Musings and Lyrics

Lac-dye vows

She is too shy for comfort. At times, I can’t even find a way to start a conversation. At the most, she would nod, maybe a smile in her boldest days. Leaning against the door, gripping hard at the ends of her attire, she would twist the threads in nervousness. I can notice sweat trickle down her forehead, as she talks.

Morning walk

And I wonder:/ These heads popping out, their throbbing figures,/ Are they figment of my imagination?/ Do they gather just to make me realize/ I am no anomaly, a part of them, Possibly estranged.

Keats' a mirror, Keats' a mirage

Keats the person we know has been pictured through word-of-mouth...it remains amusing to me how an article read on Keats is almost always an article forgotten.

Sourav Ganguly is a threat to cricket writing

Ganguly in inertia for a moment and then his fall, one arm below his body, his cry of agony — provided a poetic moment for the lensmen and T.V audiences, but for us the writers, if we had written, we would have had to do with cliches like ‘aged warrior’ and ‘falling hero’.

The day I came to life

In the hour of midnight, when the Sun was busy preening itself in front of the mirror, and the Moon was preoccupied, flirting with the stars. I finally attained independence (at least that is what I thought) after 9 months in confinement, without any fault of mine.

Friday, September 6, 2013

Fractured Tongues

Posted by Unknown on 9:43 PM

"Verse, I believe, was waiting out of respect until the giant who stamped it with his blacksmith’s hand steady and ever firmer had passed on, so that it could fracture. All language, adjusted to metre, concealing there its vital caesurae, escapes, according to a free disjunction into a thousand simple elements; and, I would point out, not without similarity to the multiple cries of an orchestration, that remains verbal."

~ Stéphane Mallarmé

From the Mistaken Hands

Posted by Unknown on 12:59 PM

"Once I wrote two fragments with very little in them produced by thought and very little purpose -- but they contain what I like to find." ~ Felisberto Hernández

The reader, the writer

Posted by Unknown on 2:46 PM

"The novel Amedeo was reading had reached the point where the darkest secrets of characters and plot are revealed, and you move in a familiar world, and you achieve a kind of parity, an ease between author and reader: you proceed together, and you would like to go on forever."

— "The adventure of a reader" from Difficult Loves by Italo Calvino (translated by William Weaver)