poem

Ramble On and Laugh

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Growing up with dreams like living on an Ivy League campus, and sipping good coffee every lazy morning when I woke up in my pjs amidst art and history books…

Growing up believing in magic… That there is a reason that no one can define, yet its strong, like the sun rising and the stars just appearing out of nowhere in the night sky…

Growing up, believing that one day I’ll have the money and the funky tan to travel the whole world and call it ALL home..

Yep, growing up like that… it’s just insane!

I remember one of my Where Would I Be in 10 Years visions… riding a bike through Oxford in spring, with a friend, and being fast as the wind… It hasn’t been too long since that vivid daydream, and I already laugh about it. Make me wonder if one day’s dream is another day’s joke.. If the cycle is always in motion, if I will always think up fantasies and later replace them with something more appealing… an maybe something more realistic.

How many of you have ever wanted to be famous? So famous that the whole world knew your face, recognized your voice, and followed your news like fan mail. I have heard just too often about that big aspiration.. to want to be Alexander… it’s what every teenager has thought about once.

Funnily enough, though I romanticise with the idea of having the keys to every door, I don’t want any more people to know me than those who must… I like being a stranger… It gives me the chance to become whatever kind of person I want to, when I want to.. And I can always make new starts that way. I can be a scholar geek to one person, lecturing them about how inappropriate it is to say ‘I’m good’ when grammatically it is ‘I’m well.’ I can be the reckless chick to another, who wouldn’t touch the tequila but acted as if she was high. I can be anything if I’m a stranger. But if I’m Alexander, well, I have to stick to a personality. Boooring.

Today, like many days recently, I’m cracking up over all the weirdly amazing things that happen, have happened, and are happening…

It’s really amazing what can be going on around one if we only just sit back some time and list it..

Someone is busy nursing a pregnant mare… Someone is trying to move to another country within the week… Someone is trying to survive the day and the demanding coaching institute they have joined… Someone is thinking of losing their virginity pretty soon… Someone is so bored they are willing to coach others about Play Station… And someone, is just plain going through every picture on Facebook of every person in their list, to maybe, just maybe find something to report.

Crazy, I know!

Maybe I’m one of the few lucky ones who can actually sit back and laugh at things happen around them, knowing that there’s stuff to do, and knowing that it can wait a while. I’ve always been a great enthusiast for the Audience View… Where you just lay back and watch the world make a fool of itself in front of you… I’ve probably blogged about it a billion times! I’m just glad that though writing these days is turning out funny, I actually am having fun with it… For instance, this poem that makes me split up every time I even think about it.. Penned it late last night for lack of better things to do, and see how it’s turned out. Promise me pleaaaasssseeee, that if you laugh on reading it, you will tell me!

Oh gosh… I’m getting embarrassed typing it even!

You’re buttered guavas with marmalade mash

My risotto on a gondola ride

You’re the dancing fish in the twilight sea

My sleepy turtle after the night

You’re a lone water drop gracing my window

My moon pasted high in the sky

I miss you sugar plum, I miss you so

So come back and make me dream all night

The Oh So Fun thing about writing is, even for the fun of it, it can come to you anytime. It can come without provocation too. It doesn’t always satisfy what you need it to do… write an essay… submit a fiscal report… But it always does achieve something… This one little poem, it is still making me grin and blush 😀 Writing helps me appreciate things.. It helps me to ramble about anything at all, and laugh over it.

Now… The question is… Do I have the courage to post this after all?

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Sixty Cents

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Sixty cents worth of smiles, sold at the bus stand…
Sixty cents worth of happiness on sale…
I pay sixty cents everyday just to see her wave…
I pay sixty cents to believe that the world is merry and gay…
For sixty cents I buy one of each
I buy one of each brand of newspaper or magazine she has
And then she smiles, keeps her sorrows aside,
And it’s worth all that waste paper.

You can find some more poetry here and here.

