Nothing makes sense.And my memory often gets scattered,like leaves blown out by autumnal winds.
My firm resolve to do something tangible is lost in the whiff of rumours.I'm content to carry
my private hell into quotidian life. My words fumble and falter,and lose their accent,
not above shattering. I know there's light, but I can't reach out to. I'm content to simply carry them away by emotional baggage from one
season to another thinking that rubble would become shrine.
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"Where the mind is without fear where the head is held high where the world has not been broken into narrow domestic walls"
Harold Bloom has once observed:"All literature is plagiarism. It wages Oedipal wars with its predecessors".It's Bloom's attempt to "de-idealise"literay influences which perhaps impelled him into making such a sweeping observation. But to his surprise, his predictions proved correct,and especially in post-modern contemporary poetry,there are extensive indications to show-case the examples of "tradition"becoming the leit-motif,more specifically in poetry. In Eliot's own poetry, for instance, in his tour de force of a poem, "The Waste Land",there is a heavy influence of the French symbolist poets, Ezra Pound, Mellarme and Malaraux. Eliot has once said: "Immature poets imitate, while the mature steal". Eliot's oeuvre carries on,what he calls, the twin burdens of influences, "Tradition and individual Talent",in tandemHe has succeeded in securely laying the scaffold for a new," trendy " poetry that influenced many generations of post-modern writing.
The setting sun turns into a tapestry of colors as the day wears on turning the skyline into orange,
Some people say that you exist,some say that you don't,and yet others say you're a "God particle",reducing you to a part of the "matter".Pessimists
All beautiful things got to be real like the sculpted images in words ,ready to tumble into nuanced metaphors in a poem. Beauty nimbly morphs into
My reverse journey to the heady flow of routized life starts at the far end of darkness,
It's a delight to watch Sabarmati flowing quietly into eternal silence,
Simple but never simplistic, neither pedantic nor pedagogic, poetry for him is a palpable word-play, and a prayer too
I stand at the corner of night watching stars twinkling in the blue sky when silence creeps in like a soft-footed tiger.
Silence has many tongues,and has many languages. Sometimes, it passes off as a mellow whisper
The books stood untouched, and the gates firmly barred.The future is still in hibernation,and the present is a hell in visibility.
If I had another life,I would have rounded it up like morning glory inside me,and would have gone into another spree of joy and
Home is the place where love blooms into grace,where the heck is lost andfreedom
I would like to walk free from the humdrum of life ,like a bird that's free to float the blue sky like
The instant is simultaneous where the past latches on to the present and the moment becomes a monument of
Fear is a whisper in the wildernessa rumour perched on the branches of dark trees.
Between now and then stands the indeterminacy of a conclusion,something on the
Freedom first.and last. It's like breathing fresh air ,like heart's circadian rhythm,fair.
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