little comes to those who prepare, those who preconceive the idea of readiness.
you ought to wither through the faults and gain the experiences as life plays it your way.trip on the cracks and stumble through the wilderness, fall and fall but laugh louder again for albeit you fell you pushed onward again.
forget your norms, ignore the crowd and seek that mysticism that you will follow around.
you have it within you, that unquenchable thirst; you have it within you that incorruptible dream,
lose yourself while you take you on and on the way there, you will find your peace.
no version of this where you find the perfect path, no tale where the knight flies on the horse.
take the blow, joust about, for all that pain is worth and after all, ’tis but a scratch.
be consumed by the uncertain as you wander down the stream, the crimson tides shall frighten at first but so familiar they shall seem.
broken paddles, sinking holes and sleepless nights, but none of that in vain,
as you drowned and swam through and through, winding up at a desperate shore,
at home, at peace, where the gold awaits. inching closer to your grasp, the moment is near.
you look back at your way and smile for having persevered.
learn a little, lose a lot and while you play notwithstanding the odds, remember to hold on to what matters and let go that naught.
that which does not ache for want, is not worth having; that which purges your last ounce of courage leaves anon the purest joy.
Tag: Poetry
Unconditionally
Unconditionally
Her eyes met mine like the second and
the minute hand of a clock,
once every minute of every hour of each day.
Her kiss tasted like dark chocolate,
bold and irresistible and ever so perfect,
for I am lactose intolerant.
Her clothes smelt old, sassy and Italian,
like vineyards and Scorsese.
Her farts were like a walk through an orchid,
mildly disturbing and so overrated; it felt like
summer breeze, well, almost like loo.
Her voice was crisp, spicy and so satisfying,
like a pack of Kurkure.
Her touch felt like post- constipation,
eagerly awaited and unbelievably redeeming.
Her moans were like marsupials,
Her walk like penguins.
Her head was as bald as the eagle,
she had about the same keratin.
Her smile was photogenic, curvy and fake;
if it had an ass of its own, Kanye would marry it.
Her heart was fleshy and not cold nor raw,
just like how I like my steak.
Her beauty was undisputed, her flaws were forgivable
only because I was in love, unconditionally.
Psychedelia? Controversy? Poetry.
Before beginning, please do listen to the link pasted above. It really is a prerequisite for life and whatever follows. Listen to the song and knock yourself out, even if you are no stranger to it.
Out of all the perpetually pleasing wonders of Sgt. Pepper, the magnum opus of The Beatles, lies this one track that was lost in time despite all the controversy, sub-cultural references and ridiculous imagery. The song quite aptly titled “Lucy in the sky with diamonds” seemed to epitomize the Lennon-McCartney duo better than any other. It would be indefensible to claim any one significant aspect of this song ot be better than others, such was the seeming-less beauty behind this track. The lyrics, typically Lennon, had unbelievably vivid and colourful imagery which would be the most apparent feature. But, what seems like harmless imagination on the surface of it had undeniably cheeky innuendos to LSD. In the fourth verse, Lennon adds the lyric “so incredibly high” followed by “head in the clouds” in the next verse which for some delusional folks seems like the a mere coincidence, but for most part of the sensible world is Lennon’s propaganda at its best.
So how did this song come about? Well, unlike many of the other Sgt. Pepper tracks, the Beatles did not stress or commit long in creating this masterpeice. From the most unimaginable sources, it turned out to be Lennon’s son Julian who allegedly brought inspiration for this piece. While showing his father a drawing that Julian had made at school about Lucy where “he had sketched in some stars in the sky and called it ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,’ Simple” said Lennon. But, that story does not necessarily have to be true albeit the other Beatles and even the real Lucy herself (a former schoolmate of Julian’s who recently passed away) have since confirmed this story… but that isn’t necessarily to say that the song is entirely acid-free. The title of the song abbreviates into the letters LSD, the infamous elixir for 70’s music. The lyric having shown some controversial coincidences was also published along with the track, which sold together in every copy of the Sgt. Pepper album; an at which still bemuses many for it was highly unpopulour in those times. All of the controversy and negativity brought forth to this song had allegedly made the BBC to stop airing it on the radio. Some claim it did run occasionally while the conservatives are never afraid to lie shamelessly and fail at proving otherwise.
