Friday, December 20, 2013

An Orange Time

I want to make it beautiful
As an emerging time that still hung over you.

- Neha

Beauty & Utility

Like a beautiful window seat in the airport business lounge
You are stunning
But you have no charging port - what should I do with your beauty?
He said, "If there be only one ism in the world, make it utilitarian"

A travel memo was sent: Give me beauty with electricity! 

- Neha

Like a stained glass

She 1 always wore black
As if in mourning forever (for every moment a moment dies)
She 2 always wore colors
Bright, boisterous, playful colors
Colors saying that despite the darkness,
darkness will not touch her.

- Neha

Tuesday, December 17, 2013


Oldest is a limit to your discovery,
For there is a beginning of time,
which is always receding away
Like people in the back mirror.

A travel memo was sent: Time is backless 

- Neha


I am not scared of your gods.
It's your humans that make my soul clench time to time

- Neha

Draupadi, not Sita

I am no Sita
I am no mata, no maiya 
If anything, maybe Draupadi
But you don't name your daughters Draupadi, do you? She is too haughty isn't she?
She speaks up - how disrespectful!
She opens her hair and vows to not tie them till her honor is avenged
( which is really your dishonor since you all just sat and watched)
She asked, "who did you lose first, yourself or me"
You don't have an answer
And she is not a good woman to ask such questions unabashedly
You name your daughters Sita.
Sita walked on fire to prove her purity, no questions asked for a long long time ( as if you can know pure from unpure with the narrow lanes of your tiny minds)
Yes, Sita walked on fire to prove her purity
Yes, a good woman
A good woman till one day she asked her mother Earth to swallow her for she could take it no more
A good woman still for she didn't instigate a war for her honor
Draupadi asked difficult questions and opened her long hair and swayed her hips.
She laughed too much ( she must not have learnt how to talk softly, slowly, best to be unheard, with her eyes down counting fingers on her feet hundred times over; I imagine she whistled beautifully too, and jumped and danced and clapped and dreamt secret dreams I wouldn't dare to speak of)
This dark draupadi
Born of fire. She kept burning like a flame whole of her life
You had patience Sita
and I'm sure I have lessons to learn from your fortitude
But forgive me, for like our mothers, I am no Sita
If anything, I may be the daughter of fire
For like her, I too keep on burning

- Neha

Mystical Prayer

I met a lake.
She said she wanted
to become mist
And disappear

- Neha

Road to liberation

Tragedy became defiance,
Defiance became self affirmation,
Self affirmation became liberation.

It was concluded, with brackets- (In the mystical scheme of things) :: Tragedy became liberation

- Neha

Tao of Baking

Two half baked eggs
don't make a full cake,
They make two parts halfness
Which is greater than one half part full
or full part one half.

- Neha

Beautiful Muddle

We start with beauty,
We end in beauty
Its the muddle that gets us

- Neha

General Day of Melancholy

For you, that is
For you, that is not

A travel memo was sent: Today is a general day for melancholy. Brood to your heart's discontent 

- Neha

Monday, December 16, 2013

Porcupine dream

Description: A porcupine is a small, slow animal with an impressive aggregation of stings reinforced.

Should I take you as a warning for your stings
Or as a reminder of the softness of your belly, despite the stings?
(Although porcupines carry more than 30,000 stings on the back and in the flanks, her belly is soft and unprotected. )

- Neha

When the sun was falling

Where were you when the sun was falling
and I was questioning this stubborn hope?

Were you looking at a falling star
and thinking of this stubbornness too?

- Neha


I like how when you meet a person, they can be anything and anybody
Like this boy in the book: I thought he's writing the book as a professor
Because he could have written his life's story in flashback one day.

But he didn't. he remained a memory of someone she knew
( or maybe just her imagination)  
But he could have been the one writing,
But then that would have been another story.

We could have been any story on this great canvas
Sometimes we make a story, sometimes life makes us a story

( A travel memo was sent - there are too many buts in this story)

- Neha


We ended, without ending
So you remained, having left unsaid.

- Neha


You, a bird, who loves to swim
I, a fish, who loves to fly
These depths
These heights
We are in some deep waters
and gasping for air

- Neha

Monday, November 25, 2013


Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.

- T S Eliot

Monday, October 07, 2013

Just a little happiness, please

Shringaar  by Amrita Sher-Gil

Too much of a good thing becomes bad
Cooks change,
 Rice decorations go,
   Oil in the food increases
The stomach hurts.
To learn to be happy with a little of a good thing

A travel memo was sent - Just a little happiness, please

- Neha

Geography of Sky

Nu au Plateau de Sculpteur by Pablo Picasso

You, a green leaf
I, a yellow one (just before the great fall suspended in time)
We greet only in the blue grey swirling sky
And soon I'm gone

- Neha

Sunday, October 06, 2013

Phule Phule Dhole Dhole

Phule phule dhole dhole,
Bohey kibaa mridu baay.
Totini hillolo tuley,
Kollole choliya jaay.
Piko kibaa kunje kunje,
Piko kibaa kunje kunje,
Kuhu kuhu kuhu gaay.
Ki jaani kishero laagi,
Praano kore haay-haay.

