The Ignorant One

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 06:01:10 PST

Your silence falls over like a cold night in the valley of rust
As the cello bleeds in through the years of deceit and rage,
You dance to the darkness
You dance to the darkness of the night you bring.

Your silence falls like a stone into the deep blue sea
And it ripples a thousand Lorca’s moon
As you dance to the darkness,
You dance to the darkness your eyes sing.

Your silence sings a silent gypsy rhyme.
Songs of innocence and acquired lessons in time
You walk like the wind, in a crowded road
Alone.

And when the day is done.
you dance.
you dance to the darkness,
You dance to the darkness of the night you bring.

Of remembering and forgetting

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 10:40:18 PST

And you kept losing yourself
for years
like a stranger in the mist
only to come back
and sing
a more soulful song

A song about things you have learned
and things that shaped you
into everything I ever
longed for.

And all the roads that we have walked on parallel worlds,
And all the days we spent staring by the window
As we grew up and years passed by
separated by miseries and many strangers who faded with time
in delusion and despair, met. The roads they met in love.
They met like the dawn ,
they met in shades of dusk
they met like the waves of memories painted in truth and silence.

And like those driftwood that return to the shore,
two souls, hippies at heart,
in rust and in shadows
now ache
now ache for a home called love.

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 12:56:38 PST

Painting my worst memories of life is the only thing I have learnt,
my intimacy with loneliness and trouble is an old one.
And every troubled night we spent in separate worlds, we were together
you're my loneliness, my darkness, I so love.

Brothers in Arms

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 11:33:12 PST

These arid valleys of miracles, and despair
Are home now for me
but my home lies in mist coloured mountains
and valleys of green
Some day I'll return to
my valleys and rain
You did not desert me
my brothers in arms.

Distorted

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 07:24:30 PST

A year of Aik Alif and many songs that touched our soul.

A year of change

-A shift from shinny glass walls to humble dark rooms of innocence and wisdom.

A year of fresh air away from sloth , frustrations and decay.

A year of revisiting, rediscovering Delhi with all of its soft, enduring eyes

A year of silent travels.

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 09:05:48 PST

And the inherent contradictions of a traveler's mind
of losing yourself and coming back home,
of forgetting and remembering,
of trust and faith broken shadows,
of rain and recklessness,
of green simplicity and darkness,
of love
and other assorted wisdom

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 01:26:19 PST

The loneliness of pine trees
The forgotten milestones
The road side huts forever
and yellow bulbs of hope
unnoticed and Ignored
As we all pass by
every time we're on the road.

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 07:39:25 PST

Often the best stories remain untold. And when they eventually unfold it becomes unfathomable how the roots grew inside the soil, for years. How with every new storm the branches grew stronger. How the leaves, in rain and in sun, with time, slowly turned wiser. How the shades became cooler through the wisdom of the leaves. How it silhouetted across the crimson canvas with every setting sun. How the streets that were once visited, then forgotten, were revisited again . How the places and people and the music that were once loved, the poems and prose and the assorted rumblings that were once written, in memories, and in pain and how a decade of desert wind that once breezed in through our arid years of youth, now, had a reason. How in this age of the utter confusion and mistrust, and phony reasoning and rhyme, we finally found us.

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 11:20:44 PST

Truth eventually shows up.
How long can I wear this mask?
true faces do flash with time.
How long can I pretend?
How long till I comprehend?
How long will this consolation go on?
How long?
Ignorance is not exactly blissful.
And the sea of books that lay scattered on my shelf stare at me with pessimistic eyes. I slack. My days run through the thoughts of slackery and decay. My afternoons smoke away and melt into winter evenings. I slack.
I smoke a cigarette. I post a few videos on Facebook. Sometimes listen to them.
I slack. I dont cook anymore. I have not read a book in sometime. I sit hours watching the computer screen without moving my eyes. I slack.
I sleep well. I don't wake up through out the day.
My guitar always sounds dis-tuned. I play a wrong key everytime I start. My dreams ran away from me with every passing second. It runs away as I write. I slack. I fill up forms for exams I don't eventually write. I slack.
How long can I pretend?
How long till I comprehend?
How long will this consolation go on?
How long?

