaganda, but facts
just scribed in detached, absent mindedness.

I insist, my poems mean
Whatever they comprehend in them
When my experiences touch
the hands of their thoughts
I know be it pleasure or scorn
Their first instinct is to cringe.

I allow, the music of sentences
to show me the lyric
My verses are just montages
of my and their fractured reality
As a novelist, I cannot dictate
Who enacts the roles in their adaptations.

I allow, the music of sentences
to show me the lyric
Drafted here in uniforms are trite
observations mine and their own
O dears, if you cease to judge harshly, in my
verses, you will see my eulogies, my love, strewn.

April 04, 2006
10:00 pm

PS: “Trust a woman?” was a perfect cause for an all out attack on me by some friends I visited recently, and this poem is a homage to what they said (and my response that I was able to articulate only after returning home and sat down to pen this piece:)!

Trust a woman?

Should I trust women, any woman
A woman can I possibly trust?
Lips move in harmony, even eyes do
While zillion secrets sprawl in her bust.

Some call her fraility, some door of hell
The root of all evils, scriptures declare
Yet one crooning voice, one lingering kiss
Makes a man crawl, forgo every care.

When pregnant with ideas, or with intent
She swells and suffers, all her fill
Whatever she loves (besides her own self)
She nurtures it well, with a motherly skill.

She can be a panacea, if she so wills
And whisper to you, the lullabies of trance
Clasp your dreams, carry them to ecstasy
Fill your each pore, with pheremones of romance.

Like a vine, she can cling and climb
Rise like a moon, shimmering on a still lake
There like a memory, she can fade or flicker
Beyond unexplained clouds, her veiled escape make.

Never frail as she seems, her power's absolute
She will destroy you, destroy if she must
Her talents seduce me, beauty makes me believe
But shes a woman. Can a woman, I possibly trust?

Feb 23, 2006 9 am & April 02, 11:30 pm


The Poem is an inspired piece of composition, usually stems from some event, idea or an inescapable attack of passion. This one carries a thought, and the poet need not be prosecuted for what he is forced to write by his flash of inspiration.

Book review: Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck

Of Mice and Men is a simple tale of two men, one Lennie is a huge fellow, a giant with a brain of a child, a simpleton who likes to pat mice and pups and by sheer force in his hands, kills the very thing he loves. Another is George who he travels with, George who finds work for them on farms, George who acts as his father, mother and friend, his spokesman. George gives Lennie a dream that they both live for, a dream of having their own Rabbit farm. The hundred page novel brings out the simple tradegy associated with Lennie's existence: he cannot escape the fact that he is the only simple-minded soul in a mean world. An easy read, this novel also brings to light some aspects of how African American's were treated in those time, the threat of lynching looms large at otherwise educated and strong person, ridiculed by a bimbo, a senseless woman, who marries one man and encourages every other as "nigger who could be killed at her one gesture".

There are a few other characters, developed nicely, but on the whole the novel is written in slangish style, spoken sentences lack grammar and descriptions of events and places is at a level of ten year old's vocabulary. So its a masterpiece more because it tells the story so simply, and yet manages to make it ever so memorable. There is a unercurrent of imminent tradegy throughout the novel, and even though its a short novel, it provides a peep into the farms and workers of early twentieth century America.

Book Review: Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak

Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak is quite remarkably a poet's novel: the writer was a poet, and hence each page is full of beautiful imagery, metaphors and word play. The protagonist is a poet, the novel revolves around his love and life in the first half of twentieth century Russia. The reader, by association, has to be a poet to really relish the saga.

It is one of those novels from last century that everyone must read. The ghosts of socialism and Marxism, the excesses that occured in name of revolution, the transformation of the largest country of the world from ceturies old system into a failed ideal: the novel has enough historical significance. Last century was guided, molded, scarred, decorated and defined by the events and ideas that crop up as part of Doctor Zhivago's life. The literary underpinnings are gigantic: a love story with the Russian Revolution as background score: a Nobel was the least he could have got.

Besides the historical perspective, the story itself is a delightful one. The homely Tonya, Dr Zhivago's wife and first love and mother of his children, the sensuous Lara who weaves into and out of Yuri (Dr Zhivago's) life, her husband Pasha Antipov, who at every junction of his life must fight against ghosts and demons of his wife's past and present and in attempt outclass himself, the Uncle Koyla, the intellectual: the list is unending. Characters are crafted from all sections of society, making this novel a representation of whole society at that time. Like Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, the novel provides four or five chief characters, who are immense in their own potrayal, parting with their thoughts, ideas, ideals and philosophies, and possessing unique well-defined characteristics, the novel has another string of about twenty characters who are unforgettable for whatever roles they are assigned.

