Date with a chemist

I once went on a date with a chemist
I did not know what to talk about,
and so I carried a box of cinnamon with me,
to talk about cinnamon
lest we didn’t find a thing to talk about.

I did a good thing by carrying the cinnamon
he told me stories about cinnamon, and
how to find real cinnamon,
how it must taste,
and the aftertaste it leaves.

I gifted him the best cinnamon stick in the box,
it was 3 inches long
he honored me by accepting it
and I came back chewing on one of the rest.

I did not fall in love with the chemist
but I fell in love with cinnamon
and this, I know, is a bond to last
though I may never meet the chemist again 

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Chemical composition of the poem is as follows:
40% anecdotal
30% poetry
10% imagination
9% idle time
1% attention seeking behavior of yours truly :D

The Eyes

( This poem was written by a dear friend - my dear friend is now buried deep somewhere - I don't care much about the body, but the spirit - I worry if that would have rotten too - the cruelty of deadly viruses - known or unknown, recognized or unrecognized, identified or unidentified, owned or disowned, immune or vulnerable  - may the afterlife does not disappoint him - bless his soul! Here is my tribute to one and all of the CoVid victims! )


Those were not eyes
But unfathomable
Oceans
Of sadness
Still, dark, deep
Brimming over…

Those were not eyes
But the breaking
Of a Soul,
Grieving
Over the pieces
Of a broken heart…

Those were not eyes
But the flowering
Of Love
Awaiting
The moist breath
Of endless yearning…

Those were eyes
Of hope
And despair

Those were eyes
Of fullness
And emptiness

Those were eyes
Of light
And darkness

Those were eyes
Of passion
And consummation

Those were eyes
That held a
Mirror
To my Soul…

Those were eyes
That opened
Mine

Those were eyes

That's now 

Shut forever

Walking away

 

I dressed my best
to my sweetheart’s nest;
with roses on hair,
I cleaned the candle’s burnt-wick -
so you see me shine ,
like a diamond, rare.
While l lay like moonshine in a chalice

brimming over with yearning to reach your lips,

you looked away,
like there was more to say
about women faraway,
who shone better.
Later once,
You asked me,
“I had a blinded sight,
give me one more night.
will you shine bright,
for another night ?”
“No,” I said,
"There doesn’t remain,
any moonshine for another night;
the chalice broke- the same night ;
the nectar trickled away,
like blood from the womb of unconsummated love.
The longing sometimes, my darling,
is what's more beautiful,
than the union.
Let there be
no more night
with candle light,
to tell me that,
I don’t shine bright"

Fragments, unstrung

I am no musician,
neither did I want to be one,
until I heard somebody's music play,
on my way to death.
Not a famous piece,
to have reached me sooner ,
I heard it drift through
somebody’s windows distant,
on my way to death.
Maybe it did not mean anything to anyone else,
But it was an antidote to a dying heart - 

my young heart, that had given up.
I want to thank its creator,
But he might have long been dead.
How many musical pieces have died a death
on its climb to esteem, breathless .
Let me be a janitor ,
where musicians meet-
to pick up broken pieces of music ,
the ones they discard,
the ones breathless.
I am no musician,
but ,
let me dust my guitar and fix the strings ;
I’ll not let any piece of music die -
die an early death -
the music that its creator gave up on,
cursing to death ;
I’ll sing it by my windowsill ;
it may mean nothing to you,
but perhaps ,
it may reach someone ,
who is on his way to death -
that may even be a descendant of yours or mine,
born a hundred years from now.
what bigger reward,
than,
bringing someone back to life ,
though I may long be dead by then

A story of 3 eggs

 

Today was a day of great satisfaction, dear all, today was a day of great revelations and hope.


