Greatness

Day after Mahatma Gandhi died.

The chief immersion ceremony took place at Allahabad , in the United Provinces, at the confluence of the sacred Ganges, the Jumna and the Saraswati. A special train of 5 third class carriages left Delhi at 4 A.M. on 11 February; Gandhi always traveled third.

Reading Louis Fischer, The life of Mahatma Gandhi. After being stung by Agha Shahid Ali's poetry, which gave me the poetry fever and in the heat of which I bought myself Shakespeare and Modern Critical interpretations- A mid summer night's dream by Harold Bloom. I now regret for not having enough time to read, but definitely on my list of books to read in 2012 and if the world decides on not coming to an end I might have a chance of getting rid of my regret/s and feel a hollow sense of accomplishment. I now spend  my free time by drinking a couple of pages of this superb Biography before going to bed. Really.

And in French

Still life- Red flowers and poppies, Gogh, 1890

                                                      

                                                           Them, you and me

When we talk of love,

Why do we do?

Flowers and a crazy dove.

It got dull and boring

Hostel room, on a regular day

You and me, sat reading

in a dirty, rusting, sack of hay.

You thought it funny if

were awful smelly feet,

abruptly thrown in my lap

and gruff my read

swear I, you were to get a slap.

Smelled the reek of fish

Stale and fried

A surgeon’s pressure stockings

Never washed and dried.



Smiled sheepishly, you

folded them away.

Cooling my anger 
I minded my own way

On a day as today

I remember fondly

And if I look astray

its  cuz’ I miss you so badly.

I don't know

When they talk of love

Why do they do?

Flowers and an albino dove.

They have tried,

tried and tried again,

to fit it right. Unending quench.

in paintings, plays, songs,

and in French.

Nothing is more romantic

than a simple memory of you.

Now, that you’re across Atlantic

Don’t know how better to say,

I love you.

Easy, without drama.

Nino- Y-Gato, Joan Miro.

And simple.

Like afternoon tea. 

A day without T.V.

Lemonade from life's handpicked sour lemons. 

An ant swimming for the edge of a leaf, and crawling away to life again. 

 A quiet morning.

Going around a Gulmohar tree looking for flowers on the ground.

Looking for a buzz kill when you have to act sober, 

and not being able to find one.

Much like listening to Sting and trying to sleep.

First pair of eye glasses and the world wasn't blurry anymore.

Like Rain.

When you picked that flower from the ground and held it in your hands, it's colours so bright and new that everything else became non-descript. 
That moment.

But you didn't know what to do with it so, you tucked it in the back pocket of your rugged jeans. 
It now makes every place you go, look Beautiful. 
Like Love.

Blaked!

In a land of icons and tag lines Cupid isn't very happy. Blake tries to figure out why but his POV turns into a totally different yet refreshingly sane set of questions. Yes, even after  184 years of being dead he is still making sense. From the one who gave this blog it's name here's an amusing take on the icon of love.

Why was cupid a boy ?

Why was Cupid a boy,
And why a boy was he?
He should have been a girl,
For aught that I can see.

For he shoots with his bow,
And the girl shoots with her eye,
And they both are merry and glad,
And laugh when we do cry.

And to make Cupid a boy
Was the Cupid girl's mocking plan;
For a boy can't interpret the thing
Till he is become a man.

And then he's so pierc'd with cares,
And wounded with arrowy smarts,
That the whole business of his life
Is to pick out the heads of the darts.

'Twas the Greeks' love of war
Turn'd Love into a boy,
And woman into a statue of stone--
And away fled every joy. 

 - William Blake, 1793.