Castaway

Castaway

It was an island with a beautiful landscape
On which subsisted a castaway lonely
Trees, birds and water were his company only
He waited day and night for an escape

He learnt to swim and readied a boat
Gathered food and water for the set off
Planned to push the boat at the wave’s trough
But the beauty of the island let him not

“Escape to the meddlesome civilization?”
The idea doesn’t seemed to be right
“Why not settle here and live a life bright?”
But his loneliness needed compensation

So, he travelled for many days till he reached the shore
He kidnapped a mother and her daughter
Fetched them to his place surrounded by water
On their arrival a monkey welcomed them ashore

A man, a woman, a girl and a monkey
Were the only inhabitants of the lonely land
From day one the mother had the escape planned
She knew, for their escape, the monkey is the key

The woman and the girl got the monkey trained
They taught the monkey all the trickery
And threw the monkey on the castaway named Hickory
Sure was he irritated and got the monkey chained

In the dark of the night the monkey ate some grapes
And in the silence of the night it meditated
In less than few moments the agitated
Army of apes arrived from the planet of the apes

The castaway was taken in their space ship
He was thrown back in to a crowded city
No body believed his story. Oh, what a pity
That is the story of a castaway and his trip.

He,She and God

He said,
“I am stupid. Am I?”

She said,
“I could paint the skies with it,instead I whisper, Love you as you are.”

God said,
“My child, she was your mother eighteen lifetimes ago.”

Hand in Hand

You and me

Hand in hand

YouMeYouMeYouMeYouMe

YouMeYouMeYouMeYouMe

YouMeYouMeYouMeYouMe

You and me

Hand in Hand

YouMeYouMeYouMeYouMe

YouMeYouMeYouMeYouMe

YouMeYouMeYouMeYouMe

Me and You

Hand in hand

YouMeYouMeYouMeYouMe

YouMeYouMeYouMeYouMe

YouMeYouMeYouMeYouMe

Me and You

Hand in Hand

Wind worries the leaves
Some fall down, some rise up
The tree stands still.
 

"When you see your own photo, do you say you're a fiction?"----Godard
 

The Dream

Kalugin fell asleep and had a dream that he was sitting in some bushes and a policeman was walking past the bushes.

Kalugin woke up, scratched his mouth and went to sleep again and had another dream that he was walking past some bushes and that a policeman had hidden in the bushes and was sitting there.

Kalugin woke up, put a newspaper under his head, so as not to wet the pillow with his dribblings, and went to sleep again; and again he had a dream that he was sitting in some bushes and a policeman was walking past the bushes.

Kalugin woke up, changed the newspaper, lay down and went to sleep again. He fell asleep and had another dream that he was walking past some bushes and a policeman was sitting in the bushes.

At this point Kalugin woke up and decided not to sleep any more, but he immediately fell asleep and had a dream that he was sitting behind a policeman and some bushes were walking past.

Kalugin let out a yell and tossed around in his bed but couldn't wake up.

Kalugin slept straight through for four days and four nights and on the fifth day he awoke so emaciated that he had to tie his boots to his feet with string, so that they didn't fall off. In the bakery where Kalugin always bought wheaten bread, they didn't recognize him and handed him a half-rye loaf.

And a sanitary commission, which was going round the apartments, on catching sight of Kalugin, decided that he was unsanitary and no use for anything and instructed the janitors to throw Kalugin out with the rubbish.

Kalugin was folded in two and thrown out as rubbish.

-------Daniil Kharms

Cinema and truth 

Syzygy

I notice headlights out the living room window
then catch the bass in a pickup as it drives by.
I am shocked to learn that doctors collected
the urine of menopausal nuns in Italy to extract
gonadotropins. And is that what one draws,
in infinitesimal dose, out of a vial?
I remember a steel wool splinter in my finger
and how difficult it was to discern, extract
under a magnifying glass; yet—blue mold,
apple dropping from branch—it is hard to see
up close when, at the periphery, the unexpected
easily catches the eye. Last Thursday night,
we looked through binoculars at the full moon,
watched it darken and darken until, eclipsed,
it glowed ferrous-red. By firelight, we glowed;
my fingertips flared when I rubbed your shoulders,
softly bit your ear. The mind is a tuning fork
that we strike, and, struck, in the syzygy
of a moment, we find the skewed, tangled
passions of a day begin to straighten, align, hum.
------ Arthur Sze

Cops and Robbers –S .Diwakar

Always

some are policemen,

others thieves.

Thieves steal the moon and hide it.

Policemen hunt for the thieves and hunt for the moon;

they catch the thieves and nail

the moon back into the sky

Thieves steal the heart of a girl.

Policemen hunt for the thieves and hunt for the heart;

they catch the thieves and take

the heart to the girl.

"I don’t need that heart," cries the girl.

But the policemen shove it down her throat,

they tell her it’s their duty.

Thieves steal the sparks from the waves

and hide them in their hearts.

Policemen hunt for the thieves and hunt for the sparks;

they catch the thieves and pour

the sparks back into the waves.