It would be criminal not to delve into the lyric and composition of this song wherein lies the true beauty. Lennon, who was often claimed to have got the inspiration to most of the lyric from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland never made a significant comment on that particular notion, although Paul who also helped Lennon, did render support to the claims. Some parts of the song, especially in the start do hint of imagery that could be paralleled with Wonderland or simply be constituted as Lennon’s acid land.
The opening couple of lines of the song take us into a dreamlike land where we begin to picture ourselves in a boat, on a river, with “Tangerine trees and marmalade skies”; along with some of the other more visually descriptive and bizarre wordplay in the next verses, this line seems to strongly suggest the tracers, vivid colors, and hallucinations that can occur during a trip. It does inedeed take the likes of Lennon to truly bring in this level of creative delusion. Following this, Lennon describes this female as “a girl with kaleidoscope eyes” which is so rad, some people cannot even. Later in the song, the most obvious reference to Alice in Wonderland comes in a line saying “rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies” which either was a direct nod at Lewis’ rocking-horsefly or Lennon on a trip. After the repeated refrain of “Lucy in the sky with diamonds”, the song gradually fades away and goes quiet, resembling every innate feeling after an acid trip.
The complete vocals can be credited to John who had an unmasking, eerie and almost wailing voice throughout the song. His tone was rather monotonous to bring a laid-back feeling about it. Alan W. Pollack,a renowned Beatles music analysis, has a lot to say about the song’s melodic texture. “The music is certainly as mercurial and elusive as the imagery of the words, especially in terms of the constantly shifting key structure and the rhythmic alternation of 3/4 and 4/4 meters.” The rest of his thoughts, alas, are too full of music theory jargon to bring in here (if, however, you’re well-versed in music theory, good for you.)
“Surrealism had a great effect on me, because then I realized that my imagery and my mind wasn’t insanity; that if it was insane, I belong in an exclusive club that sees the world in those terms. Surrealism to me is reality. Psychic vision to me is reality. Even as a child. When I looked at myself in the mirror or when I was 12, 13, I used to literally trance out into alpha.” said Lennon, who was later asked to speak about his songwriting and his “ability” spoke freely; an extract of that is what could best describe as the trance that rooted this masterpiece.
There were many songs that the Beatles were immortalised for but amidst all that genius lies this one little coup that nobody else could have pulled off. What is really great about this song is how accessible all of the strangeness really is. Even “marmalade skies” and “newspaper taxis” can start to make sense, when you let your mind roam free. Will you?
A Romantic’s ode to 27 rue de fleurus
27 rue de fleurus
Amidst the facade of the roaring 20’s and the allegedly “Lost Generation”, there was one building masked under the beauty by the side of La River Gauche that hosted a certain crowd, who then in their lives had an unprecedented acknowledgement and admiration of each other, which in many ways has perhaps altered our perception of history. On a typical Saturday evening one would have found Gertrude Stein at her post in the atelier, garbed in brown corduroy, sitting in a high-backed Renaissance chair, her legs dangling, next to the big cast-iron stove that heated the chilly room. A few feet away, Leo Stein would expound to a group of visitors his views on modern art. In the very room, abandoning any cruel co-incidence would be Ernest Hemingway, sipping away on wine unsolicited, nor unwelcomed. On the other side of the house would be Picasso, Pablo; re-inventing modern paintings while articulating his subtle sexualities of whomsoever the maid he chose for that evening. Often times, this little party would have the almost insignificant honor of hosting the Fitzgeralds who need no introduction nor a claim to fame to associate with such an ensemble. This little room boasted some of France’s finest, having Henri Matisse and Picasso’s works lying around corners while wineglasses clanked between Fitzgerlad and Hemingway; all too non-chalant, too lost and never truly realizing their influences in time. It could be unquestionably agreed that the gatherings in the Stein home “brought together confluences of talent and thinking that would help define modernism in literature and art.”
Perhaps it was what Paris offered then, not just a City that shone like pearls under moonshine, not just the Siene flowing and dancing around during the daytime or the streetlights that make midnight paradise. Perhaps it was the promise that in a place that holds such unreal beauty, that feels so ridiculously tangible, there might be hope for dreams to come true. Paris held together a mirage of this intellectual occult that would gather about, influence the modern ways of lifestyle, Prais took this mirage and made it real. This was not just true in case for the events at 27 rue de fleurus but many times in the past, there has been change that roots back to fine offerings of heavenly, albeit humble Paris. “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast” said Hemingway, epitomizing the wonder within the capital of France.
