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Bloom Blast




Bloom Blast. 


- for James Joyce and wild roses.


00/00/Our Year of the Bud

In fluid time backwards,

My frame was small,

I was grafted in a bud,

We are all that,anyway.

Rebellions in little buds,

Romancing sunsets,lines,

Resisting flames that came,

Flames that brought order,

Sincere prayers,eyes,heart.

Big eyes slanted ,wondering,

Wandering innocent paradise.

But the bud is wild wild dark,

And dark could be green too.

Only the quest was for the self,

But green wild rose is not real.

What is, I knew not, being small,

But I wanted something.

We all want something ,when small,

That something afar, unclear.

I sang in my voice of the child,

“O ,the wild rose blossoms

On the little green place” **

The bud is green so green.

Heart of light,piercing light.

The opening bud.The growth.



00/00/Our Year of the Rose

In fluid time forwards,

I’m rooted to my being,

We all are, only a few,

Still undecided,fragmented.

I don’t submit to corrected life.

Daydreams, noon dreams,

They cannot be subverted ,

They breathe into us.

I’ve smashed mirrors,

They say, smashing pluralities,

The original self surrenders.

I’m dark, I’m anarchy,

I’m order within uncoiling

Disorder,but I am true,

Some are failed rebels,

Rebellions die ,rebels don’t.

I’m white rose as well ,

The holy,pure self,

Inside ,we all are.

These are just extremities.

Individuation dreams,

On my own, on our own,

The bud blasts into a Rose.

White,red,black,many more.

The dark and light inside,

All , believers, atheists.

But not the cultivated Rose,

That Restrictions nurture,

The Wild Wild rose,

Of the bloom blasted light.


** line taken from Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as A Young Man

Rumi and His Poetry

I've been looking at Rumi's Poetry and yes, its all about the essential difference and a strange kind of beauty.I'm posting the poem i liked best  for the simplicity and beauty and the rest can be found at Sufi poems' website.



O lovers, lovers it is time
to set out from the world.
I hear a drum in my soul's ear
coming from the depths of the stars.

Our camel driver is at work;
the caravan is being readied.
He asks that we forgive him
for the disturbance he has caused us,
He asks why we travelers are asleep.

Everywhere the murmur of departure;
the stars, like candles
thrust at us from behind blue veils,
and as if to make the invisible plain,
a wondrous people have come forth. 


Life of Rumi


Reason is powerless in the expression of Love. Love alone is capable of revealing the truth of Love and being a Lover. The way of our prophets is the way of Truth. If you want to live, die in Love; die in Love if you want to remain alive.





I silently moaned so that for a hundred centuries to come,
The world will echo in the sound of my hayhâ1
It will turn on the axis of my hayhât

(Divan, 562:7)

The name Mowlana Jalaluddin Rumi stands for Love and ecstatic flight into the infinite. Rumi is one of the great spiritual masters and poetical geniuses of mankind and was the founder of the Mawlawi Sufi order, a leading mystical brotherhood of Islam.

Rumi was born in Wakhsh (Tajikistan) under the administration of Balkh in 30 September 1207 to a family of learned theologians. Escaping the Mongol invasion and destruction, Rumi and his family traveled extensively in the Muslim lands, performed pilgrimage to Mecca and finally settled in Konya, Anatolia, then part of Seljuk Empire. When his father Bahaduddin Valad passed away, Rumi succeeded his father in 1231 as professor in religious sciences. Rumi 24 years old, was an already accomplished scholar in religious and positive sciences.

He was introduced into the mystical path by a wandering dervish, Shamsuddin of Tabriz. His love and his bereavement for the death of Shams found their expression in a surge of music, dance and lyric poems, `Divani Shamsi Tabrizi'. Rumi is the author of six volume didactic epic work, the `Mathnawi', called as the 'Koran in Persian' by Jami, and discourses, `Fihi ma Fihi', written to introduce his disciples into metaphysics.

If there is any general idea underlying Rumi's poetry, it is the absolute love of God. His influence on thought, literature and all forms of aesthetic expression in the world of Islam cannot be overrated.

Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi died on December 17, 1273. Men of five faiths followed his bier. That night was named Sebul Arus (Night of Union). Ever since, the Mawlawi dervishes have kept that date as a festival.


Fly me... By and by.


Lets say, I've seen a few trapped moons,

Splendid in raptures, jarring,

A few cut candles out of them,
Half burning and all, just for,

For a few released promises.

