Category Archives: Real life Essays

some suns and dragons of a saturday’s stuck-up twilight

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1.
before this serially twitching rhythm
in molten hottening warmup tempos
stops its primal drumming c(ir/y)cle,
there’s a coming home confluence
in the twilight’s transitional silence

2.
the dashing breeze gave in to violence
by grapewine lips and unworked cheeks
whilst those eyes stared in empty fixtures
over an agitated dragonfly hitting bright white
lights that drew it nearby, as if were self-cursed

pic: web

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thenmittai~ the forgotten honeycandy chapters of a coimbatorean childhood tymes:(

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got hold of you today by a lucky chance encounter

not but to rejoice loud of the sweet irony that is you
my goodold honeycandy-

– your spongy oranges are subtly frost-crusted berries in sizeable hardcoats
that’s not to be mistaken for saffronic
right extremities they almost galore

-inner you surprisingly have immense
porosities that’s overly dipped in syrupy pools, each bite’s

a whirlwind tour unto your
whirlpool core, whirring past
the chewed to sucked to licked
to emptied to muchmore unsaid
acoustically sensual gastronomics

remember those childhood days
those tymes when you just costed
a five paise..[got you once in
like a festive rarity- a loadful

laddu pack of 20 exactly
all for that one big rupee coin
i had monkily managed to get through
mom’s unreachably high
secretive kitchen bank (an eversilver
dabra mounted on the fourth rack)]

now price sky-rocketing high
so many times, but aw seems your
specs have never changed a bit till now

except that a cornerly pathetic look
you hang with a smile so cosmetic
in thoughts so unbearable
of your almost extinct status, you
lovely endangered candy- excusing
the truth you come with not a drop
of honey, ur name such a misnomer, you

ought to be not more than
a mere ballfull of softy sugary syrupy candy
colored bright with hues so (suably) synthetic

of fullmoons and tsunamis…

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images (23)1443049353..jpg

your made-up crunched numbers will never crash
but where’s even the traces of a soulbank presence
for those surreal churned out only-supertide hits
or eyes at the least for glimpsing the everdawning
bland artificialities you procreated hard from poor
imaginations; but, all what

they have

is absolutely nothing to lose, just an endlessly
indelible soulshore still still in crudely roaring
ebb n tide destiny plays
taking in some tsunamis n bridal fullmoons often

 

pic: web

no questions anymore…

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this not-so-robust a sacred champaka canopy
in scented sprawls, flutters with pink-cheeked berries
and profusely bold-yellow petals

adorns an ardent banyan heart

abodes not just you my bulbul, but the daytime
caucals in nostalgic- hued sapotaceous feathers
and blood-cherry eyes, and those classic black
and white spotted common cuckoos in silent visits

but you my bulbul, the tiny spritely talkative
crested one in bright pink under-tails, have
nested here forever amongst its ovelapping
broad leafblades and shouldering branchlets
since you birthed from ur scripted sunset yolks

this twilight as i listen to ur fast faint and fading
calls until vanishing into ur nothingness sleeps
reminds of my lil girls’ seemingly frivolus dream talks
in some ancient or perhaps alien dialectic discourse

its only but lucid to the core…the yearns of love of bonds

we are bits of consciousness and sprinkled stardusts

birthing lives yet again and again, with remnant memoriesm
and startling reminiscences that bonds us yet again

i remember you my bulbul my lil girl my this alien self too

as i listen to our silences, our full or faint calls n talks
this our ancient love
amidst all our chaotic spreads n breaths
until we all drain n unite unto

the singularities

.

 

pic: self 

Of moults and renewal, a seashell…..and my lifeline inspirAtion

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Reading words of Boris Pasternak from Doctor Zhivago…
“Reshaping life! People who can say that have never understood a thing about life—they have never felt its breath, its heartbeat—however much they have seen or done. They look on it as a lump of raw material that needs to be processed by them, to be ennobled by their touch. But life is never a material, a substance to be molded. If you want to know, life is the principle of self-renewal, it is constantly renewing and remaking and changing and transfiguring itself, it is infinitely beyond your or my obtuse theories ”

Words spoke out in summating this as thus, also affected from Sartyre’s Existentialism reads I am in now, the book as refered by my lifeline inspirAtion:

moulting layers
defined conscious sheds
much pointed uptakes
but, the
overall essence
that was bound to happen
over its existence
remained a blur
from infinity:
an incomprehensive dream
a streak of falling jugnu
into nowhere

this renewal
this core

A macro-photographed seashell before weeks ago instigated descriptive ponders:
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Shell over the black hardcover
shone in cleaving whites
albeit its well made
ancient opacities
in curvaceous
tapering layers: mouth
at its apical front
opened like a craving fish

Felling off porosities
here and there
dotted blacks, one
a bigger hole
dug like an eye

Fossilized stature
screamed from past
its ‘will’ : to be ‘lived’
in the focussed ‘essential’
lights of the present

tragic tune within

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in the scanty monsoonal airs
their vivid greeny-red canopy gleams
this sunshine gulmohur tree
smiles outside my balcony

a cuckoo with sorethroat
pitches high in notes daily
ascending
accelerating
screamy compositions
announcing wide-audience
its unending tragedy

no wonder
branches are in an infectious spree
wilting along its vasculars

image

even petallic painted reds
oozing life limitless
are not of any solace

that cuckoo
this gulmohur
and me