In Gratitude

'Serious, thoughtful and drawing attention to and trying to open windows that are closed or ajar. From that point of view, out of the ordinary and brave.'
~ Dadu

'I read your piece and it was a thoughtful write-up. I hope to get more of that in the future.
.....a genuine prayer to the elements that you write more, for some like you write, and the rest, like us feed on it. '
~ The Professor

When my book(s) are published, these are two people whose opinion I would like printed on the front cover.
Thank you, gentlemen.

Yay yay yay yay

Chillibreeze published my article!!!!! And they've rated it pretty well. Me is Eskited!
Go see.

Every day you play

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

~ Pablo Neruda

Penmanship

The rains have softened slightly and I am in the throes of an intense urge to receive and write letters. I don't mind e-mails, they indulge my impatience, but...the writing on a monitor screen is not to be touched, nor are there visible smudges where the ink has run. No hand has passed over the words in a silent prayer that they will reach their destination...
I feel like putting ink-pens with thick, curved nibs to rough, hand-made paper with flowers pressed into it. Ball-points are such crass, scratchy things.

So...who wants to become pen-pals?

And, this, Ladies and Gentleman, is who I want to write like

This is why.

Look what Frobscottled sent me!!

That teeny print on the left reads:

Consider yourself blessed if the Snooty Scooty agrees to take you to your desired destination, allows you to pay by meter and does not leave you with a broken vertebrae. If you are a risk-taker and a kick-ass haggler, then sit back and enjoy the gravity-defying journey of a lifetime.

There's a lot more to this card than what I'm putting up. Let me just say that I'm more glad than ever that we found each other again :)

Take a look at where she picked up the card.

Of Friends and madmen

M called from Hyderabad and made my day :)
Shibs and I caught up after a long time.
She's sent me perfectly Jungian pictures of her trip to Europe. No, Europe is too prosaic. Her trip to Paris and Normandy...sigh! Shibs, you are looking tres model-like in them!!
Frobscottled is in Delhi studying to be a Human Rights lawyer. I hope your first day is a PlayClan type :)
And P is off to perform in HRC Mumbai, before going off to dancing school in Bangalore.
And I have completed and sent off an article and gotten shortlisted for a 'zob.' I have regained courage and bloom and audacity, and am looking forward boldly to this non-degree education year! I've never had one of those before.

Oh....despite blasts and terror and earthquakes and the LOC....people are doing beautiful things. The Parliament is defamed, the democracy stands in ruins....but there is a sweeter, more primal madness than all of this....the will to live big and rich and constructive.

I Stumbled across this poem by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. In gentile language, it is entitled 'The Invitation.' In my mind, I also call it 'Let's Cut the Small Talk Crap.'


It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love, for your dreams,
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain,
mine or your own, without moving to hide it
or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy mine or your own.
if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy
fill you to the tips of your fingers
and toes without cautioning usto be careful, be realistic,
remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day,
and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn't interest me to know where you live,
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair,
weary and bruised to the bone,
and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what
or with whom you have studied.I want to know what sustains you from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself,
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.