The more I see this world
The less I have to say to it
The pettiness and the ego
The grouchiness and grumpiness
Why go through all that pain?
Let go ,my mind chants,
Step off the ledge of life
And fall into the cushiony space
Green and welcoming,
Into the realness of the real world
Where all that exists is
Empty silence
You have to be rich and famous in order to be rich and famous.Sound familiar? Or is it just the ranting of a manic depressive failure?
Not that being rich and famous is among the goals of the manic depressive writing this rant. Being rich and famous wouldn't hurt. But how do you break through the glass ceiling that separates the Guccis,the Pradas,the curly hair,the intellectual talk,the jhola and the glasses from the middle class manic depressives(I will call them mcmds now on.An abbreviation cos I am lazy and no capitals because yeah you guessed it I am lazy)
Or do the jholas scour Big basket for deals like the mcmds ? Cos we need our karelas cheap if only to gaze on and get inspired to write some poetry or to go out and fight climate change so that the future generations can have karela too.Bleargh!!
Oh the green undulating ridges and valleys
How very beautiful and how very horny
Are your spines and horns
Horns horns..wannabe thorns
You befoul in disguise,
Striking on
an unsuspecting pink palate
Enticed by your innocent emerald green
The wannabe manic depressives are so manic depressive that they have to Google the meaning of manic depressive to find out what it really means.Must be simple ...manic as in mania and depressive as in depression...so a manic depressive must be someone maniacally manic about depression. Does that even make sense? Ha ha who cares?
I am not rich and famous. I can write whatever I like.
To be heard
To be noticed
I ve always yearned
So when you ignore my patter
I sink a little
My toes touch the mud
Still valiantly I patter
A little more
For your attention
Love is a completely different thing from your mind.Both whir in opposite directions meeting all the time but only in part like 2 gears.
When I suckle my baby I do not feel like the virgin Mary or ma Yashoda.There is love for the small life that I am holding in my hands but it isn't some divine outpouring like they said it ll be.
The character that comes to my mind is somehow that of Puthana.
The rakshasi who came to suckle baby Krishna to death. Poison smeared on her nipples they say she started feeding baby Krishna ,but then the love in his eyes and the way he tugged at her nipples ,they say intoxicated her and she fell dead,a smile on her lips, a cherubic baby Krishna still suckling her breast.
If that isn't motherhood what is ?
Poetry is a vain pursuit
Purely selfish
Purely for one's own pleasure
For the pleasure remains the poets
For read or unread by other eyes,
The lines remain her own
The secrets buried in it impossible
To excavate
He asked me,
Is all that land yours
Is that house yours
I stared at him
Dumbstruck
As if seeing him for the
First time ever
What could I tell him?
That I belonged to the land
That I belonged to the house
Rather than them belonging to me
That the scent of the burning plumeria
Doused in coconut oil
Kept me anchored,heart and soul
Every muscle and every drop of blood
What could he understand
Anyway
And then the world falls silent
Its just me and you
Talking
Communing
Yapping away in silence
Wordless meaningful quietness