My Son, You Taught Me To Survive

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I’m grateful my son for all that you’ve done

Though I taught you to live, you taught me to survive

 

When I walked the gravel road

I bartered acquaintances with smiles

I bought people with laughter

I built my world by walking miles

 

When I set you down the gravel road

You bartered friends with interests

You bought people with dependence

You built your world by trading right

 

And if I may ask who taught you

Such obscenities such inhumanity

I’m but being a fool my lad

And horror struck now I understand

 

For my way you would have reached the first rung

And your honesty would only go till there

But you cleverly twisted and you learnt

That’s not how in this world you should fare

 

So I’m grateful my son for all I’ve seen you do

And done

So what that I taught you to live?

You taught me to survive and make it big.

 

 

Black and White

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It’s usually in sixth grade that our English and History books start mentioning the word ‘nigger’. I admit, before I knew what it meant, and that it was another stupid scheme the world once followed, I had wanted to name my dog that. Too bad that word was horribly inappropriate for a golden Labrador in the twenty-first century.

Anyway, slowly I understood how it was just another round of craziness, and the fact that there were so many movements and they seemed so complete, that felt better. Good that the worst was over by the time I could read about it. I still see the dying aftereffects, but as I said, dying.

I have been reading literature and case studies since, of related crimes, related events, and specially those incidents of discrimination that dotted religion. Religion I find, seeps into every single insane issue, though I don’t say religion itself is insane.

Today, I am posting a poem I found some time back, and how it makes one laugh on no laughing matter. A thing as simple as this, as ironical even, and yet so vulgar.

Dear white fella

When I born, I black

When I grow up, I black

When I go in sun, I black

When I cold, I black

When scared, I black

When I sick, I black

And when I die, I still black

You white fella

When you born, you pink

When you grow up, you white

When you go in sun, you red

When you cold, you blue

When you scared, you yellow

When you sick, you green

And when you die, you grey

    And you have the cheek to call ME coloured???

 

So… we have all gone totally mushy on the new born baby, with our shoo shweeettts and baby-voices. We love their scent, their pink-ness. But the man’s got a point. The black kids don’t act like rainbows! Why the hell are they coloured? And I won’t even begin with what that implies to the white race- are they transparent or something that they make coloured seem like shame? I wonder what racists will have to say about me then. I was born white, turned red the next day and since then, have been nothing short of wheatish. And now, as in today, I can show you three different skin shades on my arm. I can really drive racists crazy! They’ll have to make a whole new class for me!

Just what do they find so appealing in that tone of colour? If I was retaliating, I would have called it pale. Where’s the pride? But what I don’t get is how one skin colour can say they’re the ‘normal’ ones and that darker shades are defiled? I don’t know… I would prefer the darker ones… Don’t have to mess with sunscreens.

Exactly my point. You got to take care of sunburns, of rashes, of all sorts of pigment problems showing on your skin! In one picture you’re tanned, in one you’re Snow White. Where’s the normal-ness in that?

I particularly love this part. So, when people are cold, they often go pale, and the skin gets pulled taut. So with black people, it would look like a heroic face… see, dark skin in the middle of white expanses will only glow, certainly much better than white faces that look like they came right out of icebergs. I don’t have anything against black or white people. It’s just that the white, I realised, must look so different so often!

Now how do you describe that? 🙂 Even at my skin colour, being ill is a pain. The nose goes red and the rest of me is yellow! Perfect time to imagine alien deformations! I only wonder what happens to everyone else in times of severe ailments, the ones that drain the blood from the face.

I love that picture. I also love the fact that that’s not really the truth because I could never sympathise with ill people then! How could you stop laughing? That’s like Martians crossed with ugly weeds!

At the time of death, I know no one cares about skin tone. Yet I have heard of those places where they ready the body and I suspect they do powder the person. For me, when the casket (is that what’s it called?) is brought before the burial ceremony, the person, in his suit and polished face, looks more living than ever. I must be setting off more people by the minute. I have seen the smartest of people believe in this racial set up like it’s a gospel truth, and have stained many relationships by showing them I don’t agree. But when I see a dead body in a casket, I actually don’t see black or white (or grey according to the poem), I see calm and readiness. I don’t know yet for what, but it’s like the peace before the ultimate event. I guess they do call passing out from this world the ultimate passing. I wonder if there are colour-coded channels for that.

