Monday, May 31, 2010

The Seventh Drop.

The Cure 

I shed my blood,
for you.
You shed your tears,
in love.
The salinity in your tears,
cured my wounds.
But, I could not find out,
the wound that gave tears to you.

Friday, May 28, 2010

The Sixth Drop of "Tears"


Nothing is salvation,
until the first drop of tear,
sprouts in love.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Monday, May 24, 2010

The Fourth Drop.

The Blindness

Tears in eyes, blind.
But in a poem,
they fascinate.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Tears are running. Third drop.

The Ritual

To fly high and to rain down,
is the destiny of the cloud.
Don't ask me why I am crying.
It is my destiny,
to lay down my heart for you,
and observe this ritual,
And an endless waiting.

Friday, May 21, 2010

And the Winners are...

As per the rule of the Cool Blogger award, I must hand it over to some really cool bloggers. And I thought I would declare 'a winner' today. But now I realise that the task to proclaim any one of my friends as the winner is really difficult. Because I find a lot of good talents among them. Therefore, I decided to give away this award to four gifted bloggers.

The criteria I followed to decide the Cool Blogger is the dedication with which they engage themselves in blogging and their individual talents that they show through their blogs.

And the winners are.....

Terri L. Hadji-Gauthier for her excellent works of art and dedication to blogging.

Rachna for being a mother who writes blog.

Rohini for her dedicated blogging and for keeping two beautiful blogs even in a mothers busy life.

and Anya for her Beautiful blog, which shares love for animals and poetry.

CONGRATS winners!!

The Indian Commentator.

Thursday, May 20, 2010


This award has been bestowed upon me by my blogger friend, Tarun Mitra for "heart rendering poetry", as he puts it. Thank you so much Tarun. It is a great pleasure when you are acknowledged for doing something that is very close to your heart. In my case, it is writing.

This is the first time that I am getting this award. So thinking to whom shall I pass it on. Because, as I saw in Tarun's blog, the person receiving the award has to pass it on to his friends. Well, let me think. I will publish the winner's name the next day.

The Indian Commentator.

Here is the Second Drop of "Tears".

My tears are not of sorrow,
not of joy.
But of wonder in seeing how,
the distance between you,
and me has transformed,
into something saline,
soothing, and overflowing.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

The First Drop of "Tears".



Every drop of tear has its own destiny.
Some roll down for sorrow,
some in extreme happiness.
But luckiest are those,
which found their way out in love.
For, they will be transcended,
into words, spaces and signs;
and will be known as poems,
which convey sorrow and joy, the same time.

Saturday, May 15, 2010


The i-poems began  as a  technical application. They were made for the Apple i-phone applications and that is why the name i-poems. The i-poems became a literary endeavour in the creation of a new genre in poetry; a genre of very short poems. It is through the Indian Commentator that the i-poems took a shift in their implications as a literary genre. I crossed with i-poems in the literary magazine, The Narrative.

The i-poems appeared for the first time in this blog as a series titled "Eyes". The series of eleven poems received wide appreciation from my readers. Let me note my infinite gratitude for all my readers here. The series of eleven poems had a common theme: love. The concept of love was revealed through the common metaphor of 'eyes'. Each of the poems had the same title too. It was that common element that prompted me to name the whole series as "Eyes".
Image Courtesy: Google
It is a wisdom that no one can write and communicate what love is. One can only write or talk about it. That exactly was what I too did. I talked about love; true love, and how it is felt, in my own naive way. The series discussed the uncertainties and pleasures related with love.

Out of the many phases of love, the quest for salvation is another phase. And tears are the sign of that quest. 'Tear' is the metaphor that represents that phase of love, which lies along with loneliness, desperation, hopelessness, with the transformations of love, with the moon that reminds of the darkness, and with the sun that kisses and withers the last flower of the single rose in our garden. From this thought, I decided to start a new series of i-poems connected with a common theme, but different titles for each one of them, this time. But what aesthetic pleasure, artistic salvation and happiness can we derive from the descriptions of such an edgy event? I do not know. But I can tell you one thing; there is a certain ease, a joy that we feel after shedding tears; whatever the situation be.

