Writer’s Block

Sticky

She is trying to sleep.

D with a dot , L ,G  ,another K  from Kishore are falling like a fish hook in still water which spreads circles of vibrations and plop deeper and deeper to hunt its prey. These alphabets are like pillcrow placed animatedly on her paragraph attempt to write.

In anxiety of her present dream, she clenches hard on her lone pen and thumbs it on the paper as she feels; she is slipping swiftly into something.  Words, language, diction, wit, humor, irony and subjects, all seems to submerge her into a strange burden of plopping alphabets.

G denotes Gayatri Vasudeva and her words. She knows how beautiful and expressively Gayatri writes.

Her words melt on the surface of her mind leaving a greasy outgrowth. Every time she reads work of Gaytri and other writers like Deepa , Leerakh , Kamal Kishore ,June Pinto or other of  her contemporary writers, she feels both thrilled and excited which soon turns into her personal nightmare.

By so and so, her eyebrow cringes and joins its inner end in horror of not being able to produce anything new or worthy.

An omnipresent third person sits on her shoulder and predicts her failure as writer. Her lack of generating masterpieces, her lack of transgressing her own time(only these  days) and  her inability of freeing her always heavy head ,whams inside in a ever now and ever constant way with terrible intensity of splash through a tube tunnel into girth of chlorine bleached indigo water.

She is in a park. This is the same park she was yesterday. She sits on that same tilted bench facing water and sees sun setting down all orange and pink just the way it did yesterday. This park is empty now. It is as empty as yesterday it was filled with people.

She sits there quietly listening absent rhymes of birds and hums of bees.  Suddenly she is again surrounded with people, same people who were there yesterday. In her mind she describes how it would be in a story.

People walking with unknown urgency…a lanky lad of two or three sitting aloof with his miniature palm pressed on his honey colored skin… green leaves and flowers revolving upside down with gust of parallel wind… different pairs of teeth shining on different shapes , sizes and colours of faces…lawn is green and even. ..there are some large trees spruced copying shaped of blueprint clouds of school children drawings…in the northwest corner stands tall buildings that makes trees look Lilliputian… some are lying on their belly while their partner pats their head …there are few dogs , all well strapped and few plastic Zoo animals holding painted ‘use me’ buckets …there are few dried up leaves , apparently all mess has been clear in the morning and what is around is greenest of  carved green in the middle of sky capering  towers emiting luminating brozne lights from their matchbox shape glass windows… in them thousands of people sits on their comfortable sofas and out of them only handful will ever read her stories…

She stops thinking for a second. Her brain drips in silence like mercury in a thermometer.  A pain ceases and she looks around. This moment in the park, she can never describe it. She misses terribly her camera. If only she could take pictures.
The moment when the man in white track suits hurls soft crumbling ball towards his over enthusiastic young boy. Their hands wildly stretches open towards the sky – a perfect form when a hand coordinates with the liquid sunlight flooding from the leaves. That very expression on their faces. Half hidden and half visible.

This expression breaks free from the multitudes of other expressions  in cabs , cars , houses, hospitals , shops , schools , hospitals and places outside this moment. This fissure in time, captured in time with a click on a digital memory card. May be printed (in later stages) variously with different photo shopped colours and hues and contrasts to emulsify this episode in moments of eternity.

“What is she doing writing? “She asks herself.

She should be a photographer or a painter. She could  have played with colours and exhibits such instances on a  cream colour wall while costly yellow liquid light enhance all layers.  Some students, few bored travelers and many rich luxuriant’s will come and see them. Her reveries might end up on some walls near embroidered sofas, Italian imported chandeliers and iconoclastic family portraits.

