Well to begin with, this is Gibran.
WAR.
One night a feast was held in the palace, and there came a man and prostrated himself before the prince, and all the feasters looked upon him; and they saw that one of his eyes was out and that thee empty socket bled. And the price inquired of him, "What has befallen you?" And the man replied, "O prince, I am by profession a thief, and this night, because there was no moon, I went to rob the money-charger's shop, and as I climbed in through the window I made a mistake and entered the weaver's shop, and in the dark I ran into the weaver's loom and my eye was plucked out. And now, O prince, I ask for justice upon the weaver."
Then the prince sent for the weaver and he came, and it was decreed that one of his eyes should be plucked out.
"O prince," said the weaver, "the decree is just. It is right that one of my eyes be taken. And yet, alas! both are necessary to me in order that I may see the two sides of the cloth that I weave. But I have a neighbour, a cobbler, who has also two eyes, and in his trade both eyes are not necessary."
Then the prince sent for the cobbler. And he came. And they took out one of the cobbler's two eyes.
And justice was satisfied.
xx
Weeks after reading this, I saw Mallika's amazing talk at the teds: Dance to change the world. The story/play act that she began with- well it absolutely recreates the essence of this story. What we have around us, what we are served- is an infinite mockery of justice. Enough talk. Watch its video, and get inspired or at least break a few sinews laughing.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
the river of bees
Some bits from the poems of W.S Merwin.. Reading him is like holding conversations with oneself. The name of the first one is the title of the post.
On the door it says what to do
to survive,
But we were not born to survive
Only to live.
Separation
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle
Everything I do is stitched with
its colour
The Nails
And my only
chance is bleeding from me
When my one
chance is bleeding
For speaking either truth
or comfort,
I have no more tongue than
a wound.
On the door it says what to do
to survive,
But we were not born to survive
Only to live.
Separation
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle
Everything I do is stitched with
its colour
The Nails
And my only
chance is bleeding from me
When my one
chance is bleeding
For speaking either truth
or comfort,
I have no more tongue than
a wound.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
reciding In a comma
Here are two thoughts on the comma, one short, the other not.
"And what does a comma do, a comma does nothing but make easy a thing that if you like it enough is easy enough without the comma. A long complicated sentence should force itself upon you, make you know yourself knowing it and the comma, well at the most a comma is a poor period that lets you stop and take a breath but if you want to take a breath you ought to know yourself that you want to take a breath. It is not like stopping altogether has something to do with going on, but taking a breath well you are always taking a breath and why emphasize one breath rather than another breath. Anyway that is the way I felt about it and I felt that about it very very strongly. And so I almost never used a comma. The longer, the more complicated the sentence the greater the number of the same kinds of words I had following one after another, the more the very more I had of them the more I felt the passionate need of their taking care of themselves by themselves and not helping them, and thereby enfeebling them by putting in a comma. So that is the way I felt about punctuation in prose, in poetry it is a little different but more so …"
"And what does a comma do, a comma does nothing but make easy a thing that if you like it enough is easy enough without the comma. A long complicated sentence should force itself upon you, make you know yourself knowing it and the comma, well at the most a comma is a poor period that lets you stop and take a breath but if you want to take a breath you ought to know yourself that you want to take a breath. It is not like stopping altogether has something to do with going on, but taking a breath well you are always taking a breath and why emphasize one breath rather than another breath. Anyway that is the way I felt about it and I felt that about it very very strongly. And so I almost never used a comma. The longer, the more complicated the sentence the greater the number of the same kinds of words I had following one after another, the more the very more I had of them the more I felt the passionate need of their taking care of themselves by themselves and not helping them, and thereby enfeebling them by putting in a comma. So that is the way I felt about punctuation in prose, in poetry it is a little different but more so …"
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
bailing out an indulgence
re-presentation of love
I love reading newspaper archives. Especially the ones on literature and writers. For in this category what is relevant then, seems to be relevant now. Possible then, possible now. Writers are people in constant discovery, finding themselves in dark alleys and skewed corners of light, bumping into each other, studying each other's strangeness, familiarising, growing intimate, making love, finally to get lost, lose touch, or to forget and to meet somewhere else again. Suffering, longing, death and despair never come with dates- like some verses and their co-owners. And it makes a fascinating read.
I say co-owners because a poem is partly what a reader makes of it. The poet creats the framework, the dots- some subtle, others hidden, certain others-even unknown to him at the time of creation- and the reader performs the duty of dreaming, of granting it flesh and blood, a rebirth. He conceives, what was in part or wholly once conceived in some other mind, subjected to the ways of that mind alone, and makes it his own. Personalises it. So, a poem is always co-owned.
Talking about reading about writers reminds me of a funny quote I read in NY times.. when was it- last month?
Goes like this-
"I read about writer's lives with the fascination of one slowing down to get a good look at an automobile accident."
-Kaye Gibbons
Do you? I know I do. Or at least I used to. No, I still do, but now with a less sadistic approach.
Whatever the case is, every time I read this quote- an impish smile dawns my face!
Now that I am aware of this weird, unholy and distasteful fascination of mine and the shallowness of the whole act- I try and do what we do when caught in the act. I cite reasons. I try to bail out my indulgence. Didn't somebody say curiosity is incurable? I didn't slow down, my tyre just blew!
What's more? The sinner that I am- I would strongly recommend this sin to any living soul who cares enough to read about writers. What you find out can often be inspiring, astounding, revealing.. nourishing to the point where it could bring in a strange healing!