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 07:20:22 PST

When dreams came running,
When dreams came running, from distant hills.
When driftwoods came sailing,
When driftwoods came sailing to the shore.
When the winds came blowing
When the winds came blowing through the memories of pine trees,
And all the roads that seemed to drift away
And all the roads that
seemed to
fade away
Came back home.

With You

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 03:19:02 PST

With you, there is silence.
There is joy, there is joy in quiet places.
In old, forgotten corridors, lonesome roads, where people walk no more.
With you, there is life. An essence of forever. A Coldplay song.
With you there are wide, open landscapes. A November sun.
Falling leaves of Fall.
A week-full of winter mornings
Helpless tears like Shillong rain.
With you, there is a mountain song.
A misty childhood dream. My first poem.
A radio station from a distant hill.
A rain full of guitar strings.
With you there is a house. A place wrapped in clouds.
A green valley in the backyard.
Yellow taxis that play purple songs.
They drive through the black rain roads
and bring memories back home.
Like those grey poems that float through the windows
in lonesome afternoons
And, with you, there is trust
For rivers, that have grown old together, must
Meet. Must meet, at the sea of love.

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 01:02:18 PDT

We are the MBA generation. We dance. As people die in distant villages trying to save their property, hills and forest, we call them terrorists and count growth rates. As the night falls, and the hungry children on the streets are raped,we dance . As people and policies regulating them turn absurd to the point that they seem mere joke, we dance. Dance to happy songs . We grow our hair, we grow our beard. Only to dance. Histories change to saffron, people turn to slaves under neon lights. We dance. As our libraries filled with war, and greed, and discotheques, tired and insomniac, burn through the ashes of midnight cigarettes,we dance. We dance, We dance -Fat and old, thin and bitchy souls- We join together, to dance to the glory of perverted old men at Ramlila maiden. As Ideologies and thoughts are torn and raped every night, as our post modern existential escapism shake hands with filthy cleavages of MTV roadies, we dance. We dance from night to dawn. From winter to September. We dance, as another dictator falls. As liberty increasingly means liberalisation, and democracy means oligarchy. We dance.
A generation of confusion and mistrust,
of lies, and decorated words,
with meanings more than one .
A generation of pretension
and dance.

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 11:58:52 PDT

As another dictator is killed, and the heroes of the war cant wait to latch on to the oil fields, I cant help remember " Instant Mix Imperial Democracy - Buy One Get One Free"

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 14:41:47 PDT

The socio-economic, cultural and environmental constraints imposed on societies through the growth process have over the years adversely affected groups which have not been a part of the growth story: the poor and tribals.

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 08:38:32 PDT

As another winter calls, shivering chimes from a distant land,

reasons, slowly fade into the mist of rhyme.

India Shining ?

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Sat, 08 Oct 2011 13:50:22 PDT

Welcome to the saffron hell my friend
Where killers overnight change into saints.
Where human beings are traded for growth rates
Where development is just another sham.
Where rebels are made prisoners
Where prisoners preach law in TV
Where people support animals over human beings
Where some dance to Bollywood songs while others continue to die
Where Hitlers safely hide in every "developed" cell.

Welcome to the white capped kingdom my friend
Where dynasties never seem to end
Where robbers don't really need to pretend
Where every act of charity is screened
by the Price charming's camera men.

Welcome to the holy fields of peace my friend
Where people never cease to dance
Holier than thou, everyone screams out
Page 3 revolutionary waves transcend.
While the poor and the downtrodden
The tribals and the untouchables
silently cry.

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 09:19:42 PDT

Statements like I hate politics, I am apolitical are grossly resulting in an orchestra of confusion, thus creating a generation that loves dancing in the rain - whatever be the reason for celebration . While the word 'Politics' has experienced a linguistic transformation over the years, and has increasingly become a synonym for deception or trickery, Politics as a subject remains an integral part of every human life. While it is not necessary to explicitly follow a political party, an implicit political ideology is intrinsic in every human being. Knowingly or unknowingly , every man or women essentially contributes to a political process.

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 13:43:46 PDT

We have traveled round the wide spaces,

for ages

Reborn in many forms

at different times,

through different songs.

And here we are,

finally

in our humane self.

If this light fades away,

we will never see another day

and so,

will keep u safe in my heart,

will keep you safe

wrapt

in my soul.

