28 December, 2008

christmas and after

 "Adeste Fideles" in full swing on the speakers, then a series of "Ave Marias" on the swelling tenor of Bocelli. Yes, the Winter of mine is without (major) discontent. Without Crachits, cousin, insufferable angliophiles and fleeting trills of thrills.
   I danced under the mistletoe with Eleanor Rigby this evening. I think. Or was it dizzy Miss Lizzy? All in a tizzy. Phantoms, hot kati rolls and snarling at innocent strangers on the streets. Hah!

 There was a picnic on the Eve. Like a mini-package of a picnic-spot, with neatly demarcated spaces for the groups. The knowing leers and backslaps of the old crowd (and the awed wonder of the tetchy li'l kids) made it worthwhile I suppose. An ex-teacher in jeans and top: I swear I could not recognise her. A fact which I imparted unto her when she tried the old emotional blackmail tactic - "Ah, you didn't even look at me at first..."
 Was it ever mentioned on this blog that older women are . . . nice? If not, let this be a resonating statement of above fact. :P
    

10 December, 2008

adrift

Quo vadis?

Building upon fragments of yesterday?
Or watching it fade to dust today?


 At least now December is being properly wintry! This sem of college ends tomorrow. I guess I'll head over to SXC and meet some of the old crowd on the 20th - AK's got his violin recital at the concert that day. Hopefully Taru and Co. can make it. :)

03 December, 2008

Vanderlust

Wanderlusting through the meandering bylanes of Anywhere
The lights, the sights and screeching sedans -
A bromide to the masses and this opiate's pilgrimage.

I remember, I remember in this far land across the seas
Beneath the noble stones of crumbling mansions
Those streets of ours . . . forever.
Along Park Street, then the left at Camac -
I've walked this path in countless lives -
Past the flaming shop-fronts, the walled villas
Into Middleton Row.

There's a KFC now near the end and I emerge
From memory lane and into the lane
Of a murderous Merc - we both swear.
One silently mouthing behind a tinted life
And I rending the crisp night air;
I hate these streets where every photon
Has a nu of the light of yesterdays . . .

I try to like the smell of everyday in the morning:
A timestamp of the stampless, markless, faceless
The trudgers - peons and wisps of nothingness.
A mud of blogs, bile and bitterness;
Where once sunlight on swords did gleam
And minds like stars did echoing sing!

But now there are no more balrogs to slay,
No Sith Lords nor Nazgul to hold at bay;
The steel and fire and the Dark Side's ire
I would've faced and fought - for you - any day.
The fire by now is mostly ashes, no more
An excuse of teenage angst, as that too is passing away.
This foe is the crowding Everydays - the cloying mist
That never asks a 'Why?' or shouts an 'I'.
A small life - like spittle on a roadside puddle

Well then, there's enough for a last Ride remaining
Lost blades' laughter in a final unsheathing!
Out of the shadows to a new day breaking -
Sans lay-offs, sans burnt toast, sans serif (!) and yesterdays
To a today and tomorrow that never, ever fades.

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