What would it take for all of the world to recreate this? What would I not give to spare a few moments in that space, to breathe in same vicinity as them? All this is but meagre rhetoric trying to encapsulate the prowess of a room full of artists. How something so seemingly minuscule, a room with painters and poets, could hold it’s place in history as something more than just a fine co-incidence. It kills me to not know if others as significant, past this period, used to look back and ponder if they could too accompany these folk. What would have happened if Gandhi was in there? Would Hitler be who he was if he too could be critiqued by Stein? It’s these historical hypotheticals that keeps people awake or ties about what wonders this world could hold. It certainly takes more than just a con-incidence to create anything of such a magnitude but a co-incidence looks like a good start.
How often do we look back to such times and wonder at how gracious we are that it happened? Are we at least acknowledging the immaculate significance of not just this, but any particular such incident. Are we not, in some way, a product of their thought and thus in a loose way, their creation? The very idea of my senile reasoning having in an any way originated from that room being true would and could be the greatest happening in my lifetime. So, if I reflect and look, it takes me not long to ponder, not that in what way I benefit from their thinking but in what way that I could either acknowledge or honour their achievement. Of course, I could just pour my thought into words but perhaps that is all it takes. After all, even they were merely thinkers who gathered to share and learn. It takes only a group of committed intellectuals to bring about a change, we all know that can invariably happen but when some magical occurrences, such as that which happened at the Stein’s Salon, take place, it brings about an understanding of why there is a mysticism to our world. An understanding, for the lack of a better word, that when there are thoughts of an open mind, flowing away around those of as capable and creative psyche’s as the ones shared in that room, can together go about to create or even recreate new chapters in our world. Art, a resounding medium capable of inflicting thought like nothing else is the product of that creation. Art, that hold unparalleled feats in pushing our race forward and art that seems invaluable for it not only holds the creation of an intellectual, but binds together the future perceptions and the present articulations. Art, as beautiful as thought could get.
for you alone…
i can no longer remain silent. i can no longer ignore you, nor can i deny myself from defiance. i must speak to you and i have to tell you any means as such within my reach. i can no longer let time pass by having known the fact that you have pierced my soul. my existence is peculiar and exceedingly your fault for i am now in half agony and half hope. tell me otherwise, tell me that such precious feelings are gone and that i am merely drunk in the vast and vicious idea of love or else i am afraid i will be gone at your privilege. now that i offer myself to you again with a heart which is even more of yours than you can imagine, i simply seek to quench this thirst with which you have filled my soul. dare not say that i will forget you soon or that my love will not last someday, for you know not of how by mere existence you can tie my life together while devastate me within. i have loved none but you. i have been weak and resentful but never inconstant, never stopped wondering how someone could be so beautiful. you raise a question with your beauty and you know not that you answer it with the same. for you alone, i have wished to be all that i can and all that you want; for you alone have penetrated my feelings and shown me a self i was oblivious too; for you alone can make every instant seem dull if devoid of your essence; for you alone can make me whole and for you alone, my heart will wait.
i solemnly swear i am not in love with anything except words, poetry and literature.
– yours falsely,
Hariharan Sriram.
Confessions
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”
Bob was here again, the father knew. Years in a row, in that monotonous tone without a shade of remorse or despair, Bob had been coming to confess, or maybe just talk. Bob liked this silence. Bob liked other noises, little and innocent screams. Muffled shrieks. As tidy as ever Bob was dressed today; with rims and lens, bald head and the bow tie. Bob was an everyday folk. Nothing special. He’d be an anonymous citizen, lost in the bustle and busy crowd. Bob did not like attention. Notwithstanding his habitual Sunday sermons and not to forget his penetrating eyes, Bob was still a nobody. His secluded, and questionable lifestyle wasn’t of interest to the preoccupied townsfolk. Bob was just a somebody over here, he was the last someone you’ll ever suspect to be a maniacal Paedophile. Bob wasn’t the one they’ll search when a child disappears, Bob did not exist to them. Bob made the most of this, like his submissive. Bob was tired of it now. Every other child was unique and satisfying but how many can he possibly keep burying?
Bob had issues. Bob didn’t like pre teens, Bob didn’t like loudmouths. Bob loathed gingers and the blacks. He wanted perfection and he took it, he possessed them, obsessed over them and as he got tired, he disposed them. Bob liked to be meticulous. He still took pride over how long he’d run with his last one. She was almost 11 now and still fresh below his porch, buried under those cucumbers. ‘Cucumbers’, thought Bob to himself. ‘Who’d have have thought 28 little corpses could be lying beneath a cucumber plantation’. Albeit, Bob was tired now. He felt like ending it, once and maybe forever.