Grossly translated Laloon Fakir's Hrid Majhare

I lost B 133 and other poems

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 13:30:35 PDT

This is the only piece left

in some email

For your sadness was not of this earth;

but born out of the void above.

Sadness came to you with all its veils,

floating across the empty space,

like a free falling star in the night sky.

It traveled round the seven seas and timeless islands,

like a mysterious bird that flies from the other side of the world

to the misty forests of Jatinga,

on a moonless monsoon night

only to melt in your unfathomable eyes.

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 00:36:45 PDT

Morning is a canvas.

Horizon is a memory.

Colours of Bhairav splashed all over in grey .

They form a raga in Bibhas. In notes,

of vocal colours.

As clouds drone away.

prompted by Pt. Bhimsen Joshi - Raag Bibhas

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 08:17:42 PDT

So I traveled the yellow European landscapes in G major,

and you were the blue horizon shining sober.

Wide and open. The violin sang.

Songs of love

and freedom

on a day,

when dreams were green

Do the sad pinewinds still sing a silent Khasi song?

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 09:10:30 PDT

Do the crimson wet evenings still melt into the chilly silver nights as the star filled hills of Lumparing shine under the starlight? Do those Malki mornings, drenched in lemon yellow, get busy with newspaper-men trying to sort out the latest issue of Shillong Times? Do the Sundays wake up to church bells and muttering of children neatly dressed, holding little bibles in their hands, walking through the streets of Don Bosco ? Have you seen the Khasi Dylan meandering around in Laitumkhrah? Do the afternoons still sing a lazy rhyme through the empty streets of Kench's Trace? Do the retired old men, some familiar, some obscure, still laze around the lane where shops never open, reading newspapers over tea and cigarettes, talking about the times that are changing, every evening, near Laban Bazar ? Does the same old Ba drives the yellow fat ambassador from Laban to PB everyday? Do they still play Cold Play in the pan shops at Police Bazaar? Does the rain wash the roads until they are painted black; and you, completely drenched? Memories that float through the smells of momo and coffee at Center Point. Are those long umbrellas still on sale? Does it still smell pigs near the Mawlai taxi stand ? And the endless traffic jams at Bara Bazar? ah, those 'Dajus', they could carry all the furnitures. Do they still sell fried boiled eggs, with the hottest green chutni during winter evenings in that little cold shop near Last Stop? And the evening bazaar at Jail Road where old Kongs with wrinkles on their face,wrapt in colourful Jainsem, would sell fresh vegetables as they keep chewing kwai forever. Does the sun still play hide and seek like the thoughts of lovers lost in time? Do the sad pinewinds still sing a silent Khasi folklore? Does the northeastern service radio still sing our childhood songs?

Pledges for generation Anna

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 09:11:23 PDT

Let us pledge now to read, read the truth. Let us pledge now to read all sides of

truth. Let us pledge to read beyond newspapers. Let us pledge to listen beyond news. Let us start believing beyond candle lights. Let us start percieving an India beyond the mainland. Let us organise for struggles beyond the mainstream. Let us pledge against chauvinism. Let us pledge to Vote. Let us pledge to Participate. Let us pledge to file RTIs. Let us pledge to involve in participatory budgeting. Let us pledge to pay our Taxes. Let us use the prevailing institutions within democracy to seek more truth. Let us make people aware of democratic rights.Let us pledge towards an intrinsic change through introspection. Let us not dance in the rain without wholesome understanding. Let us pledge, Let us pledge tonight against the fashion of apolitical thought, our savvy selves take pride in.

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Sat, 27 Aug 2011 23:09:35 PDT

Now pack your bags,all of you

Head straight towards the nearest Mcdonalds

Go eat. Eat Eat Eat.

Oh, the generation of gluttony

drenched in an avaricious history,

how could you sing songs of change ?

You have the change now

Dance

Dance for you have the change

noreply@blogger.com (Goirick B) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 13:05:22 PST

And David Gray,

You live in yellow highways.

In smoke

and in struggle.

In rage

and in surrender.

Through my days of slavery ,

You breezed through my weary face,

night after night.

You define my insomniac eyes.

‎12 hours of work,
Late night cigarettes,
deserted roads ,
black dead flowers,
frozen in time
endless deserts forever and more
you know, that sort of thing