A touch of sweetness in the breeze that
Softly cradles buds today
A winding stream that gently gurgles
In its happy course at play
The cuckoo sings in trees and gardens
a cuhoo cuhoo cuhoo lay
My absent heart does not know why
It's absolutely borne away

- Rabindranath Tagore, Featured in Satyajit Ray's Charulata 

I love these versions: 

# 1. From Satyajit Ray's 1964 movie "Charulata" based on Rabindranath Tagore's Novel "Nastanirh" 
# 2. This back to back amalgamation with a Scottish song by Robert Burns
# 3. This traditional Rabindra Sangeet version
# 4. This Parineeta song which is inspired by and based on the same tune

Thursday, September 26, 2013

No More

Peasant and Peasant Woman Planting Potatoes by Vincent Van Gogh
No more them vs us
It is us vs us 
Dealing with them is easy
(you close your eyes or kiss your arms)
But how will we deal with this us ?

- Neha

Thursday, September 05, 2013


And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourners will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn.

-  The Ballad of Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde

Tuesday, August 27, 2013


Two Peasant Women Digging in Field with Snow by Vincent Van Gogh

There are two ways to live this life
One says, "do no harm (knowingly at least)",
The second says,"not only do no harm, but (knowingly) passionately actively do good out of pure mad love of life, despite life"
She chose the second and was yet to make peace with passive indifference of the first

- Neha

Friday, August 23, 2013

Life is a dream

Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?  by Paul Gauguin
What is this life? A frenzy.
What is this life? An illusion,
A shadow, a fiction,
And the greatest good is small;
All of life is but a dream,
And dreams are only dreams.

- Life is a dream by Pedro Calderon de la Barca

Thursday, August 22, 2013

A Knowing

Filled by Neha
“Why is it," he said, one time, at the subway entrance, "I feel I've known you so many years?"
"Because I like you," she said, "and I don't want anything from you.”

― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Half Asleep

Arearea no varua ino by Paul Gauguin 

She tells her love while half asleep,
       In the dark hours,
               With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
       And puts out grass and flowers
                Despite the snow,
                Despite the falling snow.

- Robert Graves

Red, red rose

The Red Madras Headress by Matisse 

O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That’s sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Luve
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

- Robert Burns

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

The Garden of Proserpina

Since riddles are the order of our day
Come here, my love, and I will tell thee one

There is a place to which all poets come
Some having sought it long, some unawares,
Some having battled monsters, some asleep
Who chances upon the path in thickest dream,
Some lost in mythy mazes, some direct....

..These things are there. The garden and the tree
The serpent at its root, the fruit of gold
The woman in the shadow of the boughs
The running water and the grassy space.

They are and were there. At the old world's rim,
In the Hesperidean grove, the fruit
Glowed golden on enternal boughs, and there
The dragon Ladon crisped his jewelled crest
Scraped a gold claw and sharped a silver tooth
And dozed and waiting through eternity
Until the tricksy hero Herakles
Came to his dispossesion and the theft....

...All these are true and gone. The place is there.
Is what we name it, and is not. It is. 

 Randolph Henry Ash,  The Garden of Proserpina, Possession by A.S.Byatt

Thursday, August 01, 2013

तमाम उम्र

सफ़र by Neha

तमाम उम्र मैं इक अजनबी के घर में रहा ।
सफ़र न करते हुए भी किसी सफ़र में रहा ।

वो जिस्म ही था जो भटका किया ज़माने में,
हृदय तो मेरा हमेशा तेरी डगर में रहा ।

तू ढूँढ़ता था जिसे जा के बृज के गोकुल में,
वो श्याम तो किसी मीरा की चश्मे-तर में रहा ।

वो और ही थे जिन्हें थी ख़बर सितारों की,
मेरा ये देश तो रोटी की ही ख़बर में रहा ।

हज़ारों रत्न थे उस जौहरी की झोली में,
उसे कुछ भी न मिला जो अगर-मगर में रहा ।

-गोपालदास "नीरज"

क्या है यह तूफ़ान

Sunday, July 21, 2013

High Flight

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds
- and done a hundred things you have not dreamed of -
wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence.
Hovering there I've chased the shouting wind along
and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
where never lark, or even eagle, flew;
and, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
the high untrespassed sanctity of space,
put out my hand and touched the face of God.

- John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

Friday, July 19, 2013


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

- William Ernest Henley

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Living in the earth-deposits of our history

Oshun by Neha

Today a backhoe divulged out of a crumbling flank of earth
one bottle amber perfect a hundred-year-old
cure for fever or melancholy a tonic
for living on this earth in the winters of this climate.