Good cannot produce Evil

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Good cannot produce evil. This was the topic we were given to write a 12-16 line poem on as part of a project in school. But hold on-

Roses have thorns on the plant they grow on. Everyone loves the rain, but they create irksome puddles that always manage to squish on you their dirty water. And black is a fab colour, but it makes nights so much more dreary than they need be.

So- how does good NOT produce evil? It does. So- what do we write?!
We have two options-

One. We say this point, that Good CAN produce Evil. But to go against the given topic would mean making our poem very very strong, and the words very very powerful- something none of my team mates could do, since we were not much into poetry. So there were huge chances that we would fail to write anything good.

Two. We could completely ignore the logical reasoning our brains instantly came up with, and write a romanticist poem on Good this and Good that. Yeah, that would get the marks. 🙂

So after much brain-hitting, and finger snapping (me), frowning, and dreaming (me), scribbling, and keeping from tearing the paper apart as we wrote (me); we came up with the following poem. It managed to impress the right people, and we have good grades, Thank You. So here it goes-

As a flower springs from the soil

Fragile and timid and soft

And as it blooms and grows

And holds its fair head aloft

It germinates and grows its young

And the babe seeds rise out

And when the bee strikes they spill

All around, ALL around

Young flowers spring out naive

And the goodness surrounds!

There is good even in the Devil!

Only, in Him, dominating is Evil

Our thoughts should be good

Good will never produce crude

For good is incapable of just one

And that, is Evil.

– By Ruchika, Varun, and maybe Akshit

We weren’t done by then. We had touched upon the Devil, and we so wanted to go on. But our 16 lines were up.

Fortunately, some other group members had come up with so many lines that we were able to put together TWO poems!

And though that was bending the rules, submitting two poems when we had to put up one, we did so good that no one bothered to yell. Why?

Because good poems hide the way for scolding and shouting.

Because good cannot produce evil.

😀

A Sleepless Night

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A long long time ago

When the lands were dry deserts of sand

There was a fable that echoed through

And hark! I’ve caught it in my hand!

This fable now is no ordinary tale

And I plan to make it not close so

But listen all come and listen you’ll see

The way the desert cries with me

In this dry desert cold and barren

There was a shepherd’s son

Who with neither direction nor purpose

Walked aimlessly down the dunes

He walked up and he walked down

As he had long lost his sheep

And he cared not for the world anymore

And walked on with his blanket sheet

The blanket sheet was all he carried

And that was all to his name in the world

Until that fateful night when he stopped

At the banks of an oasis, and stood curt

He stood and he stared for all he cared

He would rather die than give up his sight

For near the high palm trees there lay

A maiden dead and frozen in the night

And there she lay as still as the sand

And there he stood as moved

And should you have seen them as they were

You would say it was but a picture

Now the shepherd’s son knew not much

He knew not of the world at all

So he understood not that since she had died

He was of no use to her

The shepherd’s son could only feel

A strong strong motion of empathy

For he knew what cold it felt to be alone

When none but the moon above did shone

So the shepherd’s son will all his heart

Walked over to the girl and touched a scar

That stretched ever so fierce across her face

He did discover emotions new

Love and anger burned anew

And the shepherd carried the silent guest

To the shade of the palm trees and put to rest

But oh he knew not of death and pain

And believed a dead hope so profane

That he would bring the maiden about

And she would live if the years be his

The shepherd caressed the scar so deep

And put water to her lips and hoped she breathe

But the maiden rejected all he did

And gave him not even a word as gift

And the night pushed on not waiting for him

Who would give his life for the maiden with him

Who had no reason to do what he would

But he would, oh he would

The shepherd heard the wind rush by

And soon it too was laughing by

How vain it was to help the girl

That the desert had rejected there

And the shepherd’s son slept a sleepless night

Till morn came and he woke to find

His work no good and then he cried

And as he cried and as he cried

He silently silently slipped and died.