Friday, July 20, 2012

The Musical Chair

Power! Power! Power! Body and mind, beauty, brain and brawn, money, status, position, recognition-everything so fragile, everything created-just a few of its sources. "Politics"-has the glamour of having it all in one clean sweep and hence such high demand. Power! the things it can do or rather the things we think we can do with it seldom realizing what it can do to us.
Once given, power takes routes untaken and unexplored.
Undenied, unquestioned, unstopped-power gets everything-even those considered unfair.
The unsearched, the unknown, even that which was considered unwanted (so far) is found within the orbit of power.
Everyone wants to be within its orbit. If they can't, they want to be in close range to the orbit. The closer they crowd around this orbit, the more powerful the orbit becomes-sucking everyone towards it-thus becoming the center, the crux. The charismatic enigma of power thus manifested not from the middle yet from around.
This manifestation thus gets out of control and as all things out of control gets, one gives in to it. Power thus gets us.
What was once (when it all began) a need for control, now is a reduced rubble as power takes over and controls us. In this maddening, ruthless, paradoxical irony, no more does man hold power yet power holds the man. In pursuit of power, we lose the power to control ourselves. Thus, how powerless we become by the very want of power?!
Everything said, "Men may come and men may go (yet the truth remains knowing the gullible vulnerability of man that) power remains for ever... jiggity, jiggity jig."  

And There She Lay

The sensuous one searches the core
for that love still untold.
Search she does underneath bridges
and between the ridges.
Overflowing, melting, sans holds
steps she takes quite bold.
Exploring within, stretching beyond pleasure and pain
heart drenched in tear and rain.
Drop by drop as the drops melt 
warmth from her sure is felt.
Rising above all with hope and despair
the search for remorseless love seems fair.

Tussled hair and classy flair
nothing more she has to bare.
Cries and moans ring the air
tossed and turned with lustful tear.
Beauty and the beast all within
for once together writhing.
Finale sure does she reach
with all boundaries breached.
 Still breathing in silky moist
no language can tell this twist.
An experience her very own
in complete surrender she had thrown.

Everything is for her to keep
pain and pleasure for her to reap.
With nothing to lose and nothing to gain
lay she drenched in rain.
Uncontained, unchained and unnamed
there lay bliss untamed.
Shivering, shuddering, spontaneous
everything felt percutaneous.
Squirming as she tries to hold back everything held within
she gave herself for this win.

(inspired by a poetry I read today, I wrote thus...)

Thursday, July 19, 2012

The Bleeding Angel

With a truck load of things and more to add on her list, the pauper she idolizes. The life, the simplicity, the banquet she can make with the same utensil-the only one lying around, the peasant's daughter is worth all her admiration. From the city's gate, away from the glittering luminous strings waddling from concrete homes-the grave of the living dead... her eyes looms into the distant hollow that separates her from the faint light from the country side at the distance. Can't decide whether to hide or run, she stays. The little pot of boiling gruel tempts her far more than a buffet from the king. The soul burning faster than firewood, she boils over. She has every reason to be jealous of the peasant's daughter. Now, at the city gates, she sees the richness in poverty and poverty in richness and with tear-soaked cheeks like a tattered beggar by the roadside she stands. Far away from everything that seems meaningless, worthless and pointless, her eyes scan every mortal walking through the gates with dreams in their eyes. Measuring their dreams, she revisits her own and more ruthlessly naked she feels. Just a walk away, at the distance, her place-where her heart belongs-awaits her like a waiting mother for her prodigal child with open hands; yet she trembles to take that first step. The clanking of those old vessels hoisted atop a simple burning pyre of wood as it reaches a point of completion, like the drum roll to signal the end overbearingly hustles at the back of her head. She is no more in control of her thoughts and she sways like a serpent in pain now. She twitches and arches as the weight of her "possessions" behind the city gates overwhelms her as her soul moves like a drifting cloud-forward to where she belongs. An unknown stranger in her new-found land, a pain creeps in from somewhere as she moans in understanding that she is a stranger in her own land too. With nowhere to go, she melts... just another bleeding angel at the city gates.     

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Yet It Moves

Is being still and still being calm the same as doing nothing? "No" they say. And I agree. Stillness and calmness gives clarity-clarity ensures certainty-certainty, being something everyone wants, at times, needs. 
Yet, time tests our patience. Patience gives us experience. Experience gives us hope. And 'hope' becomes the base for the rest. 
Though at times, like now, I bow low to pray to the one above to conclude. Sometimes one can't help from asking, "Dear one above, is there an end to this thing?!" 
Helplessly still and calm, patience tested to the core, with hopeless hope climbing the rungs of faith, moving strong, standing outside the inner circle, wanting to be included in, un-understood by the rest, under suspicious stares from comfortable stairs, laughed, whispered and mocked at, like a beggar I stand, thus a beggar made. Walked straight, never bent. Today, I crawl, squirming like a worm, spines removed-one after the other, like the victims I plead for, victim I am made-to experience the taste of irony... hypocrisy galore!
This is something I have brought upon myself... hence sans complaining I trudge forward praying for a miracle... just one more. Yet, it moves.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

The Mask Series VII

"Prayer is when you talk to God; meditation is when you listen to God." Diana Robinson

“To understand the immeasurable, the mind must be extraordinarily quiet, still.” Jiddu Krishnamurti

“Undisturbed calmness of mind is attained by cultivating friendliness toward the happy, compassion for the unhappy, delight in the virtuous, and indifference toward the wicked.” Patanjali

This is a mask clicked hanging in my Mask Wall that seems stuck in deep meditation. I often wonder if people who get into substance abuse to escape the "real" world-they find hard to deal with-are nevertheless same as these people who take up meditation to do the same... and they say meditation is addictive once you start... would I be surprized?!