Butterfly

Thief

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 17:22:00 +0000

I have been searching,
Restlessly searching
For the words
That make a poem
Only to realise
That you have stolen them.

Heartbreak is great vocabulary.
Its not fair that I get the peace
And you get the words.

I want fair exchange.
When was it about an unfair trade?

Return them to me. Thief.

Star

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 12:32:00 +0000

Dazed as a star

Hanging in the sky

I dream, I dream

Of sleepless nights

Under the shadow of the sun

Singing, singing, deep into the night.

Laughing, laughing, laughing at the sky.

Light. Darkness. Shimmering flickers.

Silence. Endless silence in the heart.

There is no other way to describe it-

A laughing, hugging silence

That dances in acknowledgement,

That is living, breathing and relieved.

Happy as a star

Shimmering in the sky.

Love is in the air

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 12:23:00 +0000

It's one of those days,
When all I can feel is your love and protection
When all I wanna do is sit down and write
How I dreamt of you,
Last night,
When you knew nothiing of who I was
And when all the confessions
Ended in contractions
In my stomach.

It's one of those days
When romance is in the air
And all I want to do is think about you
And dream of you
And sit still, laughing in the moment that follows.

It's one of those days
When its raining inside because the sky outside
Is so beautiful.

It's just one of those days. I can't stop smiling
When I hear your voice.
I can't stop blushing when I see your eyes.

I wait,
In vain,
For your return.

At last

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 04:17:00 +0000

In a warm flush of happiness,

A gush of silence embalms.

The storm is over.

And finally, there is silence within.

After the screaming and the shouting

And the crying and the hopelessness,

The heart is still, undisturbed.

We think we have so much to lose.

We think we can hurt.

We think we have so much to give.

It's burning. The sear of the scar is burning through me

Like hot arcid paste curdling in the chest.

And still, I can locate; I can finally locate again,

The place within which is still and silent;

Simply silent.

To rest. I head towards rest.

Death of a Friend

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 16:06:00 +0000

Bury the friends of yesteryear,

The friends of daylight,

For the friends of yesterday

Cannot be the friends of

Today and tomorrow.

Friends come and go.

All the time. 

Like the tide. Like the wind. 

Like the merry go round. 

And still, everything remains the same.

Parchment, shore and autumn leaves

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Mon, 23 May 2011 04:18:00 +0000

Your voice is like
A weather-beaten rock
On a cold chilly evening
When the sun
Is setting and
Its dusk.

Your voice is like
Quill scribbling
On Parchment;
Like the comfort of the
Stairs;
Like the ruffled feathers of a
Peacock.

It is rough
Like the rustling of
A torrent of leaves on
An autumn evening;
Like the friction of
Two stones. Rubbing
Together-
Like crackling fire
On a summer's night.

Its like the muffled
Assertion of a soul
In love-
Like the sigh of a
Meandering river
Finding its shore.

The Surprise of a Fruit

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 06:33:00 +0000

Shabari always broke the surprise.

From branches lithe and strong
From trees old and tall
Seeking the nectar of wild flowers
She hand-picks fruits of all names, juices and colours.

Through roots that dangled from above and reach into the tempting soil
Through bushes dense and thickets intense
She roams and rambles and labours and wanders
Watching the sky as time passed by.

The coconut vender examines his bounty.
Jui and I stand in the hot sun, waiting with plastic straws.
For Jui, he picks a coconut the colour of the Forest- a fathomless green
For me, he picks a green the colour of Midnight- dark, alluring and ageless.

With an expert slash he slices the coconuts
And there it is, my surprise-
Nuzzled in a dark hard shell
Some water, some soft white fuzz
And endless silence trapped in a hard green shell.

In her little shrine in the wordless woods,
Shabari waits and watches and plucks and sorts
Flowers and fruits, herbs and roots
Amidst songs of birds- a thousand flutes.

Silence preserves surprises.
The surprises of a hundred fruits loved, picked, chosen, held,
Ripened. Opened. Bitten. Unruined.

Ages

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 17:50:00 +0000

To be with nothing
To move on.

To be guilty.
And sad.
And miserable.
And cry.
For hurting someone.

To watch Castle.
And How I Met Your Mother.

To make rasam
With too much chilli powder.

To eat, and to sleep
And to eat, and to sleep
And not to rest.

To not meditate.
To cry about not meditating.

To become big and bigger
And to stop feeling
The weight of feeling.

To wonder at the power of Hindolam
And feel, for a moment
What was missing.

To want to write
Without words coming from the soul
But on a contract.

