January 22, 2010

Emotion? Sans.

Lips. Invite.
Red, intoxicating.

Your eyes.
Corner me; shove me against a wall.
Mesmorize. Devour.

Our breath.
Rhythmic. Moist. Inaudible.

Your fingers search for mine,
As your lips tuck themselves into mine,
And the tip of your nose (warm),
Draws invisible (passionate) lines of lust
against my cheeks.

I. surrender. willingly.

Tomorrow is another day.
I'll learn your name then.



The street

filled with tomatoes,
light is
its juice
through the streets.
In December,
the tomato
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
into living flesh,
a cool
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
its flag,
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.


Poet: Pablo Neruda

Just wanted to share his brilliance.

January 19, 2010

A Glass of Water, Please?

This is what I had written over a year ago. Came across it today evening. And I'm glad I've moved on.


Dignity. Self-respect. What else?--

--important labels we stitch onto our identities, in order to value ourselves more: "There you go baby, I'm branded." Maybe, somewhere down the line, I have forgotten to value my own self, my convictions, my talent--forgotten to value the very notion of being: Me.

Someone told me once:

"R, if you don't love yourself, no one will. It will never happen. If you don't believe in yourself, the world will never believe you."--

--maybe it was me, chanting this to myself. Maybe.

Sometimes I find myself lost, entangled, unable to glue the screaming debris in my head in order to find my peace of mind. Lost: Me.I sit on my bed, hugging my knees, meditating over my blue socks that keep my feet warm, with a mug of coffee in my hand, wondering, just wondering: this was not what I wanted. I loved literature, now I can't even study it.

So what was it you wanted? Don't think I'll even let myself know the secret as to what I really want. Shh.. I'm not coming out with it.

I have been living an existence till now, not life. I had been dreaming, divorced from the strands of reality I now find myself entangled in. Till now, I was unaware of the fact that I was letting myself just... go...

No, perhaps I don't love myself.

I never do anything for Me. It's always, "oh, if I do this, what will s/he think?" What I do, is always governed by what others do or think. Crap, I'll be another anon face walking in the crowd. That is not what I wanted--why am I walking, then?

I'll never turn to myself--My eyes search for friends. Why can't I ask Me for help? I am twenty-ek. This should be easy. It never is though. Never was. Maybe because I was pampered, cuddled, nurtured a bit over the extreme by my mother. Not denying that I loved it. appreciated it. But now that I am coming more to terms with reality, with people, with myself, I realized:

"Honey, there is no one in this space called 'world' for you, except you."

You will have friends, sure, but for how long? You are an individual. Revel in it. Don't search outside the realm of your spirit for strength. Trust yourself, and yourself alone.

I might sound like someone who has just returned from an immensely inspiring sadhu-ed preaching in Dharamshala, I might sound even *blah* to some--honestly darlings, I don't give a damn.