Where there will be stars
In a forest of silhouettes,
A black owl sings a song,
every night
She cries when she finishes -
flies off her branch
The silhouettes stand still, silent
watch her go
The sky has surrendered to the night
together the sky, the owl and the silhouettes
look further
where there will be stars
24 April 2011
Shringi
Come to my abyss,
fuse.
You are the sound
you are intently listening to.
Carve your mien
in my groove,
in my groove
delve.
These are cautiously pleated waves
of us, of you.
Shall we?
as we resonate.
Shringi
April 20, 2011
Shallow be the river I swim
Shallow be my direction
Of little depth be my mind
Of little depth its origination
I walk
to the only horizon I see
I swim
to the only island
I think would take me to it
My hair now touches the surface
of the sea,
my eyes are a constant spectator
of my own reflection.
Into the very deep
to the very vast
shallow - I proceed.
Shringi
19 April 2011
Cutting sharp through
lightless stones
of the only hill she knows
Cold
having memories
she runs quick
through paths unknown
Can you follow?
Can you stay, and watch?
Do you know what thoughts in real are like?
when they run wild,
when they are slow.
A small stream of water
running down a stolid hill
knowing less of her intention
;of currents - thoughts.
She carves a way of her own
and then another.
In wild excess
she happens to be one of us.
Shringi
19 April, 2011
In a faraway place
where the trees were yellow
I heard the story of a lonesome leaf
from a crooked brook
She talked of its worries
its longing
its fading colors
its days of distress
While I looked blankly at the brook
she never blinked
The story ended
Night fell in place
I took a step towards the lonely yellow leaf
The leaf turned red.
Shringi
April 18, 2011
You can call this the vision of a blind or of some person who no longer wonders to watch. Either she is scared, baffled or downright unfortunate.
Some 10 years ago I read the book Atlas Shrugged after being thoroughly intrigued by the philosophy of Ayn Rand in Fountain Head. Today it haunts me, I rate it as one of the worst novels that I have read. Although it beautifully explains the standing of the intelligent and the workings of this world, it ruthlessly kills the illogical in us. It is a slow and bitter poison for the James Taggarts who have yet to announce their titles. For a reader he is a perfect antagonist and it is befitting for those who read a book as a book. I do not want to talk about Ayn Rand, she invariably makes me feel like a burden.
I am going to step on a new road (a brand new one this time) in a few days and am scared of evaluation. I have fared poorly in life so far, in the blinded eyes of mine and in those of the very wise. Life, though a beauty is too long and with vague reasons seems much longer. Although not the most intellectual myself, I rate average people as average, very average and artists of any caliber as gems. These random statements have been clubbed together for no worthy reason.
I am no more a teenager, nor have I grown up enough. My past has been a consequence of consecutive bad decisions and what a fool I have been. I am not comfortable.
I want to ask Ayn, what happens to the useless and undeserving - of course they die and I know what you and she think of them. But I want to know more and in elaborate details. I have to make a plan. Thank you Ayn for a piece of literature that has reached greatest heights making you one amongst the characters you sketched. Thank you for telling me that I am but a reader of yours and yet another one of the many who desperately wanted to know "Who is John Galt?", pushing me into my grave a decade ago when I had more dreams.
Shringi
March 27, 2011
Thankfully not many read my blog. There are too many fans of you, Ayn Rand and I am too ‘unintelligent’ to counter their thoughts. When the world of literature had just seen Lord of The Rings, why Atlas Shrugged. I wish you could write something like that but unfortunately you had to tell us about the importance of the rare. I strongly feel I would have been a much more confident woman if your intellect never enslaved you.
I believe most of us are more of James than Daggini, isn't that the whole point? - Aren't Dagginis supposed to be handful? I fail to understand how could the book do so well, why would James (you and me ) like such a book when he has been ripped off in it. A theory could be that all the readers find themselves elite and feel to be Dagginis or Johns in their own rights which collides head on with Ayn's theory of rarity. It is a truth that Atlas Shrugged is one of the biggest hits ever easily pointing to the fact that a majority agrees to it. Either they agree to be hollow or they find themselves capable of shrugging the Atlas. If they do the later I must say Ayn has successfully made a fool of millions by giving them a false idea about their personalities. It is a beautiful book and has a philosophy which cannot be completely denied, but how many of us are capable of raising our hands when someone calls out for idiots. Do we have the maturity to accept our standards and be happy to be thrashed for being substandard? Can idiots applaud other's intelligence? If not then I congratulate this world and Ayn to have built a million who can raise the world from ashes.
P.S. Please excuse me for repeatedly using the same characters as examples, it has been quite a while that I read this book. I touch on it today as I feel trapped in misinterpretation. If we cannot shrug the Atlas ourselves, which I believe most of us have the humility to accept, then we expect someone around us to. I talk often about Atlas Shrugged for I feel cheated, I feel abused by the very intelligent, who now are in abundance.
March 29, 2011
when the moonlit night fades into itself
a blackbird comes out
she gazes at the empty streets
looks for some familiar sounds
this world has taken over her world
- she lays low
such that she can never be found
when the moonlit night fades into itself
a hung white kite falls down
it sways amidst dense shades of gray
losing memory
of what it flew as, of what it flew for
when the moonlit night fades into itself
screeching souls cross my town
they slap their haunted lives
losing count of the one's lived; bygone
in the pitch dark night
a faithful owl counts the ones who died
and waits eagerly for the world to come alive
Shringi
16 March 2011
Painting by Craig Stephens