And when I counted the raindrops,

They  felt  like fifteen thousand speared,

Arrows onto a templed memory span.
And I freed this butterfly of third angles,
It'll never die just in vain.
Just graze over fallen lines of control.
Before it joins my crowd.
To walk in the rain or fly,
I cannot ,at this moment, remember.


ANNE FRANK-The Diary Of a Young Girl ,is one book i've always avoided reading from the start.Smhow,deep within,it always gave away an uncomfortable feeling,something i would rather not want to feel, cause its nothing unknown, if one is to start thinking of the activities of Adolf Hitler,.a man,i would rather hate for his insane ideas, than esteem for his conquests and diplomatic skills.

                         Germany would have never survived widout Hilter settling da economic side,but at what cost????The man seemd to have a terrible hatred for the Jews,that resulted in the hated Holocaust.The question remains,why harm the innocent people?Maybe this gave a soothing satisfaction to an aspiring,Fuhrer, or its just he was fanatical to a great degree...yet feared ,yet researched on,yet never forgotten..n smhow,oddly exciting to most people for his ways n brilliance. Read along on individual lines,i personally like the Man's guts,the shrewdness to sway all with words, but its natural that only disgust streams in,as it rightly should,when one reads this diary of a little girl.

                          And finally i manged to get the book,take up courage and read it.It left me a bit crushed.That was xpected.But it smhow made me feel quite awake and listening and amazed at the conquest of life by a 15 yr old girl, a girl ,happy as any other happy child,drawn to the innocent charms of life,as any child is entitled to, honestly.The starting few entries are delightful.It records the incidents in her life, documented with a smart ,amusing way..it'll make u giggle and smile to an xtent.But this is a girl,advanced in years in the mind,thinking of things in a rather matured way,right from the first.Her direct confession to her Diary says, she had lots of friends,even boyfriends [tho,in her mind,she knows,its q.young for her to hav bfs,dat is,mind you [:)]] , and she was still  a loner, 'cause its not always about how many friends u can keep or have,but about what quality of friends you have, an important thing to know and understand.What is nice about her observation is ,though she seems sad,not to have a confidante,she prefers being a loner,and enjoys being so too.P'haps this was necessary ,else she wouldnt have been so matured-few happy-go-lucky people ,n most do not grow upto life fast.for others,they do.Same with Anne,i suppose.Hence the outpourings,hence the intensity....its adorable and inspiring.

I wouldnt go into the last part of the Diary really,it doesnt interest me that much....but her talking to herself fascinates me.Its like talking out aloud and with so much depth,it will be embarassing and shameful to call such a girl "brave".

For those who r reading this entry right now,plz plz plz read the book.It'll give u a strange sort of courage, u knw,to be and belong,to move on,to knw and learn to knw , to love and be loved, to still believe in innocence and most importantly, to love life ,as it should be loved,despite the thorns,for life does find a way back to u.u just have to knw how to live, ur way.

May. 11th, 2008

Blurring all Bitter Chocolate Boundaries of the “Soul”.



"Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield,upon which your reason...and your judgement wage war against your passion and your appetite...-KAHLIL GIBRAN"



Interestingly enough,it is one pivot on which the brush of all emotions and reasons ,applies it’s master strokes-The self and all the associated complexities to accompany it…poets have desperately ,for many years, reflected along these lines of poetic dilemma.What I’ve tried blurring here, are all those divergent and convergent lines of despair,happy euphoria and the accompanying dimensions that play with all of the self conjured dreams…I’ve included lines from various poems,a few of my own favourites..to create a Collage,that alone stands  on,in it’s ultimate ,if not wholly perfect, the quest of the unsatiated “SELVES”…of all, for whatever they choose to seek.The soul only paints the picture of what it loves to see as painted for it.It refuses to bow to any disjointed images or distorted pictures…Post Modernism,ofcourse,this war with the Self and meaningless existence has depicted Art at its most perfect sense…since to modernist and post-modernist poets,the blurring of all possible coherence and meanings have only added to their artistic tones of Beauty and philosophy repeated again and again in paintings,theatre ,prose and poetry .


Sylvia Plath writes in her poem “Soliloquy of the Solipsist”

I walk alone;
The midnight street
Spins itself from under my feet;
When my eyes shut
These dreaming houses all snuff out;
Through a whim of mine
Over gables the moon's celestial onion
Hangs high. ”


         Loving the self..again and again and again.Her words have the play of tremendous power and confidence…the Soul sometimes, essentially emphasizes on that blind love that invokes the very existence of Narcissus within, it commands and then again it smiles and obeys .It is no wonder that Orsino speaks thus in Twelfth Night  “ I,myself,am best/ when least in company”


The fears,ride high within and at times when it cannot face what it has to,it either turns a rebel or shuns the Reality in whatever frenzy it can possibly succumb to as is so poetically expressed by Federico Garcia Lorca –

I will not see it!
No chalice can contain it,
no swallows can drink it,
no frost of light can cool it,
nor song nor deluge of  white lilies

no glass can cover it with silver.
I will not see it!”