It is like getting a chance to visit the writer's home, to sit in the garden and share a summer's evening over coffee and cream. For sure, you wouldn't read another word of his/her work without feeling that familiarity- the places, textures, smells, the build- everything so familiar like old mates from school. Read about one, you would know a life. Read a few more, you begin to see the circle. I call it the universal circle of serendipity! You could give your own name or just refer to it to as it, or simply say blah.
For suddenly, all things seem connected- the writers, their works and you and me and the gazillion other readers who read, half read, thought of reading, or were forced into doing so, all would seem like nodes of one big, thriving network. Never growing irrelevant, or fading from sight.
From a moody Virginia to a never-never out Oscar, a Victoria Lucas aka Sylvia Plath to an elusive, reclusive Emily, a meandering Katherine Mansfield, a Tolstoy, a Chekov, to the often irate Samuel Taylor Coleridge, his once dear friend William Wordsworth, to his sister and inspiration Dorothy Wordsworth, to the controversial Lewis Caroll, from my own Basheer to a splendid Madhavikutty - you name them- I plead guilty of satiating a gut brimming with a wicked hunger for accidents.
And, I am glad that I did. I looked into their lives with the curiosity of one taking a closer look at an automobile accident, with no intentions of getting involved, or getting my clothes and shoes dirty.
But somewhere down the line, I guess I did just that. They got me. And in knowing their foibles, I grew to appreciate and accept mine.
After all, aren't these eccentricities that often define, redeem, and dissolve us, making us distinct, making us us?
I love reading newspaper archives. Especially the ones on literature and writers. For in this category what is relevant then, seems to be relevant now. Possible then, possible now. Writers are people in constant discovery, finding themselves in dark alleys and skewed corners of light, bumping into each other, studying each other's strangeness, familiarising, growing intimate, making love, finally to get lost, lose touch, or to forget and to meet somewhere else again. Suffering, longing, death and despair never come with dates- like some verses and their co-owners. And it makes a fascinating read.
I say co-owners because a poem is partly what a reader makes of it. The poet creats the framework, the dots- some subtle, others hidden, certain others-even unknown to him at the time of creation- and the reader performs the duty of dreaming, of granting it flesh and blood, a rebirth. He conceives, what was in part or wholly once conceived in some other mind, subjected to the ways of that mind alone, and makes it his own. Personalises it. So, a poem is always co-owned.
Talking about reading about writers reminds me of a funny quote I read in NY times.. when was it- last month?
Goes like this-
"I read about writer's lives with the fascination of one slowing down to get a good look at an automobile accident."
-Kaye Gibbons
Do you? I know I do. Or at least I used to. No, I still do, but now with a less sadistic approach.
Whatever the case is, every time I read this quote- an impish smile dawns my face!
Now that I am aware of this weird, unholy and distasteful fascination of mine and the shallowness of the whole act- I try and do what we do when caught in the act. I cite reasons. I try to bail out my indulgence. Didn't somebody say curiosity is incurable? I didn't slow down, my tyre just blew!
What's more? The sinner that I am- I would strongly recommend this sin to any living soul who cares enough to read about writers. What you find out can often be inspiring, astounding, revealing.. nourishing to the point where it could bring in a strange healing!
It is like getting a chance to visit the writer's home, to sit in the garden and share a summer's evening over coffee and cream. For sure, you wouldn't read another word of his/her work without feeling that familiarity- the places, textures, smells, the build- everything so familiar like old mates from school. Read about one, you would know a life. Read a few more, you begin to see the circle. I call it the universal circle of serendipity! You could give your own name or just refer to it to as it, or simply say blah.
For suddenly, all things seem connected- the writers, their works and you and me and the gazillion other readers who read, half read, thought of reading, or were forced into doing so, all would seem like nodes of one big, thriving network. Never growing irrelevant, or fading from sight.
From a moody Virginia to a never-never out Oscar, a Victoria Lucas aka Sylvia Plath to an elusive, reclusive Emily, a meandering Katherine Mansfield, a Tolstoy, a Chekov, to the often irate Samuel Taylor Coleridge, his once dear friend William Wordsworth, to his sister and inspiration Dorothy Wordsworth, to the controversial Lewis Caroll, from my own Basheer to a splendid Madhavikutty - you name them- I plead guilty of satiating a gut brimming with a wicked hunger for accidents.
And, I am glad that I did. I looked into their lives with the curiosity of one taking a closer look at an automobile accident, with no intentions of getting involved, or getting my clothes and shoes dirty.
But somewhere down the line, I guess I did just that. They got me. And in knowing their foibles, I grew to appreciate and accept mine.
After all, aren't these eccentricities that often define, redeem, and dissolve us, making us distinct, making us us?
Friday, January 1, 2010
too ol' school
I visited my old school today. Sort of a last minute turn that we took.
Standing by the low wall facing the basket ball ground- I felt it again.
I felt as if I could do or be or dream anything, that there in that little world- all that was possible. That place has a charm of making you dream dreams. Especially that wall. Suddenly things appear a lot simpler.
Standing there is like standing under a falcon's wings. You feel like there is something invincible by your side that it will always bring you away from pain.. no matter where you choose to stray.
You see only little people around. Dreamers.. and they don't care what you dare to conjure up in your dreams. There is just so much space to breathe and to be.
Standing by the low wall facing the basket ball ground- I felt it again.
I felt as if I could do or be or dream anything, that there in that little world- all that was possible. That place has a charm of making you dream dreams. Especially that wall. Suddenly things appear a lot simpler.
Standing there is like standing under a falcon's wings. You feel like there is something invincible by your side that it will always bring you away from pain.. no matter where you choose to stray.
You see only little people around. Dreamers.. and they don't care what you dare to conjure up in your dreams. There is just so much space to breathe and to be.
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