When the sparks fade, the policemen say,

"What can we do? We have done our duty."

Thieves steal whatever they can lay their hands on:

dry leaves, threads of a rainbow,

pieces of smiles, whispers of seasons,

footprints on water…

Yes, they steal whatever they can lay their hands on.

Policemen always chase the thieves.

Sometimes they catch them, sometimes they don’t.

When they don’t catch the thieves,

they sit and polish their boots,

they nail up posters everywhere

that declare, ‘Theft is evil’.

Yet, policemen cannot understand

that whatever the thieves steal

will grow back,

and whatever they snatch from the thieves

will not fit in their places.

Whoever hears of this will immediately become a thief

as some tired thieves

become policemen.

Always

some are policemen,

some are thieves.

Translated from the Kannada by Christopher Merrill

  
  S. Diwakar is an award-winning Kannada poet and fiction writer. He lives in Madras
(Coutesy: Litlemag.com)

      

Love Story

On his first train journey in London he falls in love with a beautiful girl with black hair and blue eyes. While he is lost in his thoughts about the nationality of the girl and the ways to approach a new girl in a new place, the love story comes to a jerky ending when the girl gets down at a station called Euston. He continues his journey thinking how stupid his thoughts were. On his arrival at the destination he meets his friends. The friends treat him with good Indian food; discuss mundane things. Later in the evening when he is returning to his place he takes a train in which he occupies the same seat that he took in the morning. He even wonders if it was the same train and same compartment that he travelled in the morning. As the train moves in the underground piercing the darkness, a flash of bright light wakes him up to reality. The reality is the Euston station with large flashy advertising banners and loud music from a street Guitarist. While the doors of the train open to commuters to exit and enter, his small eyes widen with a great expectation. Through the rush of passengers entering and exiting the train he moves hither thither expecting a miracle.

And it was a miracle.The girl from the morning train, with the same black hair and blue eyes is back in the same train, same compartment. Strangely she sits at the same seat which she occupied in the morning. He is once again lost in his thoughts about the nationality of the girl and the ways to approach a new girl in a new place. More than anything he is excited about this coincidence, but only for a short while. As the train reaches Maidenhead, the place where he lives, he exits from the train with a heavy heart and the love story comes to a jerky ending twice in a single day.

One day. One train. One girl. One heart but twice broken. As he walks out of the railway station he walks towards his flat thinking how stupid he was.

Life

Life was a collapsed illusion
He was a witness to the disorder
Life was a war with the soul
He was a defeated soldier

Life was an unmeaning sentence
He was a person ordering words around
Life was a street with out light
He was a dark shadow in the dark

Life was a sad truth
He was an ambiguous lie
Life was a demanding logic
He was an illogical bedlamite

Life was a journey to where the end begins
He was a lonely traveller; a dead man walking
Life was a Walk through the oblivion
He was a nobody who disappeared into a poem

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I have always felt isolated. I believe that any good artist feels isolated. And I must think and I beg your pardon for taking the liberty of believing this: if someone wants to direct a film, he must think he is good. A good artist should be isolated. If he isn't isolated, something is wrong.
 

Haiku

Blossoming lotus
The Unclean water beneath
Purity exists 

Legends-K.Balachandar

The Balachandar Story

Confessions of a dangerous mind

"We confess our little faults to persuade people that we have no large ones."
- Francois de La Rochefoucauld

Reasonable....

…the chance of a man's finding his own Vindication, or some perfidious version of his own, can be calculated to be zero.
—Jorge Luis Borges, “The Library of Babel”

.....

It is nobler to declare oneself wrong than to insist on being right - especially when one is right.
- Friedrich Nietzsche
Whenever you find that you are on the side of the majority, it is time to reform.
- Mark Twain

Sri Sri's Adwaita

If happiness was ocean deep
If affection were skies steep
Walk the boundaries of affection we will
Swim the depths of happiness we will.

In the twinkling sounds of your fallal
In the absolute bliss of my life’s all
Multicoloured palanquins were your thoughts
Flaring fire pot was my heart of hearts
If your wishes were flowers blossoming,
If my desires were daggers on the wing
Bestow newfangled life to death we shall,
Erect ladders from earth to heaven we shall

If you were the queen of the throne
If I were the slave of habituation
My blazing agony and anguish
Your blossoming joy and bliss
Radiate akin to reeks of poison bitter
Dribble alike to drops of sweet nectar,
Scoff and mock at humanity we will,
Conquer and rule the futurity we will

If you were the spring breeze anew,
If I were the winter’s drop of dew
The bird of your life soaring
My death’s resonance roaring
In the gardens of trees spread,
In the resting places of dead
Stirring in interweaving spheres
Hollering in blazing fears
Shackle time in chains we will
Unshackle love from chains we will.

I be the pink of your lips bright
You be my future’s goddess and light
In the twinkling sounds of your fallal
In the absolute bliss of my life’s all
If happiness was ocean deep
If affection were skies steep
Scoff and mock at humanity we shall,
Conquer and rule the futurity we shall.

Sri Sri

Hazy days.

The Jimmy James Story