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Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Call Girl Storm

the Purple haze
The red blaze

we march forward !


criminal metabolism of guilt forest
Rattlesnakes whistles castanets

the filthy mirror
remove me from the hall of glass

are you she 
is she you

how could you be
when no one could




Poet of the call-girl storm

She left a note on the bedroom door.
"If I'm out, bring me to."





I dropped by to see you 


late last night
But you were out
          like a light
Your head was on the floor
& rats played pool with your eyes

Death is a good disguise
for late at night

Wrapping all games in its calm garden

But what happens
when the guests return
& all unmask
& you are asked
to leave
for want of a smile

I´ll still take you then
But I'm your friend



Open

The Night is young
            & full of rest
I can't describe the
            way she's dress'd
She'll pander to some strange
            requests
Anything that you suggest
Anything to please her guest

Water


The Wolf
who lives under the rock
has invited me
to drink of his cool
Water.
Not to splash or bathe
But leave the sun
& know the dead desert
                  night
& the cold men
   who play there.

SELF INTERVIEW


I think the interview is the new art form. I think the self-interview is the essence of creativity. Asking yourself questions and trying to find answers. The writer is just answering a series of unuttered questions.

It's similar to answering questions on a witness stand. It's that strange area where you try and pin down something that happened in the past and try honestly to remember what you were trying to do. It's a crucial mental exercise. An interview will often give you a chance to confront your mind with questions, which to me is what art is all about. An interview also gives you the chance to try and eliminate all of those space fillers . . . you should try to be explicit, accurate, to the point . . . no bulls hit. The interview form has antecedents in the confession box, debating and cross-examination. Once you say something, you can't really retract it. It's too late. It's a very existential moment.

I'm kind of hooked to the game of art and literature; my heroes are artists and writers.

I always wanted to write, but I always figured it'd be no good unless somehow the hand just took the pen and started moving without me really having anything to do with it. Like automatic writing. But it just never happened.

I wrote a few poems, of course. I think around the sixth or seventh grade I wrote a poem called "Mistress Queen." That was the first I can remember. It was one of those ballad-type poems. I never could get it together though.

I kept a note book all along my high school. And when I left school, for some dumb reason - maybe it was wise - I threw them all away . . . I wrote in those books night after night. But maybe if I'd never thrown them away, I'd never have written anything original - because they were mainly accumulations of things that I'd read or heard, like quotes from books. I think if I'd never gotten rid of them I'd never be free.

Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything, it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.

. . . and that's why poetry appeals to me so much - because it's so eternal. As long as there are people, they can remember words and combinations of words. Nothing else can survive a holocaust but poetry and songs. No one can remember an entire novel. No one can describe a film, a piece of sculpture, a painting, but so long as there are human beings, songs and poetry can continue.

If my poetry aims to achieve anything, It's to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

PURPLE haze

'PURPLE haze', is still in its planning stage. It will be a 10 - 12 pages print tabloid based from Calcutta and Pune mainly focusing on 'Music', although we will not strictly stick to only music but will go on to make it more varied and theme based.

We are looking for creative people - writers, designers. illustrators, cartoonists and photographers. You don't need to be a professional to be in the PURPLE haze - all you need is creativity and wildness.

'PURPLE haze' will be a new platform for the young and creative minds. It wishes be a purple streak in the monotonous & dull world.




Recycled Death

Bell chimes
word rhymes
sun shines
coal mines
U.S. dimes
vodka limes

and some other random words

letters, alphabets, words, sentences, essays, chapters, books

meaningless gibberish
worthless notes

off the desk
into the waste

recycled death

and we are gone !!
lost !!

we were
letters,
alphabets,
words,
sentences,

and now
we are nothing

dust

and nothing
and nothing
and nothing

recycled death !!

We live ~ We die

We live
We die


We live to die 
We die to Live 

Live again
and again !
and again !
and again !

We live
We die

And death not ends it all !

a beginning
an end 

We live 
We die

And here I am today !




German Bakery


What is it about? food and memories ? huh ? 
Or is it just me ? :)
I've got the most lovely flashbacks of this place too... downing masala chai by the bucketloads while discussing urgently existential issues like love, hope... and trips to Goa. Making friends with random travellers just passing through on their way to Hotel Nirvana. Making promises to meet up years hence, and forgetting them in the very next instance of cigarette smoke...


The German Bakery is no more than a cozy battered wooden shack, perched precariously on the side of the road where Koregaon Park begins. But within its wooden benches and open-aired exits, lies enough spirit to keep you enraptured for days on end. With cameo appearances by an unmatched band of characters... hippies carving their trail through forever, filmmakers with aspirations towards Bergman, refugees from the Osho Ashrama nearby, or just the lone traveller who just can't get enough of his/ her masala chai :-) 


The Masala Chai is so good, it hurts. Strong, sweet and potent. Best accompanied by the gentle patter of rain outside.


Now nothing ...

The Sea


The sea’s only gifts are harsh blows
And occasionally the chance to feel strong
“Now I don’t know much about the sea,
But i do know that
That’s the way it is here”
And i also know
How important it is in life
“Not necessarily to be strong
But to feel strong”
To measure yourself at least once
To find yourself at least once in
The most ancient of human conditions
Facing the blind, deaf stone alone
With nothing to help you
But your own hands and your own head.


Nothing




For days,
Weeks, months, years, decades ... and more
It had been a thing to eat,
But...
Today,
It turned out to be a painting
Or something like that -

The mirror,
 Fell from the wall
Breaking into pieces –

Loved ones
Died all around –

Now nothing...


Freedom

Moment of Freedom
as the prisoner
blinks in the sun
like a mole
from his hole

a child's 1st trip
away from home

That moment of Freedom