The harshness of winter, the beauty of forests and fields, the man divided in his love for wife Tonya and lover Lara, the poet in exile, the idealists seeking to change the world, Russian history and customs: such ideas find Pasternak displaying his poetic prowess. Many passages in the book are sheer poetry, and I am amazed at seeing how powerful they are in translated language: I wish I knew Russian to find out how delightful the original must have been.

It is a long novel, with graphic pleasant and unpleasant sequences and a writing style where its apparent that either because it is a translation or ther writer was a poet attempting prose, the writing is not a easy read. Requires lot of time and effort and most people prefer the movie that was made in 1965 or so. I think reading Doctor Zhivago is an experience in itself, and in this post cold war era, it contains the perspective and historical lessons that we all must know and understand.

An excerpt that presents a preview of all the things this novel incorporates into the love saga of Yuri, where his heart is in strife in his love for two women as is it in strife witnesses changes that challenge every aspect of his being and thinking:

"Even more than what they had in common, they were united by what separated them from the rest of the world. They were both repelled by what was tragically typical of the modern man, his shrill textbook admirations, his forced enthusiam, and the deadly stillness coldly preached and practiced by the countless workers in the field of art and science in order that the genius must remain extremely rare.

They loved each other greatly. Most people experience love, without noticing there is anything remarkable about it.

To them- and this made them unusual- the moments when passion visited their doomed human existence like a breath of timelessnesses were moments of revelation, of ever greater understanding of life and of themselves."

Loved it. Highly recommended.

Pearl Earrings

My dearest, must I talk trivia
Keep you interested with jokes
Twisted stories, spiced to entertain
Must I charm you with etiquette
Eloquent discourses on artsy movies
Display my softer side with tears-
Shed earnestly at the sight of a dying Ape
Must I spend money at restaurants
Buy flowers that wither fast, fade
Fill your rooms with presents
Must I do it all, earnestly
And never show lust or hope
Must I suffer silently, yet smile
Wait for you to define my role
And then, must I not complain
If you decide it won't work out
Atleast refund me pearl earrings
I'll hate it if you wear them
And look pretty for someone else.

29 March, 2006

A poem and a translation

Just found an amazing blog, with extremely well-written poems.

http://frogpyjamas.blogspot.com/

Here is an example copied from there:
that moment
that moment when the ball runs into
the fiercely protected muddy patch
exactly as it's supposed to

that moment when he turns shyly,
scans the crowd, a gleaming smile
on his dirt-stained little face

for the rotund happy woman
who points him out as her own
claiming him while she still can

that moment when a boy leaps up
and catches the sun
in his perfect little fist

that moment

posted by Anindita


I am taking the liberty of translating it, somehow seems perfect for the purpose.

woh lamha

woh lamha jab gaindh ja girti hai
daldal mein, laangh ke sab deewarein
theek waise hi jaise hona hai

woh lamha jab sharmatay sharmatay
woh murta hai, bheedh ki ore dekhta
dhool dhooshrit chehray par muskaan liye

uss moti, khush aurat ke liye
jisnay ik issaray se ussay
chunn liya hai apnay liye

woh lamha jab koodh kar
woh ladka thaam leta hai sooraj
apni majboot, nanhi muthi mein

woh lamha

(So its a translation of Anindita's poem, its NOT my poem)!

Always the bridesmaid, never the groom

Always the bridesmaid, never the groom
Why do nice guy's, finish last, role I assume?
Why do I nourish, for years their laughter
Care for their tastes, ear for their chatter?
And why, at the altar, alternatives step-in
To usurp my own, happy ending in making?

Always the bridesmaid, never the groom
My friends concur, I script my doom.
They say, "You are awfully nice, to ready to please
But to titilate their amorous self, you need to tease.
You can endear them, my friend, only through your flaws
Active persuasion, relentless avowals, even stone thaws."

Always the bridesmaid, never the groom
When will, my true love, come to bloom?
When will my muse, marry my composition
Fill me with lust, no scruples on imagination?
When will my existance, my greatest triumph assume
My jealous "ex-es" be bridesmaids, myself be the groom?


Jan 2006