She imagines herself sitting in her exhibition, carefully scanning art enthusiasts and corporate big whale buyers. She is accompanied by her accomplish promoter. A lady with her tip toe cat steps glides across most painting whispering something to her circular shaped big belly husband, who nods along slowly fluttering through wisp of leaflet carrying painter’s biography. This woman suddenly becomes aware of the painter’s gaze and her cavorted anxiety. She smiles inwardly and fixes her eye on a painting titled ‘Sunset in a Park’. She looks deeply into it and wonders something. She takes another look at the face of the painter to make out her age and says something to her husband who in turn smiles and doesn’t nod. This woman knows that this painter is young and here she has come to buy maturity. A famous painter’s work upstairs with thousands of dots and liquid colors painted by acidifying metals plates on crust colours , she just saw it and brought them. Buying this agile eye painter’s work is  about taking chances.
. Her husband need to see further into this painter’s credibility before anything.
The painter stares as the couple leaves the hall. She stands up and walks past all her own paintings. She gets stuck at the painting where a man in white trouser throws ball towards his mentally challenged son.

She remembers where she is and thinks of writing something again. She stands up and climbs up to an artificial bridge.  She looks into waist deep water and the peddling boats as they skims past her. She focuses on a boy stomping his ankle into the water while his father and another man , maybe his uncle and some cousins of his , peddle their way under the bridge. They wave at another boat of decoratively clad women with their younger sons, kept as close they can keep, peddling few meters before them. She focuses her gaze towards this boy who stomps his feet into water. She scans his clothes. They look shabby and adorned with cheap decorative threads. This boy has a milky complexion and thick dabs of kajol layered from one corner of brown pupil eye to another. She winks blankly on her discovery and declares in her head- this boy of seven , most beautiful in his family , son of weekly a paid labour whose brother, a coal miner  of a small town, has taken him out on a picnic. Ignoring his mother’s plea, this boy, whose beauty transcends artificial beauty of his surroundings, sits at the back of his father’s barge. On his last fifteen minute journey circulating this pool, he looks lazily at the jeering faces of the boat men and takes liberty of splashing water with his feet. He knew so less, the thing that has never had happened is going to happen. Between merry and chants this boy will die in this this absurd water by drowning. His mother will run ravingly and his father won’t believe his luck. The man with white trousers and others will….

She was writing all that in her head when she notices the boat sliding under the bridge. The boy stares intently and his boat enters the shadow of the bridge. She couldn’t control herself and with a torpid of a deer freeing itself from tiger’s prance, she runs towards the other end of the bridge. The boat slowly appears and the boy, now puzzled ,looks at her. She smiles and waves but the boy does not respond.

By M

The blood of the Poet

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Absence of pure joy tread
Like click-clock of clock
Beating infinitely from the green vein
of leaf less life
carefully hidden under the meshes
of dried shoot
bleached and boiled inside the
Coagulated blood stream
procreating
millions of
dead heart beats
against pride of
billions of
stars, spangled,
like oranges in the field,
in summer
When gentle rain
maddens them into rolling
pumpkins, arrayed
like diesel cars, vanquished ,
sideways , diseased from greed
narrowness
emitting clog of smoke
inside the veins
of our nostrils-
bloodied , shapelessly
like a shining Cinderella shoe
beaten with inactivity of
phlegm
arisen from blank space
in the hollow cage of our ribs
and slightly above it
where it touches our spine
and slightly below it
where it touches our pelvic
also in the front and middle
like eternally bloated bubble fish
spurting out green lava
from the womb
slightly mutilated
during the war
and excessively scared
while love making
not breathing
reflected in mind mirror
each day, each hour , each second
each simple minutes
of this unrealistic , moribund
city life.

M.

One eye open

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A cockroach is slithering on my back and I am lying head down on a pillow gasping air. My lips are battered and my eyes gloomily swollen. I can’t move my hands and my legs are trapped infinitely.

My story start on the day I was born.
Most of it has lost in amnesia and other half in depression and self-induced subjectivity.    

‘Pain’ has always being my religion and only real memory; Pain of opening eyes, of facing people, smiling, laughing, eating and even this pain of writing this entry can surmise my existence.

There is a war going on in the neighboring country. People are dying like ants. I have seen pictures; Bright and brutal, covered with mud, shrapnel shells and dried up blood. All this madness, all war is madness, and sometimes I want to cry, cry really hard just to put an end to it. But I am too weak. I can’t feel anything for long Everything just fades and aptitude of my memory weakens. New thought piles up and heave my head.