As he sat quietly, pondering in the confessional, he recollected his collection. He thought of how ice cream could simply bring them to like him. He remembered how much he liked undressing them. His retrospection seemed to arouse him. His methods were utopian. The way he licked down their bodies and how slowly and slowly he would reap their benefits. Bob was the ultimate sensual beast. Their filthy noises couldn’t disturbed him. Their precious tongues were severed much before he would begin. Bob was perfection. As he recollected and felt his hunger grow, Bob finally decided to leave. He knew that today was not the day and began to speak as he left
“Forgive me father, for I will sin.”
– Yours Falsely,
The Skookum.
Simon says
Simon says
Simon says I must now hide,
they’ll find me and know otherwise.
Simon says time is of the essence,
I will obey for I cannot lose now.
Simon says that she will hurt me,
I’ll need to let go; now and forever.
Simon says I must not pay,
he dares me to steal it away.
Simon says he’ll be there for me,
it’s me and him, against the world.
Simon says he loves me now,
I can’t act on my own no more.
Simon says everyone can lie,
I wonder if he’s telling the truth.
Simon says a lot these days,
I can ignore him but not their judging eyes.
Simon says they’ll always hate me,
all I have is my Simon now.
Simon says they want him to go,
I’ve told them that he is all I have.
Simon says they’re lying when they say,
that Simon is going to kill me someday.
Simon says he will kill them all,
but my dear Simon, you don’t exist at all!
– yours falsely,
Hariharan Sriram
Kiss of luck
The kiss of luck
A monotonous plead, I’ve heard all week.
An everyday sight, on the corner of the street.
Under the streetlight, transfixed at his bleak,
a victim to curiosity, I began to speak,
“O poor old sod, I’ve paid my alms, what now do you seek?”
He wept at first and then laughed aloud.
He met my eye and pointed at the crowd,
“Nor you, nor them, none of you deserve to be proud”
The next encounter was with more than some spite,
as he began to weep and shriek under my sight.
I couldn’t help but ask, “are you alright?”
He told me the tale of his existential plight.
He was no beggar, he was nowhere near poor,
although he had lost something more than just dear.
He’s still in pain as he’s been through his gravest fear,
“I’ve lost her, I’ve lost my luck” he whispered, under his tear.
Now he lives in the gutters, aghast and soulless.
All he wants now is a kiss from her,
to end his unquenchable thirst; he wants his child.
He doesn’t need kiss of luck, her charm or her smile.
He’ll do with a kiss, a final wish, he wants her to say goodbye.
Gray
Gray
HOW?
stuttering, morbid
and shapeless cretins
thrive on; ceaselessly marching
by vandalising the straight repeatedly.
Living within a spiritual contest, humans
outdo themselves becoming fools time and again.
A mere validation to survive; no real purpose.
A mere lie to live, perhaps a false satisfaction.
A meagre existence in randomness but only to naked eyes;
for a true seeker sees beauty in multitudes that unfold later
and not in minuscule lives of the puppets who come to go.
For that’s how it works and that’s how unimportant you are and were.
The puzzle needs you as another piece; pieces see you as just another piece.
Live and die as now you know; you only come so that you go because
that’s how it works and you should know. That’s how it works, and you should know.
Atlantis
the men set sail with the winds and the tide
on the voyage to seek an utopian land
as three alone, an oddity and not so even
the hopes of mankind lay in their hand.
days passed by as the salts had changed
gust blew at scourned lips and while the hair grew more
prayers bore no fruit and no land in miles of sight
three men lost hope and the dreams of yore.
after the seventh full moon, the sun shone hard
down upon three scrounged and hopeless
the stomachs were empty, hopes had sunk
the boat was afloat, wet and ignorning the sun.
a fortnight later, the youngest had a dream
the lust of lamia had charmed his thoughts
by the light of dawn had chewed his fiest mate
and the third relished while he did not even flinch.
that day onwards, two men set sail
searching for utopia with food to avail
whilst swinging between unknown waters
the youngest fell deep asleep
looking at him with eyes of avarice
the third decided to quench some thirst.
as the youngest was pushed out
and the third left alone
both met their end with paths of their own.
the man who sailed lost his life to hunger
while avarice made him push for more.
the man who drowned had lost the least
but landed dead, at the foot of atlantis.
The Skookum 