Friday, November 23, 2007

Time of our Lives

There were images on the 76 mm;
there was Zimmerman in the air.

There were protests,too;
under the 'sky-road'.

Repurcussions from miles away,
they played the wrong cards at Writers.

The men in Mughal city,
played the blame game.
The folks in the village played with death.

They assured peace,
Red peace.
A Rizwanur dies again,
A Nandigram cries again.

Its a mutiny,
a silent arrangement.

Thirty years of attrocity,
burns in a single day of 'inhumaneness'.

Another Modi is born,
Or is it discovered?
The truth was always there,
the courage was'nt.

And they sang Zimmerman,
they marched candles.

Silent Mutiny.
of distant feelings of disturbance.

The uniform clad men,
did the job.
The told job.
It is the Red connection again.

We had cars,
we have chemicals.
Its blood now.Red again.

For once the wind blew pure,
at Writers.
The answer was 'Blowin' in the wind'

White Zombies.
Poltergiests in disguise.

The invisible wall has been shattered.
The sun has indeed risen.

Melted candles,torn pieces of black,
broken pieces of wood,stagnant bent of the mind - was all thatwas left.
The silent protest reverberates.

They went Dylan,
candles,silence and

Thursday, November 22, 2007

The Teacher's Farewell

Droplets of memories,
ooze from the faculty of thoughts.
Days spent eagerly,anticipating
the end of the day.

Time has eventually arrived;
for the one last grasp of enjoyment.
Reckless flashes of manifold glimpes,
streak across the mind.

There's a heavy heart,a sad heart.
Tears are none to form rivulets.
Shocked by the reality of the situation,
Emotions cause perplextiy.

Lessons invigiorated the mind,
it now apprehends the dislikes of the new teacher.
The reason was no more valid.

The lips bore no more.
Words were empty.
The brilliance of the shining light,
is now overshadowed by darkness.

The insignificant moments spent with great significance,
now seem to be eternity past.
If eternity was to be a second,
I'd be ready to be a jiffy.

Knouts of melancholy strike hard.
Drunk with the kirsch of nostalgia,
there develops a knoll in my heart.
Light emotions are now an uphill task.

The heart plays a chicanery with me,
refuses to belive my false notion.
Rankles me each time I fake my smile.
It leaves behind a rut in my memory.

"Goodbye the cruel world" - they sang,
I recite - "This is the cruel world".
Iterations of his voice,
now echoes in the empty classrooms.

The dinghy,in the river of my thoughts,
is lost in a whirpool.
The sudden squall brings me to reality.
Its a staged innocence.

'The fortune wheel spins a new tale",
behind the rimmed glasses the teacher spoke,
with a hint of elegance.
There is a turn in the tide.

The small bit of inspirational fame,
causes a jerk in the train of thoughts.
Amazed,awe-struck; the boy wonders -
"Zeus did leave his court"

Silent glimpses are enough to tell the story.
The teacher is unwilling to leave.
But situations are such now.

The teacher could'nt teach himself.
The teacher had,
Lung Cancer.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Friday, November 2, 2007

Prison Reckonings

(The title is inspired from Jeffery Archer's Prison Diaries)

Behind the black bars,
the prisoner sits;
wearing the ever so recognisable

The black concrete walls,
turned red at places.
Quite often.

The convict raises his head,
white patch of bandage,
bloody forehead.

Pain was usual.
was rare.

The adjacent convent bell,
swings in the loud wind.
Its sings a known song.
The knell.

A narrow beam,
peaks in the dark cell.
Through the small hole.

A ray of hope.

There is life after death.
The birth of the new life.
Fourteen years away.

Sound of silence is,
experienced each night.
The prisoner,

The trees,
(from the hole)
swayed gently.
Agents of freedom,
hovered around.


His mates bang their plates,
against the rusted pieces of iron.
He waits patiently,
Famine is not over yet.

There are some,
Unknown beckonings
In these,
Prison Reckonings.