Archive for the 'My Life My Voice' Category

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change.

Believed 10 months, 4 weeks ago in My Life My Voice and Poetryness. 0 Comments

how audacious of me to title a post so audaciously. but still…

As the telephone bells, it rings;
As the lullaby begins, it rings;
As the sleepyhead slowly awakens, and looks towards, it rings;
As the screen lightens, it rings;
As the opera begins, it rings;

As plane touches off,
As bridges three kilometres long,
As jellyfish quiver and prance,
As the night sky fill and dance,
As tampon powered hot-air balloons trance,
As cyclops of power wind melancholically, sturdily, proudly across the eternal blueness,
As blades cut, bloods spills,
As Uganda, Nicaragua, Somalia rage;

As the leaf sprouts,
As the newborn arrives,
As yellow-brown leaves leave,
As the office becomes air conditioned,
As subjectivity becomes the keyword,
As lies cover the honest to make it the same, like the image becomes the real,
As life lies in a crossover melody,
As the tinybug perilously precariously climbs up the FabIndia pajama;

As with the weed, Swede, and the souvenir,
As with expensive electronics, brand war,
As the butterfly fights, loses, the wind,
As flowers bloom, as lights blink,
As pencils write;
As write, the life…

As lips form the word sweetheart
As  tones change
As people change
And as it rings again
As leaves roll
As winds wind
As lifes entwine,

it rings.
it binds.
change.


A button clicks. The sound stops. The “I” blow. The tinybug flies away.                                                                                              change. “i” wrote.

glimpses av2 – the world from 2677 SBC-ERS

Believed 1 year, 2 months ago in My Life My Voice, Poetryness and Political contemplations. 0 Comments

[for Abhi and Arjun, who, this, can no longer see...]

Little yellow flowers border the introspecting brown iron fence.
Little pinks join them; to witness the crawling snakes, day a day, night a night.
I have no words to say, no speak to thought,
To capture this sleeping elephant rock,
This great spectacle
Seeming, in its bliss stupor to,
Cling on to another elephant peak;
Which in turn to an other,
And an other, settling to swim.

Suddenly, hidden by plumes of coconuts,
mangoes, and such other valley thriving crop…
Oy. paddy and sugar cane too?!

Its hot. A beary hay silo passes by.
Yup, eating his way through grass,
and probably children’s mothers in their desperate hopes to teach her children more words, to keep them from a brawling troll.

Words. words. words.
“Words are all I have, to take your heart away”
Really?
I cannot describe this land
In ease wit this Anglo Germanic tongue
As easily as once I did with the rivulets of Europa;
(with this same orange pencil, same white book)
I know I cannot hope to capture the lime fluorescent greenness of the juvenile paddy a pass;
There is something beyond in this stark bright illuminating suns rays playing hide ‘n seek with trainly windows
(that which has obfuscated logic thus far, and stings my curiosity.)
Yes, true.
But mean that, that I am structured of
phones, syns, and morphs?
["kvool draynks... vaateir..."
Ha! Describe that.]

The tog is almost empty.
And we soon pass the last terra firmatic elephant.
Hey! Suddenly it appears that the three (los tres)
are desperate in support of the drowning un.
Oi oi oi…
(Framed in aweificance by thick white plumes of cotton soft clods, and the oceany blue sky.
Where’s the jellyfish now?)

Hark! What is that which burns?

But wait, my orange friend,
Was that my tongue, or an other, I saw?
Am I already in embrace of my linguistic claw?
Namaskaram Kerala!
As I breathe into Kanjikode,
Where is my welcoming monsoon queen’s klem?
The sun just still shines…
(Tchaaayeee… Tchai tchayeee)

And so, I enter my region state,
A familiarity no doubt, they say,
Configured by the language mine.
Nay.
You jest.

For my land is mine for its greenness,
The countless chlorophylls that breathe air in my state,
And for its earth,
That gives rise to them green.
My land is mine for its water,
Flowing health from the mountains of blue dreams,
Illuminating, strengthening, and killing.
My land is mine for the butterfly’s smile,
For the coconut silhouettes in brown paddy aquadigms,
For the krrr krrrs of Cicadas singing at night,
For these mountains like elephants,
For elephants like loving mountains,
For the people, the thought,
For love,
In short, in a coconut shell,
For this lands energy.
["Tweet tweet, tweet tweet... Es em esss..." Palakkad Jn...]

How can you say it is for the langue?
You call that intellect?
Or is that insolence?
[and is this a discourse of knowing, or desperation? or of hate?]
A. K. Hamza sells chips, chips, more chips,
and of course, halwa, halwa, halwa…
(among other dirty imperialising bites…)

Kakas bite water drops off dripping manual taps,
And people smile on talking, ordering.
I might be hugged by the sweet melody of mine tongue,
Now enveloping like the first monsoon rains…
(“Kerala, Kerala, Kerala lottery tické, pooja tické, win-win lottery…”)
And political dialogues in seats a couple front
may enigmatically critique in powerful speaks…
But did the langue come first, or first the chicken?
I think the chicken;
(and that the langueists should get a life)

Black pipe on a yellow balustrade,
Carries the life of water,
As our snake slowly etches forward
Inscribing change in our universe.

And in my realm now, as slowly as this train moves,
I shall begin to settle to other affections of my selv
My addiction of the word, now satisfied.

Oh A and A for whom I this dedicate,
May love be with you,
And let this land’s energy too.

