Morning has broken

Morning has broken

today with its burdens

(It takes a lot to churn with the world)

Being a woman

with my body I am cursed

being a man

with the lack and excess of reality

Morning has broken

last night's dead bodies

are still starving on the streets

Men, women and kids are hungry

There is still some night time left in this morning

With many others, I too should cry

for morning again has brought no relief

Morning has broken

bringing an end to many sleeps

an end to numbness of the mind

The hotels are getting cleaned

the roads are left dirty

there are blood stains all over the city

In the meat shop, an old song is playing

Morning has broken

like an old morning

Cat Stevens had his version

whose blackbird now is sick.

Shringi

June 29, 2011

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1TWd3skb-Rw

Moon in Flames II (series)

On a moonless night, I look for the moon in flames again.

A flake of which fell on me yesterday,

On the first night of its burning.

Now it is nowhere to be seen.

After a few moonless nights, a fresh moon shall arrive

Earth shall greet

I will wait for another flake to reach me

For now, I will let the fire with the coming moon be

Shringi

June 27, 2011

My Sphere.

Vaani, a girl of seven turned seventeen yesterday. On a swing in a veranda, she carelessly rubs a blue ball thinking of the days she has lived.

Vaani, when was seven sat on a swing in a veranda playing with a ball made of glass filled with blue and green gel like liquid. The rains fell, fell stronger, and stronger still. The view from the veranda became dim, only sounds of fast water beating the grounds could be heard. Vaani touched the sky; a whirl in the sky took her and shot her beyond the realms of this world. Vaani without the ball in her hand, for a while revolved around the earth in an elliptical orbit. After minutes, the ball arrived too, together they escaped.

Vaani in the sky would play with the ball, look at it intently. She would see how the liquids interacted among themselves. She could see particles - black, brown and yellow. She could see red dots and white miniature flakes. The ball changed shades at times, becoming a little lighter oceanic blue and parrot green to a little darker indigo and olive green. She could see a lot in that little ball. When she would bring the ball close to her ears, she would hear a lot too. At times music, at times thunder, at times nothing and mostly some random noise. Vaani was happy in the sky with her ball. The sky was happy with Vaani too, it would breeze her, cuddle her, toss her and make her sleep.

Vaani was in the sky that night when it took her farther still towards a concrete structure. In its carelessness the sky became a tone too violent and Vaani hit hard against the concrete. Vaani was fine, the ball broke. The gel spilled over the concrete and the particles moved haphazardly for a while and then settled. Noise could discretely be heard as many loud shrieks; it was disturbing. Vaani had broken the earth zillions were living in. She now is seventeen. She is sucked by the concrete and thrown in a veranda with a swing. She has found a blue ball lying by. On a swing in a veranda, she carelessly rubs a blue ball thinking of the days she has lived.

Shringi

26 June, 2011
Vaani, spare my earth, please.

Dipadi

Like before, he walked alone on a long long road

men and wind passed by, he walked some more.

This happened a while ago, on a way in a city less known. Dipadi wore a bored expression and walked towards her school, she was a dance teacher. She bought some books on the previous day. Dipadi to some was comely, to some sensitive and to many unworthy. She gave the books she bought to a boy who came running towards her. He must have known her. She smiled lightly at him and continued. Dipadi was a girl few would like to know. She is central to the story you are going to listen to.

A bridge fell, few men died, Dipadi watched with apathy. She was in a mood to practice dance, she did. Could we ever understand how the girl thought? Probably, but we never had much interest until she started walking down a new road to the school she went to every evening. This road was four times as long as the straight road she took earlier from her home. This one was curved more than twice, each turn showcasing a different view; the city was such. After the first turn you would see a fallen bridge and a shop of books, after another, small hills at a distance and ill bred lands closer, on another flower laden trees (only in the spring, otherwise just trees). This road, only a few owning cars took. Dipadi walked up and down on it every day barring Sundays.

One evening Dipadi was walking by the broken bridge when the men who died came towards her. Dipadi ignored them and kept an even pace. The dead men followed. She turned with the turn and the hills started getting closer to the road. The boy whom Dipadi had given the books came running to her and handed her torn pages. Dipadi kept on walking. She turned with the turn in the road, the flowers started to fly away from the trees, away from Dipadi, there was no wind. Very few petals flew in the Dipadi's direction and even fewer fell to the ground

Dipadi reached school, taught her session, took the straight road back home and pasted torn pages of the book she bought from the book shop next to the fallen bridge.

Shringi

23 June 2011

Stomp a stomp

On a dusty night

In a slimy room

Of a mind that knows

nothing new

I go on and on

To the walls I speak

of glorious days

In the bed I think

of yesterday

And I go on and on

Half true, half sad

More of a random yap

Listen to me

for in the maze

there might be a mighty muse

In the confusion

there is some brightness

I know, I know

How I go on and on

I push myself

I drag you too

for you are a fool

you are nothing but a fool

Shringi

09 June 2011

Sickness

My reflection has no beliefs

Wrapped in flesh

I think of the abstract

As an abstract I think of my proclivity

Thoughts :

move haphazard unwilling to make sense.

In the company of fools

I reverberate

Yesterday was simple

I was a man of few worries

and I collected drops of air

My ribs are paining

I am sick

I want a little food

however well fed I am underneath.

Shringi

June 04, 2011

One Day

A golden bird

talks from behind a cage

Her words are of freedom

and tone of rage

There is a twinkle in her eye

She is a slave

There is a man in a cocoon

looking for the rays of sun

His intention is to see

He looks very dull

There is a flurry in his eye

He is a burden

A lonely moonbeam

is stolen by a cloud

It has fading luster

no expectations to be found

There is calm in its eye

It is a treasure

A bevy of artists

is standing at a conjunction

They are stitching the breeze to a river

and talking of changing structures

There is concentration in their eye

They are radicals.

After time

to a jungle these moved -

the golden bird, man, the lonely moonbeam, the artists.

..

Slowly came others few

They lit fire one night

and in it threw stones,

exchanged stories of misery

and now the freedom

To establish gratitude

they jumped in the fire too.

Shringi

June 02, 2011