To be miserable
And more miserable
And more miserable
Until there is no more miserable to be.

blue towel red towel

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 23:42:00 +0000

Giving birth to text

Filled with meaning is

Harder on the heart than the brain.

The heart, melancholy

Searches the void;

Looking forward to the end of the war within.

Living off a suitcase

I trot around England

Assuming different shapes, forms, sizes and colours.

In each house, there is a different memory.

In each space, a different story-

The colour of the curtains, the sound of the sea,

The emptiness of a garden, the taste of a chocolate cake.

And underneath, a seathing rageful frustration.

What next? Where next do I look for meaning?

In what do I find my home? And where then, should I rest?

I am delaying going home

Because I want to ensure it isn't here.

Hoping that
Here, it only resides

In the eyes of the people I love.

In each house am I offered

Towels of different colours.

Sometimes it is the-colour-of-the-sky-that-day-blue, sometimes lavender, sometimes light green

And in other spaces, the colour of my skin.

Inturn, I reject

The warmth, the tenderness, the cold, the formality

With the same icy smile and warm-hearted non-conviction

That I have managed to conjure within me.

Pure unruffled core. Pheonix that redefines with fire.

Nothing seems to hold a candle to the inferno.

Nothing seems to match the brilliance of the art in the sky.

With what colour then, shall I paint my core?

In which place, then, shall I next have the temperament to rest?

Faded tapestries

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 18:04:00 +0000

Raindrops in my eyes
Tears, in yours.

Promises made.
Unbroken shells.

At the edge of infinity,
Where the wonder awaits.

Sleep beckons. Rest
Beckons me further north.

The answer
Is in the eyes.

How is my intention
To unhurt anyone

Not seeing the light
of midnight, moonlight or more?

Grounding in the sky

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 00:15:00 +0000

I'm standing here
At the foot of my bed
Thinking
That I have
Nothing
That I can take with me
To my sleep

So I don't have nightmares.

It seems so easy
To know
What you don't want
And so hard
To know
Love, Hurt, and people,
And sometimes, even though I know exactly what he means,
Pablo Neruda.

Deliverance. Freedom. Liberation.
Frame of mind, or escape from illusion?

The table cloth's gone.
So is the comfort of the stairs,
The meaning of things,
And sometimes,
Even surrender.

In which strand of thought
Did I lose track
Of who I was?

In which measure of existence
Did I think I knew
Who i was?

Hovering Bliss

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 23:05:00 +0000

The cold is everywhere
Hugging my soul

Like a happy butterfly
Laughing at the sight of wind

Hovering, shivering,
Crying, fluttering

And Shimmering
Like fireflies.

In the middle of all this,
I miss you.

Happiness is elusive
Like a dark rain cloud
Hovering at a distance
Visible and unreachable.

Sigh. I'm standing at the edge of happiness,
again.

Preserving

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 00:56:00 +0000

When I was young,

My grandmother used to make pickles

And lock them away in jars

As if

To preserve them

Forever.

So many things to feel:

Love? Self? Lost-ness?

And I look for jars

To hold all that I hold dear:

On starlit nights when the moon is a white inky blot on the blue paper-sky,

Inside golden evenings when the winds ruffle leaves till they're the perfect colour of green,

In fluttering words and adjective butterflies,

In the language of phrases and the loopholes of meanings

I find my urn:

Perfect Company.

Poetry is deep-freeze.

New technology for preserving.

Fireflies in the forest night

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 02:16:00 +0000

On one sultring sunny July afternoon,

I was walking home from the library.

And as usual, my acutely disarrayed mind

Went world-wandering.

Irrational dissatisfactions were sustained and delivered

Wih proof: Self-loathing thoughts and examples of unhappy experiences

And Happiness, she fled like a passenger in trouble;

Went parashuting.

Disclaiming furiously at the laws of negative gravity,

And cynically laughing at the thought of defying it,

The mind crackled with the impossibility of tranquility;

Went soul-searching.

Like Fireflies in the forest night, and shooting stars on a moonless night,

Alight with sparks and brightness alike,

An epiphany: Decide, and you will be happy. And Gloominess finally

Went missing.

In search of a home, in search of a space

That we can call our own, we go hunting.

To commit to cling, or to resolve to belong-

Its all a decision in Our making.

Burdens

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 00:53:00 +0000

Continuity. Endlessness. Never touching the surface. Not even grazing it... Like two completions ending in each other without having to meet. Perfection in nothingness. Possibilities. Probabilities.

No entrances. No congruencies. Still, they continue, in their quiet capsules, like calm collectivities of water, by-standing a cohesion made long ago.

Science and belief. Science and simplicity. Rationality and stoicity. Justice, in his eyes. Emptiness in hers.

