Words of Clay – “Be my King”

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Be my King this life,

I shall uproot that seedling of ego,

Shoo away from within my emotions of strife,

Into my ears, your weakness when they blow,

I shall wag it lame, bark it a hoax,

For in the game of  the wise,

The one in checks, without the dice,

Both, the King and his Pawn are packed back into the same box…

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Artist : Gauri Sakhuja

Words of Clay” is a poetic journey through the creations of Gauri Sakhuja, a young and talented Indian sculptor from her latest solo exhibition at Triveni Kala Sangam, New Delhi, India.

 

For more on the artist, visit : https://www.facebook.com/gauri.sakhuja/about

Lost in Sounds

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Ripens the dusk into a golden day,

Beaks squeak, stretch out new red gums,

Hungry has them the yawning Sun,

Squeaks sharpen shrill and shriller from within their cradle of hay,

A flutter of a pair of mature wings,

Duty shoots up, cries aloud,

Greetings to the Lord, out of the green canopy,

That hiss of the leaves then,

The clutter of the lark’s flaps into that wilderness blue,

The viper crushing through the crispy carpet beneath,

Boots on fried leaves, munch munch,

Wandered the Ranger sniffing scales astray,

Up and close with me, face to face,

Words shot out from his mouth,

Like meteors from a meteoroid,

They hit me everywhere, missed my ears though,

Strangers now to man’s gibberish, they were busy, you know,

The Viper’s soft crush sparkled into a slithery fleeting escape,

Rang like a bell, that long rub of slipping scales,

On their sleek couches, debated those baboons,

Sang the nightingale unnerved,

A stench of sweat jostled me back,

Oh! The Ranger, he was still talking, talking to me,

Listen! Thuds of the angry elephant,

His trumpets of caution,

On his way to trample and plunder,

Soars the volume, intensifies, as if reaching us that hush,

Branches being broken,

Shown the ground, bushes and weeds,

Facing each other we stood there,

Though I was away with my ears,

Frustrated, hands on holster, that Ranger,

He was yelling futile, still talking to me…

Debaroon’2013

(This piece is completely inspired by the 2013 Bengali (an East Indian language) film, ‘Shobdo’ (Sound) by Kaushik Ganguly.

The movie narrates a unique tale about a recording studio professional that has been making a living by naturally producing sounds, heard around us in our daily lives. For example, he shakes a half filled jar of grains fast and faster in front of the microphone to produce the sound of a passing toy-train. Another, example from the film itself is the scene where he creates the sound of the flapping wings of a hundred pigeons that depart the streets into the skies after a scattered mail of grains, simply by flapping together two bunches of ripened big leaves in each of hands, right in front of the microphone.

He develops a strange obsession for imitating and creating sounds around him. His passion stretches out of control to an extent where his brain slowly slithers out of the habit of decoding human speech with any kind of noise around.

He might only be able to comprehend you if you are talking to him in a sound proof room with pin drop silence. Anywhere else, he will not be able to understand human language and decipher the sound of human speech, anymore.

This is His story…

For more on the movie, Shobdo (Sound) : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shabdo

For the movie trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-OOzquVF_fc )

 

 

 

Image Credits:

http://radmanlew.blogspot.in

Pink Paharganj

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Dusk licks the old Banyan,

Shuts her pores with a kiss,

Ogles at the crows to send them cranky, alarmed,

That deity resting on that vintage stump is served her lamp,

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Lights flick white in that dingy sea of trade,

Reflects in eyes, shining ready for their prey,

Confident of languished hungry visits from the brightest of minds, gone astray,

Some Bags on the go, some await hooked, some packed personal, some for sale,

Stranger eyes are read, flung across are ropes of trust, unsaid,

When a ‘need’ sounds good, it is then understood,

Fools you the stoner’s paraphernalia, peace t-shirts, cargoes on the row,

Action turns into those narrower lanes, shoulder-wide alleys,

Hazy deals, suspicious frowns, then broader smiles and hugs,

Slither sly; make it hush and quiet, in and out in dying daylight,

A fresh wait, a fresh hit, no bait’s needed in this hole of the sphere,

Sucks you to those minstrels of pleasure for a share of their concealed treasure,

Hands in hands with the God of Urge, you tread in here,

The evening calls, triggers her daily moan,

Hails you for more, a Pink Paharganj…

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Debaroon’2013

(From the streets of Paharganj, the hippie back-packers paradise in New Delhi, India, known for its concentration of affordable hotels, lodges, restaurants, dhabas (North Indian road-side eateries) and a wide variety of shops catering to both domestic travellers and foreign tourists, especially backpackers and low-budget travellers. Over the years it has become particularly popular as a haunt for international cuisine and everything that a soul on the lookout for fun and pleasure can end up thinking of. For more on Paharganj, visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paharganj )

 

 

Images from :http://darkhartetravel.wordpress.comhttp://shafisaxena-sightseer.blogspot.inhttp://web.stagram.com

Lend them your Senses…

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O Maestros, Masters of trade,

Royal bards presented factories of bread,

Fingers that pluck strings of gold,

Pen down verses that never grey,

Never grow old,

Lend your ears to the flower,

Step into gardens, fresh,

Away from limelight, the yellow haze,

You might discover green grief,

Hear petals mourn,

Butterflies scream,

Kneeling down stamens weep,

Moaning summons of concealed ovaries,

Lend your eyes to the flower,

You might find pistils trying to watchtower,

Stigmas acting scented radars,

Sepals craving an embrace,

Waiting for a role in your songs,

Waiting to step out off mortal boundaries,

Into your verses perennial,

O Maestros, Masters of trade,

Dig some time for their songs,

If, not mine…

 

Let my songs wither away,

Ring unheard till my last breath,

Let me croak out my years,

Like the forgotten toad,

Unsee me,

Miss out on my colors, my unique existence…

 

Step into wilder lawns,

Rest your bare soles on undisciplined grass,

Beautify young, new pastures,

They join flowers in lament,

To weave Utopian wails for you,

Hoping, Longing,

Someday, they reach you…

 

Widen your stare,

Reach out to nooks and corners, once in a while,

To the unlit gardens,

Waiting to gift you a smile,

Taste unscathed honey,

Plummet in virgin talent,

O Maestros, Masters of trade,

Lend them your senses,

To their unattended mystery,

Dig some time for their songs,

If, not mine, before you sediment away into history…

 

(A poet, wandering lonely at the talent fuming, Jaipur Literature Festival, 2013)

 

Debaroon’2013

 

(Image from : http://thakurrajesh.hubpages.com )