              “Death”- the Soul runs from it.Surprising,because it is eternal, the soul is always eternal..

With a war of Satan and God within….the White-Alpha and Omega ,the Black-evil and negativity…It still cringes from the ultimate drop-curtain of Life….Maybe it wishes recognition,beyond what has already been bestowed on it, or maybe it never touches the saturation-point of happiness ,complete happiness….it fears blotting out itself…..Lorca writes again,


                  Absent Soul

The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have died forever.

The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever”


               It desires enlightenment…total and more knowledge…does it not know that the dawning of knowledge may not quite be the desired enlightenment? The epiphany will just pluck it from the happy lap of miraged understandings,and throw it to the gallows of darkness and despair.I pondered while writing this once in my diary, I called it the “Self  Entrapment”

The sun goes down ,chains break free,
Smashed fragments walk along the pages,
Of memories perhaps..
Only love and all of it,to gypsy the Night in songs.
Was the oriental heart always in love,
To echo Joyce and cry "o love! o love!" in joyous prayer?
Dazzling lanes of sutured seconds tumble back in glee,
The walks and the lyrical dances under sky umbrella,
The smiles remain still, the vivid wait continues.
The Lights dim,the walls cringe in beloved euphoria.

The soul has learnt loving well”- ( my poetry  in reflections.)


                   “Entrapment”???? self-desired ofcourse.The soul loves to love and stops not till it has sung songs of the madrigalist alone …love of Nature,of friends,of spheres,of family ,of life…..there….the cycle reaches completion….Love of life….and we hold on till the last curtains fall……then why  Die slowly? Why so much pain when the Soul can give so much as well? The lesson learnt is to be taken from PABLO NERUDA…..


“He or she who shuns passion

who prefer black on white,

dotting “I’s” rather than a bundle of emotions,

the kind that makes your eyes glimmer,

that turn a yawn into a smile,

that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings….



                       LOVE given receives back a lot more…..if we cannot give,we cannot take as well….Then why close the borders of affections,of friendship,of bondings and walk all ,all alone?The Soul should be loved to loved others…then nothing remains to be hated…Why narrow the walls of humanity?why feel all the absences together such that everything looks like waste-land: and the self accompanies the self alone?


Dom Moraes ,writes


Smear out the last star.
No lights from the islands
Or hills. In the great square
The prolonged vowel of silence
Makes itself plainly heard
Round the ghost of a headland
Clouds, leaves, shreds of bird
Eddy, hindering the wind.”


 Why walk in violence,dance in pain and die in exhaustion?


“And…I am the self-consumer of my woes-
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love's frenzied,stifled throe;-
And yet I am,and alive-like vapours tost.."
------------JOHN CLARE


You are special,all of us are….the feeling itself lifts the spirit…dream of gardens in the desert sands of the world ….i’m sure the rose will there somewhere…..and you will touch the summit with those who love you..love us all…we are never alone…the solitude kills only when conjured with complaints…never complain….Life’s beautiful ..play the harmonica of smiles long and sweet…you never know what beautiful music you are making,unknown ……


                      Have you ever tried listening to your own mind-void? The incoherence here,when reflected in our dreams paints a complicated ,pretty picture of all our thoughts and desires…have you wondered ,what if, such was your dispositon and you could hear all and nobody could hear you back……?




" Can you hear me? No. No one can
hear me........
Nobody knows I am here.
But I can hear them.
I am in a hotel room, sitting forward in a chair, leaning my ear against the wall. In the next room is a
couple. They have been, talking, amicably enough. Their exchanges seem slight but natural. However, their voices are low. Attentive though I am, I cannot make out the details.."


 You can only hear them..they do not know you are hearing them ,,and you cannot even make out what they are speaking of….this is lack of psycho-communication maybe….it happens, a lot of times that we speak to others….they speak to us and we feel what a huge void in between us…! Yet ,funnily enough ,we continue to speak in the midst of all the possible incoherence….as has been artistically portrayed in the “Theatre of the Absurd”. A lot,in life ,is without meaning…there is yet so much in meaninglessness…we stand alone as entities …seeking to recognize unknown faces of familiars in this crowded world…and are talking in sounds ,full of fury,signifying nothing…


.                      .Bonding too is without meaning…if every line of relationship stands on symbiotic attitude…we might not be making friendship at all….but high-sounding treaties…subject to break of promise and trust ,just at any point of time….