Today I was reading about Marie Curie:
she must have known she suffered from radiation sickness
her body bombarded for years by the element
she had purified
It seems she denied to the end
the source of the cataracts on her eyes
the cracked and suppurating skin of her finger-ends
till she could no longer hold a test-tube or a pencil

She died a famous woman denying
her wounds
her wounds came from the same source as her power.

- Adrienne Rich, The Dream of a Common Language: Poems 1974-1977

Wednesday, July 03, 2013


प्यास तुझे तो, विश्व तपाकर पूणर् निकालूँगा हाला
एक पाँव से साकी बनकर नाचूँगा लेकर प्याला
जीवन की मधुता तो तेरे ऊपर कब का वार चुका
आज निछावर कर दूँगा मैं, तुझपर जग की मधुशाला॥२॥

चलने ही चलने में कितना जीवन, हाय, बिता डाला!
' दूर अभी है ' , पर, कहता है हर पथ बतलानेवाला
हिम्मत है न बढ़ूँ आगे, साहस है न फ़िरूँ पीछे
किंकतर्व्यविमूढ़ मुझे कर दूर खड़ी है मधुशाला॥५॥

मुख से तू अविरत कहता जा मधु, मदिरा, मादक हाला
हाथों में अनुभव करता जा एक ललित कल्पित प्याला
ध्यान किए जा मन में सुमधुर सुखकर, सुंदर साकी का
और बढ़ा चल, पथिक, न तुझको दूर लगेगी मधुशाला॥६॥

हरिवंश राय बच्चन 

Sunday, June 23, 2013

Blue Remembered Hills

Our Blue by Neha

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

- A. E. Housman

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Dream to dream

Dream delivers us to dream, and there is no end to illusion. Life is a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue… Temperament is the iron wire on which the beads are strung.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson quotes in General Theory of Love

Thursday, May 16, 2013

Partly brave and partly good

Roots by Frida Kahlo

"To have in this uncertain world some stay
which cannot be undermined, is
of the utmost consequence."
                                         Thus wrote 
a woman, partly brave and partly good, 
who fought with what she partly understood.
Few men about her would or could do more, 
hence she was labeled harpy, shrew, and whore.

Adrienne Rich, Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Golden Hours

You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by. Yes, but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by.

 - James M. Barrie, novelist and playwright 

Saturday, May 04, 2013

Tertium non data

"The alchemists have a saying, "Tertium non data': the third is not given. That is, the transformation from one element to another, from waste matters into best gold, is a process that cannot be documented. It is fully mysterious. No one really knows what effects the change. And so it is with the mind that moves from its prison to a vast plain without any movement at all. We can only guess what happened"

- From Fortunata's Story, Sexing the Cherry by Jeanette Winterson

Monday, April 29, 2013

To You

Wild Pink For You by Neha

Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands,
Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners,
troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true soul and body appear before me.
They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops, work,
farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating, drinking,
suffering, dying.
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem,
I whisper with my lips close to your ear.
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb,
I should have made my way straight to you long ago,
I should have blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing
but you.

I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you,
None has understood you, but I understand you,
None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself,
None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in you,
None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never consent
to subordinate you,
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God,
beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups and the centre-figure of all,
From the head of the centre-figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color'd light,
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus
of gold-color'd light,
From my hand from the brain of every man and woman it streams,
effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are, you have slumber'd upon yourself
all your life,
Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time,
What you have done returns already in mockeries,
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in
mockeries, what is their return?)

The mockeries are not you,
Underneath them and within them I see you lurk,
I pursue you where none else has pursued you,
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the
accustom'd routine, if these conceal you from others or from
yourself, they do not conceal you from me,
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these
balk others they do not balk me,
The pert apparel, the deform'd attitude, drunkenness, greed,
premature death, all these I part aside.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you,
There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good is in you,
No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you,
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one except I give the like carefully
to you,
I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing
the songs of the glory of you.

Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!
These shows of the East and West are tame compared to you,
These immense meadows, these interminable rivers, you are immense
and interminable as they,
These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent
dissolution, you are he or she who is master or mistress over them,
Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain,
passion, dissolution.

The hopples fall from your ankles, you find an unfailing sufficiency,
Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest,
whatever you are promulges itself,
Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing
is scanted,
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are
picks its way.

- Walt Whitman

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

A spring allergy

Me going through tree's growing pains,
So the world can turn green again:
spring allergy

- Neha

Tuesday, April 09, 2013

All my loves

All my loves came falling down
Every window of the castle closed
Chimney folded into herself
Door said, "out of business"
I too folded my voice into layers of silence
Let hope off the hook
All my loves came fallling down
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
From where I came, I returned
Only golden eternity remained

- Neha

Monday, April 08, 2013

Many songs

In one of his notebooks, Chekhov jotted down an allegory borrowed from Alphonse Daudet: "Why are your songs so short?" the bird was once asked. "Haven't you got enough breaths?"--"I have many songs", replied the bird, "and I would like the world to hear them all."