It is mostly dead and things are tepid. My eyes are mostly blank and my heart always empty. I could feel the black guard crawling on my back. He has four wings, two antennae, two compound eyes and numerous fatuous wings. ‘Monstrous vermin’ licking roots of my body hair. It gives me ticklish sensation. I absently laugh a bit, but too morbid to move or shake it off. I could just squeeze my body inertly so that the vermin could feel implied nudge. He is reluctant. He is fundamentalist. There is no meaning.

Mostly I am breathing for my desire to make meaning. Nothing is anything until we look for it, interpret it. A sign, a word, some sounds, some constantly reproduced images, particular odour , flavours , acts and distinctly remembered objects, which are modern day’s  loose signifiers. What do they referred to? There is no constant meaning for anything yet I want to ‘make’ meaning. Creation of something fabulous and fantastic not repeated in itself, but new and vibrant. Is it possible? All loose metaphors already sucked in the infinite production of mass of tissues as quotations, as narrations and as optative calls.  I lay with my face digging deep in the pillow with different axioms forming and exploding like body parts splinters when tonnes of bombs are dropped on the city and people calmly sit on their sofas and observe.

‘A cockroach is on my back.’
 I think he is having a seizure now.
 The plaintive periscopes had taken me to Gaza and I stay flangeless.  

‘Nothing is was to be seen but dim eyes and claws.’ I hear someone quoting.

 Did I just hear music rattling outside the window? Signification of multiple signifie , and sincerely I think, I cannot take any more squeal from this inhabitant on my back. Did you know that the vermin of his class can even survive a nuclear war? They will live when we will be dead. I have read somewhere that talking about death makes one’s life precious. Objectively I would like to believe, but subjectively it makes no sense. The word ‘sense’ comes from Latin word ‘sensus’ which referred to faculty of feeling, thought and meaning. The simplest of word ‘feel’ or ‘sentire’(Latin) is responsible for feelings or sense.

Where do you feel ? Is it in your heart, in your mind or in the layers of skin that covers your thick muscles and taut bones? The paradigm of sensory organs shooting electric signals to the brain and then suddenly you see overflowing emotions, rapping. What happen when you turn into Septimus Smith? When you are apprehensive like him and growing familiarity with bitterness stops you from feeling anything. You cannot decide if you are placid or jittery or even high-strung. Things are normal as it was always. Rise and fall of petrol price, frenzied madness with onions, rain, gold and omnipresent glossy television commercials, gossips and daily frustrations.

I think the roach just flew away. Wait, is it there? How can I check? How can I be sure of it? Sensation of his six feet, sound of his beating heart from thirteen different chambers is still hovering on my senses. It is like memory of sweet tooth pain, oozing blood from skin ripped lips, like feeling of a bomb blast near vicinity (which I have never heard) and like my attempt to make sense of everything.

 

One eye open

By M.

 

    

 

Something like anything Incomplete

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Love splatter in my heart
Like skin less tomato
Of a curry

Leela was looking at her sandal over and again. They were fighting battle against the ground and gravity. Outer sole was noisy and hard with dried mud mincing against the pavement made of small pebbles. She needed to hurry up, Anand had already crossed the road and with delirious corner of her eyes she could see gleaming India Gate, now and then. It is a perfect summer weekend; faint darkness across the horizon, tiny stars poking their existence from many distant of universe, shy leaves swindling with the first few touch of cool evening wind, chatter of children forming organum with the boisterous talks of women folk in hordes, constant invocation of vendors selling papadum, gol gappas, raam laduus and other spicy items.
‘Wait!’ she said with her broken voice.
He returned almost immediately and took her hand in his without a smile. They crossed the road in silence gazing numerous other feet crossing with them. With each passing vehicle Anand’s eye shimmered and Leela felt bit more in love with its mysterious contour. They somehow reached the massive structure and Anand’s arm cusped around Leela’s shoulder. She felt little awkward with so many people around and his touch on her naked skin more or less near nape of the neck. They both kept gazing the structure as if everything is commonplace and mundane. They read some names inscribed on the wall – Shabuddin , Ashok , Jamal Siddique…
They got bored and Anand took out his new camera phone and started taking pictures. For a while he completely forgot Leela and looked at people smiling, chatting, eating, running, laughing, whispering and wandering. He swooshed his camera all around and took random shots.