                 What matters is what we are doing to always make ourselves feel happy at the end of each day…If you could hold on to Life forever..making it love you forever and ever and ever....make it listen to all you have to say to it....make it hold you to battle against yourself...then breathing would perhaps seem more easy.    Push yourself to the edge of the rooftop..so you can see the vast abyss of imagination….and chance accidents that finish off dreams so easily….come back a few steps and then fly to your world again…
Its nirvana again….you are not really being its mirror…or are you?
There…close your eyes…a lot of people..and few in the crowd will have prominent faces in your mind….trance…over and over again…
Control the music of the dove-soul and yet never stop it from turning orange with the first dawn of desire..”the ditty of first desire”Lorca wrote….and in every other morning and evening you would want to be an orange-coloured heart and a nightingale.Feel loved if you want to….love back if you can….write love at the back of your heart’s page….never delete love from the lawn of your heart…….and every morning will seem to be new..every morning ..precious..and all frustrated hopes will change to orange dreams…and you…to a nightingale…who sang to brush away the
midnight all day….to make way for a new day..without another black..violet..blue…midnight perhaps……..wait and see…it’ll be revealed as you move with the tide……

could be the flood tide yet.


May. 10th, 2008

Personal Hyacinth
There are mystic moments,
When words refuse to paint,
Breathing into the night,
Like a dash of paper-thin jingles.
I stand with my face,
Turn'd to the side and wait.
I think I still fancy,
Red roses that turn black.
Whims are strange,
They swim and waltz about,
They're nothing and they're all.
I've seen heaving waves crash,
In sandclocks,in curtains of rain.
A glass of love spills over,
No harm done.Just whispers,
Of white moons in the head.
I drown my hands in shadows,
They drip of faces new and fading,
A wall comes out to me,
In blue shades and so red.
And flying glass tiles collect,
Building rosy tower again.

Snowflakes within beats and a feather'd Pen.
"I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake." -Sylvia Plath

Reader,I’d rather take it from a smile or from a wave or from the stars.Take a whisper that is.Little whispers ,fall upon the ear ,as strongly ,as gently ,as they like.Sometimes,just this sense of being by oneself,steadily throbs ,within.I love this feeling.A lot of things say a lot more,if listened to.I cannot say,it is fanciful,all the while.It may not be so.It may make you smile,just like that,or make you want to destroy what all you’ve just created by yourself.In the end of everything,what surprises ,is that you are neither happy,nor angry,nor sad,not even totally indifferent,but it happens to each heart and each pen.When you’re not even ready,not really wishing to hold on,nor dreaming to let go of gathered clouds,inside the clenched fist.Ways of the moments make magic.Most of the times.

Reader,Poetry on paper,or poetry on the lawn of the soul,is not quite different,nor really the same.The best thing about writing the poet writes the letter,seals it inside an envelope,then posts it to eternity.Comes back to oneself again,that is.Unless ,there is/are beloved listeners and intruders.It may be some sort of a let loose dream.Turning sideways,you’d see,whatever past,is now facing you.Whatever you did,or said,would ,like sprinkled seconds,still again,come back to you.If you know,what to choose,Choices in pyramids,hold secret destinies.Search out the life,that stifles time and lets you free. Live freely.Beyond diaries and talks.Within zero bounds to zero lines.I would love to have Jui flowers.Reminds me of rain soaked earth and liberation.

Portals.They are fascinating participants,while courting words.They are dividers of the imaginary orders and disorders.A few of my poet friends would agree,that somethings never change.Portals don’t.It can be a Time portal that slides hours ,shuffles moments and seconds.It can be a heart portal that plays emotional dominoes.It can be the Known-portal,engulfing,familiar things,or the unknown portal that stays beyond and the poet can touch it easily.Romantic.Real.Real.Romantic.Poetry can do magic.Yes .It’s like playing a harp in the rain.If just given company,it lingers on,like a friend.A confidante.Then it’s felt,there must be something,walking as your shadow,with you..Really,I love walking and poetry too.I wonder how many roads life can reveal...I'll take the whitest ones..or maybe the blue-est ones.Reader,you may take the roads lesser travell'd by...within your mind..'cause that's what we actually want to do most of the times.