Drip drip drip drip
Coconut thatches that build this energy’s intellectocracy, fairocracy,
And small boys a playing cricket,
Whilst woman bent over love’s labour ploughing nature,
Red beats promising exercise,
Whilst the sun shine, this train and rivulets move,
the wind caressing my hair…
Peace out.


- neo garfield

Jazz in the soul, dark dawns, andolasian dogs…

Believed 1 year, 3 months ago in My Life My Voice. 0 Comments

There’s jazz in the soul, oh yes, there is jazz in the soul…

The little metal brushes swoon caressing the cymbal and hi-hat. A hit, a swyuuuuu… A couple in the mind swinging cha-cha-cha, sharp turns, predicted burns…

And whilst the bright moon brings a sweet night, and the black sun dawns darkly, the jazzist blowing a u-turn with the tenor, an man in the guise of an adolasian dog howls through the night.

(the pet and the pseudo-chocolate dumb-bone gives company from below)

And the many wheeled centipede goes witchie tai to. Who tied my shoe lace so?

Hello? Where did all the snow go?

Men ikke nåk for alle rundt til å gå! Hvor gikk du, min tålmodig lau?

And on difference thrives the andolasian cone ice-cream now. On difference force-frightened by lonely medusa’s so.

Boing tsssshhhhhhhh…. Let the flowers flow.

I wait

Believed 1 year, 7 months ago in My Life My Voice. 0 Comments

I wait to write,/ for the where could i perfect embody./ i wait for that perfectness.

Incessantly blind to the truth of amaranthine perfectness. Pulling cover over the uncomfortableness that each moment, as it is, is in its perfectness, as events, love, energy and life correlate to form each ecstatic emotion. And the capturing, preserving of this moment is what I find agony in, and what I should be finding agony in.

I wait to write. Meanwhile, ships rip the seas in which the dolphins swap their fins. Crazy ants go walkabout in the sub-Saharan Autralian leaves. Suns revolve, planets emerge, some guy on a wheelchair says that time expands.

We, lost mortals, playing with grains of sand on the cuckoo beach, whilst the ocean of us and I lies ahead, and we refuse to see.

Elephantian dreams shattering like expectations in realosphere. Where do you put your belief in? A question so radical in this world of the present, time.

I await to fly.

next change

Believed 1 year, 10 months ago in Let It Be and My Life My Voice. 0 Comments

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Next; change.

The class scapegoat representative to the student council was sweating it out in front of the 20 strong line. He was trying his best to look perfect, to be be the leader whom his kinsfolk, like me, right now standing behind him, are to follow. He was at what he did best – drum in the brute rhythm of the eight numbers, followed by a count-down, and a “next; change”, while demonstrating the perfect method to perform the physical exercises we are to perform. His female counterpart was doing the same, in front of her own 20 strong line. Physical Education class. Grade seven.

I remember that we never used to look forward to the first part of our PE classes. It involved a twenty minute long drudgery of going through seven to ten forms of stretching exercises, supposed to warm-up our bodies. Our PE teacher gave this pristine responsibility to the MSC (‘Member of Student Council’, also acronymed by kinder folk as ‘Mother of Stupid Children’), who took it up, the exchange now reminding me of a likeness to the colonised taking up the responsibilities the colonisers handed over to them – proud, exercising power, but ignorant of the fact that they were slaves being used to perform otherwise unattractive tasks to the whims of a self-established higher power.

The next part of the PE class is what everyone looked forward for. The PE teacher would come out with footballs and throw-balls. Kick-the-ball-around-and-sweat-in-the-devastatingly-hot-sun time.


Next; change.

Sometimes, our lifes are so simple. Its a simple next; change. Where we know what is the ‘next’, through lifelong brainwash and psychological feeding. We are made aware of what is the next, homogeneous inside the cartloads of information fed into our all time ill satiated minds. And ‘change’, its just a simple order, ordering us to move on to the seemingly undefined, but veritably quite pre-defined, next.

For people who are knowledgeable about the next, which is not an elite few, mind you, seeing that the whip-holders of the change constantly propagate the next, life is simple, easy, and non-chaotic. You can enjoy life in quite many ways – since the whip-holders define enjoyment and access to it, your abiding to their whims will definitely gain you privileged entry.

Its like a traffic light. Red, stop. Orange, fire engine. Green, go. Safe, non-chaotic, streamlined traffic. You are a perfect citizen.


But sometimes, life is not that simple. I wish it were never that simple. Where the ‘next’ is unknown, and the ‘change’ is not an order. Rather, the change is a dive deep into the unknown realms of the next. With trust centred not on an establishment, but your self. A steep dive into the dark cold exhilarating next, hand-in-hand with your beautiful self.

Because at one point in humanity, the hound was raped, and the heart slaved. It was from this point that self gave way to system, in the guise of selfishness giving way to selflessness. Every raped hound should come to think again, why?

And they will, oh rulers of the world, oh holders of the whip, oh dictators of the proletariat, oh Augustus of Rome, They will think again why. And that why will be powered by the love of the indomitable Spirit. That why will roll back the ages of education, which you indoctrinated in the name of your systems, and like a revolting ocean, made of the slew of individual waves which had their goings tough when you were the ocean, they shall lash the waters back against you, and ingest you, and love you. The hounds shall awake from the years of post traumatic stress following their rape. Beware, the light. And beware, the carriers of that light.


Next; change.

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