An absolute disrespect for simple wrongs. Simple rights. Behind the system. Beyond the system.

Endlessness, and a lifetime to explore it. Enough? Does it complete?

Sigh... No answers beyond a text.

Incompleteness. Again. Yet, a sudden feeling of fulfilment. Something has been touched within.

Within, there is a perception, a meaning, from a perception. That's only in the text. Lost in the text. In the intermingling intricacies of a text. Simple film exposed. So much, it came to reveal. So much, that in the mind, something explodes.

Human nature. Constantly testing and probing at what it means, to be right. To be true. To stick... To that one question, to that one idea... that is not belief or truth. But a thin grey line in between the two. The nature, of being human.

Missing links

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 21:36:00 +0000

Where to begin? Where was it that she had begun to find her answers? She looked through her bundle of values again. Values that had been carefully constructed and moulded, with great care and concern over a consistently long period of time. The question was obvious. What did she want to do for the rest of her life? The answer was beginning to show itself.

The forest was always welcoming at this time of the night. The fireflies had already lit the way to the clearing, but he chose a different path today. He wanted to get thoroughly lost. He began to walk in the direction of darkness, completely unknown even to the fireflies. But even as he started to walk, they realigned themselves, lighting the entirety of the road that led into the depth of the forest. His answers didn't begin to end.

She looked through her bundle. An unconventional bunch of things were stacked together. Organic Food. Green Peace Project. Spirituality. Indian Nationalism. Self-enquiry. Film-making. The civilization that was India. Indian Science. The epics- Ramayana and Mahabharata. To put it simply, her childhood, bundled, accumulated and tightly ingeniously packed into a cotton bag.

"Common strand?"

The Beginning

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Sat, 10 Apr 2010 00:04:00 +0000

At midnight, he decided to finally set foot outside. It would be perfect. No thoughts. No traffic. No lights. No sun. Slight rain. No signs of danger. He slipped on his jumper and buttoned up his mackintosh. He shut the door softly behind him, not wishing to wake up his sound asleep room-mate.

She had cut her hair. She had redecorated. She had travelled. She had made friends. She had baked cake.

He stepped out. A slight drizzle hung in the air, pretentious and unmanifested. The kind of rain where you didn' t know if you needed an umbrella or not. He began walking towards the forest. The road was deserted and dark. Endless pathches of flowers sorrounded him as he walked through the dark and deserted fields. If it was morning, there would be colour, he thought. Now, only blackness. Only stars to find his way.

She was looking for something. She could not put her finger on what it was. She wondered if she was in the wrong corner of the world. No, it could not be wrong. Her calculations had been correct. The formula had to work. There were no chances for it to go wrong. No. This was pure, simple, logical, reasonably emotional Mathematics.

The forest was only a couple of miles away, and he was used to walking fast, even in the night, only by the light of the stars. He knew the stars by now. He had given them names. There was Bright and Life and Peace and Shrine. There was also Linger, Joy, Wish and Amaze. He had named them on walks like this one, and each star was a memory. "I coud never get tired of the sky," he thought.

It saddened her deeply that she could not find it. If she only knew what it was, she could look for it, here, elsewhere, inside, outside, at the edge of the boundary between inside and outside. No signposts. Only empty dark nights to guide her way.

He had refused to bring with him any instrument of technology. Even his notepad and pencil, which were his constant companions were lef behind. In spite of just the light of the moonless sky, the torch had been refused the walk. His watch, cellphone, ipod, laptop and wallet had been left behind as well.

"What does the mind need?" Nothing.

She felt cheated. She did not know from whom or why. She didn't know what had been taken away from her that was there before. She had been loved. She had been cared for. She had been adored even. Nothing lacked within her. Except that something. That something which she felt had been rudely and silently robbed of her on her last birthday. Without her knowledge. If she only knew what had been robbed, she could stop bothering about it. But the nagging feeling remained. And she remained with it. Optionlessly.

He walked on, and the forest arrived. He wasn't scared of the dark. Long ago had he discovered the light of fireflies. He walked on, unruffled.

Beyond This...

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 00:54:00 +0000

Unaccesible.

In SRK movies, in Rishi Nritya Pragyaji's Satsangs

In eating Anna Saaru made by Swathi, in sleeping

In all the specialest of special experiences, it's somehow conspicously absent.

desire is standing beyond the edge of horizon,

Waiting to be chased, around the round round round world

While we continue to think that the earth is flat

And that we can reach it, and meet it, and shake hands with it, and be one with it.

desire slips. and we search.

the answer is always

Beyond the materiality of the now.