So while the kiddos were playing and i was looking on, our grocer Janaki came out of her shop with a tray of eggs. There must have been two dozens of egg in it. I got distracted by the unusual greenness of the trees around and my attention turned to the kids when they made some jubilant noise. "Amma, a crow 'flied' away with an egg"- they showed me evidence of the empty niche and also pointed to a far away tree to what looked like a squirrel to my myopic eyes . Very soon a Bali-kakka (the completely black crow unlike the Kaavathi-kakka ) swooped down to prove the kiddos right, patrolled near the tray, looked at the left and the right in a clean 45 degree shift of the head and in a gentle sweep, carried another egg in between its curvaceous beak and flew away again. I was too excited to respond - how many in their lifetime would have been blessed by the rare sight..?! Janaki's business was of lesser significance to me than the crow's - pardon me  We watched the third sweep of the egg as well in astonishment when Janaki came out and took the effing tray in giving the kiddos a suspicious look 

Dear homies, wherever u are now, whichever egg tray you are sitting in right now, have the belief that - at the meeting point of many coincidences, before u enter somebody's refrigerator, some crow may come to pick you up.  Now, don't you ask me how you'll be benefited if any crow picks you up. You'll at least not end up in a frying pan - crows don't cook their food :D

Shine on, diamond!

What is poetry - can it be called as a slow burning frisson of emotions woven with threads of language  making the language and emotions inseparable like the blood and the bones or the muse and the poet..?


You are poetry,
beautiful
but unfathomable sometimes
because
you are written with
a certain virtuosity
for the abstract,
but in a language uttered by the heart
and blood from its chambers…
which not many rightly understand,
except,
perhaps the poet himself
or,
sometimes me.
But that doesn't diminish your worth,
for you are poetry,
don't ask me why
my words will fail to answer that;
but,
if you ask my senses,

they will tell you why,
why you are poetry
that not many understand.

Perspectives : The Cats and the Dogs

( This is not part of #thelittlebuddhaseries , but rather is an imaginary conversation happening between a mother and a son - regardless, let me call the son as Sid)

“Mom , why is Roma ma’am’s cat always grumpy? ”, asked Sid , as they were exiting the neighbor’s house

“That is a cat’s neutral face, mone , not very handsome, but cats are born that way ”

“They are clearly not happy around people” , Sid said

Mom : “ But not that they don’t care - they intently watch you from under the cot or from behind the door”

Sid: “Why can’t it come out and be playful like Rohan’s doggie”

Mom: “Dogs and cats have a different mental makeup. Dogs reflects your mood. Cats don’t ”

Sid: “Rohan’s cat does not stay with him all the time, unlike his doggie - Rocky never leaves the house"

Mom: “You know what – it is a relief sometimes, the ones you live with are independent too ”

Sid: “What relief ?”

Mom: “Dogs are more silently demanding, which cats are not”

Sid: “Are cats not..?”

Mom: “They have lesser expectations ; like one who has a deeper understanding of life”

Sid: “Whatever you say - had that been me, I would have kept a dog instead of a cat ; how about you , Amma ?”

Mom: “More than someone to join in the happiness I would prefer someone to give me strength when life takes a downward turn”

Sid: “ Strength ? ”

Mom: “Yes. Immensely. The one which maintains a poker face whatever happens and walks in a straight line even when the sky falls down is the embodiment of courage. What better sense of security than returning home to one of them ? ”

Sid: “Walks in a straight line? - do they always ”

Mom: “Have you not observed a cat walking ? ; They call the straight line walk as cat-walk in fashion industry”

Sid: “So they never fall down?”

Mom: “Yes, they may fall down too. But on all four legs”

Sid: “Always ?”

Mom: “Always!”

Sid: “But they don’t protect you from your enemies”

Mom: “What if I don’t want to have enemies, but win people with love?”

Sid: “How about thieves ?! ; Cats can’t save your stuff from thieves “

Mom: “What if I don’t want to have things that thieves can steal?”

Sid: “Rohan was very upset when his doggie died – I don’t think that Roma ma’am will miss her Persian cat when it dies”

Mom: “A dog makes its presence known while living -yes!, but it’s its absence – that a cat makes known! ”

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This piece is a tribute to a very dear friend who is going through pangs of separation – wish children understood Dads better ; wish angels show children perspectives that they are incapable of seeing themselves

I dedicate this to all fathers , whose contribution – just like a cat’s - is rarely seen, appreciated or celebrated as a mother’s is – we mothers score well like a dog does , whereas the silent backing provided by fathers are often overlooked.