I way

495, 81, 90 he knows them all
290 and 93
ribbons over her unforgiving landscape
moving rainbows of yellow and red
at 80mph her far screams shatter his dreams

PS: I-495, I-81, I-90, I-290, I-93 all American freeways
Image photographed by yours truly, I-93, New Hampshire, 2000ft

Unrequited Love

Since buddy is now talking about Love Unrequited..a subject I never thought his pen(or rather his keyboard in this case) would dispense.
The beautiful sublimity of the prose he has brought forth gains an inexplicable level of significance for her not having read it.
As it may be, my gut twirls too and my heart flings itself within the inadequate confines of any medium of expression..

If I were to compare and contrast then his love is sublime beauty and mine is extreme insanity!

Prose is not my forte, I guess this better explains the madness thats my Unrequited Love..

I still hope in time that he will be mine,
Even though I know otherwise;
I'm aware that I'm being blind,
But its the only way I keep alive.

Though the distance physically has grown,
I feel his heartbeat closer than my own;
He's not even a part of my day,
Yet he lives alongside me always.

In this delusional world of mine,
My love for him is the only sign that;
I exist in this fabric of time,
He lives in this world where I survive.

His presence in mind is so strong,
Thats why I feel my world is all wrong;
Without him I do easily exist,
But it is exceedingly difficult to live.

A glimpse of him breathes life in me,
A reason to live and go on I see;
Emotions though are a complete upheaval,
Happines, melancholy & anguish all part of me!

Blog Action day ‘08

A few friends put me upto this.

I sincerely feel one cannot know the true magnitude of poverty and its many aspects; despair, frustration and desire unless one experiences it. However my small attempt at understanding it.

Poverty

Wants and needs mingle

fuse , entwine, unite

at the sight of food.

yuck, bwack and vomit

to him seem manna.

Desires are shoved, needs attended to

pockets can stretch only so much.

I have little, I am happy

If though I can have more…

Frustration at being outmoded

Vertu prada and Gucci

unable to afford,

They call her poor.

Rhyme and Reason

I have never been able to write poetry. Unlike most of my friends who can wax eloquent, complete with rhyming words and all, I cannot for the life of me rhyme. Maybe it is because I have a predilection to use big words. Maybe it is because when I was little, I thought every line in a poem must rhyme. By the time I learnt of non rhyming poems, my mind had already been restricted.

The joys of haiku.

Never will I sample.

Pedestrian prose I write alas.

Coming from a family of poetry lovers didn’t help either. Dinner started with Thiruvalluvar and Kamban and dessert was served with a good portion of Khayyam. All I did was eat at that time. Sure, I do appreciate the occasional poetry, it moves me sometimes. What I cannot do is ooh and aah at implied metaphorical marvels that I cannot get. Nor does it irritate me to see people get Goosebumps at the mention of a particularly meaningful line.

Prose is capable of stirring emotions and encouraging thought. Prose is abstract and grounded. Beautiful, earthly, and solid. Poetry shifts meanings, allying itself to one of the many moods of the fickle mind. Vande Mataram makes me all quiet and contemplative. Jana Gana Mana commands respect. An occasional Gulzar or Vairamuthu will stir me. Random lyricists will have me in splits. But somehow I feel the pull of prose. Poetry is like the hot girlfriend. Prose is a comforting mother’s arms. The effect Tolkien has with his words, or the way Archer moves crisply, the way technical manuals go on for pages, without actually saying anything, crappy page 3 news full of rubbish with words littering the glitterati. Words by Bachi Kakaria and Bill Bryson will have you laughing, Lahiri makes you see futility and Tolstoy reduces to a teary rubble.

I try and try

But cannot rhyme

The output of my efforts, wry

Not worth a dime