Thought Bouquet

The familiar rumble of the rick, amidst the suffocating blanket of dust and the deafening noise of traffic all within a city full of love, and lust. ceaseless mechanical wonder; the local chugging incessantly; an unassuming lifeline the sea of humanity within it; silent, vocal the city of opposites; slums, opulence and spine. As the black, endless sea looks over with a puzzled monotony at the usual maddening crowds and rushing cars a necklace of lights exposing the city's gaiety and agony it retreats unto itself after every night, with smiles, scars. And I cannot but wonder at this maximum city as a migrant, a hater, a lover, a stranger where quenching curiosity is an exercise in futlity for the more I find out, what I know seems lesser!

Let us write a poem No matter how bad Let us create something Nobody ever has had A poem with no real meaning Plenty a message but no story Written while I'm dreaming Of brooks, books and a narrative gory About love, life, politics and war About all things which leave a scar A poem with scarcely a structure Not meant to scale but to ponder Meaningless mirth, desperate desire About a life led in a quagmire Of a thousand feelings, love and betrayal A mishmash of acceptance and denial Let us, me and myself create poetry That understands everyone But is understood by none Let us be called a fool and a genius be.

it is as if it always was yet it is what it never was life has turned, twisted change is never gradual only its realization is!

Reading One of the myriad things I love about reading is how it helps us gain a perspective on things we could hardly even dream about otherwise. From the islands of Sunderbans to streets of Boston to the New york subways and a million obscure places! Fiction never claims to be a complete and detailed work of study, what it does give us though is a rich and authentic aroma of varied places and emotions. From the exotic delicacies to the mundane musings, fiction offers us an irresistible palate of colours, flavours and romanticism. Istanbul Istanbul is one of the very few surviving cities in the world which can claim to be fiercely secular and richly Islamic at the same time. It is perhaps the only place where you can sit in bars and talk about Allah without exuding even an iota of hypocrisy. Istanbul does not claim to represent the purest form of Islam, it is caught up in between the east and the west, the old and the new and poses tough ethical, moral and religious questi...

No, I tell you,this ain't sorrow it's true all things seem hollow feels like an endless plateau, flat no ups,no downs,a dull, white mat I pushed you away, you might say you were perhaps never meant to stay like a free bird, a scented breeze, an ephemeral bliss,i could never freeze No, I tell you,this ain't sorrow just endless nights and dark morrows no singing birds, no rustling leaves no comfy shoulder, on which to grieve guess it's better this way, for us both the promise of romance, love's great oath all hold naught if happiness eludes heart and in your joy,i shall always find my part!

Fight your war, just don't make it mine shout your lungs out, your voice ain't mine you are you, and I am not among you Indeed, you are fools and only a few! Oh, how could you ever be so naive? surrender all pursuits and live in a cave to what end? to end up dying on streets? betray your own cause, watch hopes fleet! If blood could really give you paradise we would all just be vampires in  disguise stop making life a nightmarish tale its a false premise, you can only fail! I know my God and he's not what you say there's no black or white, world is grey only cowards can answer pens with guns you are no fighter, you can just fret and run!

OK, I am just writing this post so that I know that I can still write! That I can still form coherent sentences by putting together distinct words. So you, dear reader, must be thinking , that I am insanely desperate to simply write anything, right? Well, the answer is a resounding yes! I haven't written anything for so long, that its almost itching now, you can call it a writer's prurience :P So, the question I am asking myself is: Is it just a lack of ideas or a severe shortage of creative skill? Or has the well just run dry? image from: http://wearestorytellers.typepad.com  Ok, how about testing myself with a bit of  poetry? As the days come and go, and I while away; waiting for another inspiration, a brilliant ray every other morning, seems like a past day Withered leaf, rusted iron, dry broken clay? Hmm, maybe I can still write, a lot more reading and a bit more practice can perhaps rescue my sinking ship of creativity! Adios, hope to see you soon :)