Ordinary life perceives tears close to two events: extreme joy and extreme sorrow. As the theme here is tears in love, let us dissect tears and study what it signifies in love. Tears make smiles meaningful. Tears are a landmark where sorrow begins. 'Tears', though are the metaphor of sorrow, are never sad. They are the land-markers. Sorrow ends with tears. Tears give way to a vast and deep detachment, a consolation and a peaceful smile. The smile that tears bring is the kind of smile that is unearthly and detached, but still rooted in life: a salvation. The consolation the tears bring, is the intention of these poems too. The salvation a drop of tear could bring, is what a whole year of happiness might not achieve. Each poem is a drop of tear shed in love. And each drop was shed in the hope of the salvation, tears only could bring.

Tears in love, though make us believe sorrow exists, they lie. Sorrow is regret. But in true love, no one regrets. Therefore, each tear drop is a celebration of the moments spent together and the dreams that await fulfillment. Every drop of tear in love holds the extraordinary power to show you the path to your inner voices and your memories. It is not for the sorrow, the tears flow, but for the salvation in love. Though people may lose each other, love remains.

I hereby announce the title for the new series of i-poems: "Tears".

You will see feel them from the next post onwards.

Monday, May 10, 2010

The Writing Desk

The Sunday morning was fine. The air was crystal clear, bright, laved by the previous nights rain. The rays from the sun slanting through the trees and thick leaves created beams and lace-works on the ground. The nature was complete, full.

But my writing desk was deserted, except with a couple of text books, which in comparison with the arrays of books and writing materials formerly occupied the table was next to be negligible. And I was sad. However, as it was a Sunday, I have nothing much to do the whole day. So I decided to postpone my sadness and to utilise the rest of the day to study some Literary Theories of criticism. I woke up late. It was already half past seven in the morning. 

I had an instinctual pull to read. But suddenly, mom interfered and insisted that I should take a bath. It was summer and two times bath a day was a must for survival.I bathed and had my breakfast. Until I came back to my study table and restart my reading and writing, a mysterious emotion had captured one of the sensitive lobs in my brain: laziness. I felt sad. But that sadness was not accompanied by laziness. The sadness was caused by the change in the environment of my personal table; my writing table. 

Due to the arrival of some guests, my room had been shuffled and rearranged to suit the needs of the guests. I was given another room. And in that process, my table, with high columns of books on both of its sides also was rearranged. Books were stashed in a shelf, and the table was made 'clean'. Being so emotional as to maintain the bridge of emotion with even the non-living things like the books, the table and the pens, I felt all this changes unbearable. Pansexuality:  the affection towards even the nonliving things in our lives. I loved my table and the order in which the table had been maintained. My sadness was for the loss of that order.        

The guests were all gone and I was back in my room, but it looked strange and unfamiliar now. I felt lonely and full at the same time. I felt lonely, for I couldn't find a single person near in order to understand the emotional significance of those dusty books and unclean writing table in my life. I felt full, for I was feeling true love; the kind of love that never respects void. 

Friday, May 7, 2010

The Lost Pen

The boy was crying silently. He did not want anyone to sense that he was crying. But his father noticed him sitting in one corner of the house. When he realised that the boy was weeping, he asked why he was crying. The boy replied: "I lost my pen." 

Father smiled and patted his back: "No worries. I will get a brand new one." 
"No, I do not want a new pen. I liked the old one very much. And I know that I am not going to get it back ever." 

"What happened to your pen?"
"My teacher took it, for writing some emergency notes during the class time. She forgot to give it back." The boy said: "When I went to the staff room later and asked her my pen, she said, she forgot where she had put it after her use and she gave me a new pen. And... And I know that I will never see my old pen." 

"Well, son, I do not think your old pen was costly. It was an ordinary pen that I bought you, wasn't it? Let me see the pen that your teacher gave you. Oh, it's a very good one. OK. If you are not happy with it, I will get you one of the very same type you lost. Is that OK?"-  Father looked the boy in his eyes.
"I do not want a new pen, Papa." The boy said. "I am all right now. Just all right." He stood up and walked outside trying to smile to his father. But his face was still clouded and gloomy. 

This can be elicited as an instance of pansexuality: the affection towards even the nonliving things in our lives. The boy loved his pen. And his tears were out of love for that old pen. He cried silently hoping no one could see him. For, it is such a feeling that finds hard for itself to be expressed in cognitive terms with the understanding of such people like his father; the ordinary. Even if, it is a pen, true love is always inexplicable. For, the very moment you try to word it, it fills the voids that are necessary to make your sentences and expressions meaningful. True love never respects void. I have one more story to tell you dear reader, about pan sexuality. One of the recent experiences in my life. You can read it in the next post.

[To be continued...]