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