Macchars don’t wear sweaters

Archive for November 2008

Posted on: November 20, 2008

he who has love abundant,
finds peace in solitude,
but he who is abandoned,
burns every minute in isolation,

he who has the world at his disposal,
never does need to step out the door,
but the prisoner,
gazes at the greens beyond the bars with a yearning unspoken,

he who has the illusion of the immortal,
drinks in living,
he who knows he shall be extinguished,
is crippled anticipating the oncoming end.

The following was inspired when i saw the egg coordination committees advertisment featuring Sanjay Dutt, in which a healthy happy chicken is saying “promise you will eat me”

 

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a school of birds,
soars high, descends with a rush,
a million bird-cries in clamour,
deafening,
like a dark cloud,
stormy, furious

slave to what?
to the individual bird? no
to a cosmic force? no

slave to the Random Will

I chanced upon the poem below by ee cummings. a lover always seeks to relate his beloved with the cosmos, finding elements of the universal and eternal in her. humanly and everyday concepts fall completely short of describing him/her and their love, and the lover quite naturally takes on the vocabulary of the beauty, magnificence, mystery or infinitude of nature. When even these fail to describe the lovers emotions, the goes up in arms with an exasperated “words fall short!”. cummings however, with his poetic vision, has no such problem, and in a few stanzas he captures the boundlessness of his love, as his words soar almost as high as his emotions. 

somehwere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

e.e.cummings

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