Beyond This...

Unconveyed

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 14:45:00 +0000

I'm here

You're there

Standing across the bridge

A bridge I can't cross

A bridge

10,000 miles across.

No words needed

No time differences necessary.

Only endless space

Resonating with metallic thunderstorms.

Thunder belongs to the moon.

Lightning belongs to the sky.

Wind belongs to us.

We share, sometimes, we move away.

Swirlwinds. Motion pictures.

Big things. Titanic things.

Little you and I

Rusting in the rain

And the rivers unwind.

Simple unsaid, undone, unmade, unconveyed.

Figuring out you and me

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 01:27:00 +0000

The mind needs a Story
So it need not rest.

The mind needs a Story.
So it need not think about anything else.

The mind needs a Story
So it can run and rerun the same show over and over again
Without challenge.

The mind needs a Story
So it can cling to something until it has to rest from it,
Exhausted.

The mind always needs a Story.
Point is, nothing's ever good enough
To satisfy it.

Because, unflatteringly enough,
The mind is never satisfied with a Story.

Shimmer

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 00:47:00 +0000

Dear Soul Searcher,

Each day is a new adventure with you.
I don't do much these days
Except thinking of you.
And of course, thinking of spending time with you.

The times we spent were so precious
And they'll always rest at the edge of my eyes.
Drenched in your love, I wish to rest.
Now, today, longingly. No future. No enlightenment.

There's something about watching violence that makes one peaceful isn't there?
It's Sadhana,
but for Sadhana's sake, isn't it?

Vacations

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 11:02:00 +0000

we are made of bits and pieces

of other people.

in us, we carry the people

we love.

there is a strange feeling

of loss,

therefore,

when one of them decides

to go on an impulsive vacation.

in those spans of time,

something has to come to replace

those bits of people

because we are still whole.

too happy to move

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 22:00:00 +0000

For the past few days, I can't think of anyone else but you.
For the past few days, no other name registers in the mind.
For, I'm Lost in the cocoon and cacophony of belonging to you.

Too happy to move, I move from ecstasy to ecstasy
The mind, a still pool of water. Still as a bedrock.
Peace is a journey. In the journey, there is peace.

Shimmering diamonds, and bright stars
Fill the mind with this emptiness, and an image.
Conflict recedes, as if conflict was a part of peace.

There, there is that peaceful peace again
Flowing from a continuity; all is part of me
No, I am part of everything. And it makes no difference
Where one ends and the other begins
In the threaded continuity of the universe.

the sky

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 16:03:00 +0000

The sky is made of crusted bits.
White custard,
And pineapple cream.
Hiding behind it, is the cake
Hardly visible
In the crusty whiteness
Of the sky.

At first glance,
It seems as if the sky has no character
But if you stand and notice
Long enough
You will see
That in its layers of whiteness;
In its
Supposed
One layered disguise,
It is a creative
Antarctica
Put together
With sudden distraction
While
Catching a break from
Creating the sky in
Namma Bengalooru.

Question marks

noreply@blogger.com (Kanasu) — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 18:19:00 +0000

Right now, everything is a question mark.
My writing.
The Art of Living.
Love.
Sam.
The future.
My career.
Which module I'm choosing.

I don't know where to begin from. Which is why I've emptied all the space on the blog. So I can come up with something new. Else, I'll be stuck with the same rhetoric. The same kind of writing, about love, or art of living experiences. And I'm sick of writing like that... I need to reinvent. To re cognize. To write from a new space.

The Nottingham blog is helping me with that, but that was not the solution. I had half a mind to erase everything on this blog presently in existence, and reinvent it from the beginning. Give it another shot. Give it a rebirth. I resisted, because of some people's insistence that such work should not be lost, however crappy I think it is at the moment.

So I am trying to rebuild a space, on top of what I call ruins because I have grown out of my writing.

I dont know what I will write about or how I will write about things. I want to start with prose, and make this bkog about different things than it was about... Maybe short stories. But something completely different from poetry I think... Most probably... I'm not sure. I'll give it time to manifest. Hopefully, I should be able to reconstruct this blog without the help of the ruins they now rest on, and without me having to remove them to start something fresh.

See, it's that if it's on the blog, it's on my mind. So, if it's out of the blog, if its deleted, I can forget it too. Maybe it's because some of the recent writings is insincere to what I felt, or because I didn't give my 100%. I'll make sure, next time, that that it is a 100% and it is truly and completely what I believe in material. That it's me and that I've not grown out of it before I write it and that I love to read what I write. Not crappy stuff like the ones recently on the blog!

Love, and Cheers

Kana