Friday, April 05, 2013

Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond

Boats at Saintes Maries by Vincent Van Gogh

somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(I do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

- e e cummings


The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.
Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?
Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?

- Walt Whitman: Song of Myself, Part 51

Tuesday, April 02, 2013

My father moved through dooms of love

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead he called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely)stood my father's dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why man breathe—
because my father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all

- e e cummings 

Hopeful Optmist

A hopeless optimist, you say
I say, a hopeful optimist
for there is no other way
minus the hope

- Neha

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Heart of Matter

What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it’s curved like a road through mountains.

-  Tennessee Williams in A Streetcar Named Desire

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

The Ninth Elegy (excerpt)

Why, if this interval of being can be spent serenely
in the form of a laurel, slightly darker than all
other green, with tiny waves on the edges
of every leaf (like the smile of a breeze) --: why then
have to be human - and, escaping from fate,
keep longing for fate? ....

Oh not because happiness exists,
that too-hasty profit snatched from approaching loss,
Not out of curiosity, not as practice for the heart, which
would exist in the laurel too....

But because truly being here is so much; because everything here
apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which is in some strange way keeps calling to us.
Us, the most fleeting of all.
Once for each thing.  Just once; no more.  And we too,
just once.  And never again.  But to have been
this once, completely, even if only once:
to have been at one with the earth, seems beyond undoing.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

Thursday, March 07, 2013


It is the nature of stone
to be satisfied.
It is the nature of water
to want to be somewhere else.

Everywhere we look:
the sweet guttural swill of the water
Everywhere we look:
the stone, basking in the sun,

or offering itself
to the golden lichen.

It is our nature not only to see
that the world is beautiful

but to stand in the dark, under the stars,
or at noon, in the rainfall of light,

wringing our hands,

half-mad, saying over and over:

what does it mean, that the world is beautiful—
what does it mean?

The child asks this,
and the determined, laboring adult asks this—

both the carpenter and the scholar ask this,
and the fisherman and the teacher;

both the rich and the poor ask this
(maybe the poor more than the rich)

and the old and the very old, not yet having figured it out,
 ask this

standing beside the golden-coated field rock,
or the tumbling water,
or under the stars—

what does it mean?
what does it mean?

- From "Gravel" by Mary Oliver

Saturday, February 16, 2013

In the red

Harmony in red by Matisse 

A woman in the red
Red of love
Red of low battery sign
Red asking to be reconciled 

A woman in the red
Red of red lipstick
Red of fresh scars
Red asking for justice

A woman in the red
Red of light saying stop
Red of racing heart saying yes
Red asking to be liberated

Red saying yes I am all that

- Neha

Friday, January 11, 2013

Food for thought

Writing, like life itself, is a voyage of discovery. The adventure is a metaphysical one: it is a way of approaching life indirectly, of acquiring a total rather than a partial view of the universe. The writer lives between the upper and lower worlds: he takes the path in order eventually to become the path himself.

I began in absolute chaos and darkness, in a bog or swamp of ideas and emotions and experiences. Even now I do not consider myself a writer in the ordinary sense of the word. I am a man telling the story of his life, a process which appears more and more inexhaustible as I go on. Like the world-evolution, it is endless. It is a turning inside out, a voyaging through X dimensions, with the result that somewhere along the way one discovers that what one has to tell is not nearly so important as the telling itself. It is this quality about all art which gives it a metaphysical hue, which lifts it out of time and space and centers or integrates it to the whole cosmic process. It is this about art which is ‘therapeutic’: significance, purposelessness, infinitude.

From the very beginning almost I was deeply aware there is no goal. … With the endless burrowing a certitude develops which is greater than faith or belief. I become more and more indifferent to my fate, as writer, and more and more certain of my destiny as man.

- Henry Miller

Thursday, January 10, 2013

On Love

No one’s fated or doomed to love anyone.
The accidents happen, we’re not heroines,
they happen in our lives like car crashes,
books that change us, neighborhoods
we move into and come to love.
Tristan und Isolde is scarcely the story,
women at least should know the difference
between love and death. No poison cup,
no penance. Merely a notion that the tape-recorder
should have caught some ghost of us: that tape-recorder
not merely played but should have listened to us,
and could instruct those after us:
this we were, this is how we tried to love,
and these are the forces we had ranged within us
within us and against us, against us and within us.

- Adrienne Rich

Thursday, January 03, 2013


A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.

- Emily Dickinson

Let's Fly

"Tell me why the birds can fly
and I can't?", you asked.
"But you can!", I answered
and closed my eyes.

- Neha