Saturday, March 29, 2008

Words I like

  1. bizarre
  2. kerfuffle
  3. sigh
  4. super
  5. hypergolic
  6. rigmarole
  7. nevertheless
  8. schnook
  9. depth
  10. velvet
  11. refreshing
  12. tantra
  13. jabberwocky
  14. alcove
  15. brigadoon
  16. kibitz
  17. schmuck
  18. radiance
  19. wallow
  20. pulp
  21. Quidditch

These are the first 21 that I thought of. Some of them are words I recently learned about, thanks to wordsmith. The idea to pen this down came from here.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

there is always a possibility

The possibility of a fresh new start, in a new city,
of losing weight in the next two weeks,
of catching the next train to Chennai and being with him,
of the milk curdling even as its boiling promisingly,
of sudden, breathtaking rain on a hot day,
of him calling back right after hanging up the phone call,
of one more quick hug after bidding goodbye for two hours.

The possibility of sitting down tomorrow and getting that story in your head penned down,
of staying back for another day,
of being forgiven one more time,
of getting over another heart break,
of one more dumb acquaintance at the party than you had expected,
of learning 12 different languages someday.

The possibility of waking up tomorrow, and doing something wild,
of saving up enough to travel around the world,
of mastering the art of repartee,
of dying young,
of fitting into that pretty dress one of these days,
of making her the proudest mother on earth.

The possibility of going into that dream world on the other side of the mirror,
of rebuilding the sand castle over and over again,
of someone walking into the room, finding the damn remote, and changing the boring channel,
of being a millionaire someday,
of meeting that one man who would make love to my mind as well,
of marrying my best friend if I end up being 40 and single,
of speaking my mind, without holding back words, ideas or emotions,
of living two different, parallel lives in a lifetime.

There is hope to live, plenty
And an urge to enjoy bits of beauty;
In the possibility of yet another possibility-
Filled with uncertainty

Friday, March 14, 2008

my moonstone ring

7 years. I had that moonstone ring for seven years, and then I go and lose it.
I don't even know where or how I lost it; just realized that the stone had fallen out when I casually looked at my hands during rehearsals.

People say I can just get another stone fixed on to it, 'cos only the stone was lost. Technically, I still have the ring. Throw all technicality out of the window. I have lost the ring. Forever. Damn.

If I had to lose it, wish I had lost it totally. I could have watched it slip out of my finger and fall into a pit, or maybe my six year old nephew could have thrown it into the river, the way he threw my cellphone. But no, I am left with the metal caricature of the once fine and shining ring, and I don't even have the memory of my loss to mull on. Sigh.

There's a poem we had selected for a poetry reading last year. It just makes perfect sense all of a sudden; not that I ever doubted what Elizabeth Bishop had to say.

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Sunday, March 02, 2008

bits of beauty

A little feather drifting in from the car window
Someone’s clear smile on the road
Chink of wine glasses
Drawer full of new stationary
Mug of hot coffee on an early winter morn
A great photo that follows a bad shot
Short, monosyllabic conversations
The sudden discovery of a ten rupee note in my old jeans pocket
Yellow flowers blooming outside the window
The evening sun shining from between tall dirty buildings
The smell of wet earth
Twinkle of a distant star
Calling your name out for no reason
Bits of poetry slipping out from old textbooks
The smell of spicy sambar from Aanchi’s adukkala
A forgotten old tune suddenly on the lips
An old couple holding hands in the park
Colored glass bangles that always break the silence
Sudden squally rain in summer
Routine dialogue that ends up in rhyme
A smile on a sleeping baby’s face

In these moments I am most content,
When nothing is said and nothing is pent
Cos in these bits of beauty
You jog my memory.

Who reads this stuff, anyway?