Aside

 Keep staring

    At

       The clock

                Till the left wing

Meets

        The right

In per seconds- (of)

Many minutes

In 8 1/5 hours

Of factory day

                          Till the next day,

                           Another Monday,

Rips open

Again

Again

Again

Again

Again

Again

 

By M.

Elegy on something like love

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I won’t give it back, she was sure of what she is saying.

He looked quizzical against her warm passionate smile, he faked a smile intentionally.

He was there to hurt her and she was there to smile. It was last time they were meeting and the café was almost full with young lovers initiating love talks. She didn’t see his face because she wanted to remember nothing. It is his back, where she always had carelessly placed her arm while kissing, took away her attention. She wanted to run away, but it was too late, and she has to sit through it all now.

He looked weak; he looked tired like the old man he always looked. While he was talking about his future endeavor, she was thinking about his side burns. They were messy, and she always felt, one day when they will turn grey, she would lie in his arms falling more and more in love with them, while he would caress her breast and kiss endearingly on her naked neck. She didn’t want to pursue further on this train of thought and so she said,

“I won’t give it back”

He knew what he had to do. He has gone through this part for a very long time, and he has understood, this is the only way out. She was confident as she has decided days ago that she will smile. Like a battle, she carried her amour, her smile, and stood there smiling like the night sky.

The boy was weak for a second and said, ‘keep it’.

As soon as he uttered the words, she knew, he will return with more wrath, anger, and frustration and with a child’s ploy that will hit her like waves, strong powerful waves. She just didn’t want to kiss him now. It is over. Run before it destroys you forever. But she stayed, with an empty heart which was once full of love. Her smile waned and she felt strong.

The boy wanted to run away. He was weak, but he knew with her he will never look weak. She looks at him like a warrior, like sportsmen, like an ethereal stone dazzling with youthful energy, stubbornness and charms. With her, he could do whatever he likes. He has own her, and she can never go back being free. He has taken some part of her soul, and he could any day lie to himself and forget all about her. That is what he was thinking.

For the girl it was not empty, she was more astonished ‘why not’. She will never see him again. She might see him in her dreams- walking, talking with her hands in his hands, or waiting for her with a magic mixture of smile and something she could never understood.

They hugged and he was sad for a second and she was happy for next several minutes.

She went directly home and opened the book he has given her- Persuasion. She flipped its pages and inhaled as deep as she could. She wrote:

My Heart broken and shattered into millions of places

Like stars spangled in the dark abysses of universe.”

Then she completely forgot about the boy, pain or anything that spangled in the dark abysses of universe. She returned to her life. She planned trips, talked about art, poetry and all those things that soothe her heart.

The boy went home and took a shower and directly went to sleep. He knew he has so much to look forward to. He just have to close his eyes tonight and tomorrow it will be all fine.

Weeks later, the girl was listening to Lana Dey Ray’s “Born to die” and humming. She smiled again after days of nothing. She was not sad, but she knew something went missing. She had several moments of lapse when she had vacantly looked across the road from her room’s window not knowing what to wish for.

Her eye caught his leather strapped watch which she could not return. She smelled it , it was musky and the clock inside the silver dial was still reverberating in infinite seconds, minutes and hours since she had last seen him and it will beat for many more months , or years maybe. She has given him her time, her mind and there is a chance that also a little part of her soul which she never knew existed, and he in return will never get his watch back. The smell of the watch is he himself. It was raw, powerful and smelled like his chest hair – warm and bittersweet.

 By M

 Image

 

Haze

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Those circular eyes of  man

Moving round and round against the flat faces

Open, gape and not affected by  tumults

Save me,

if bearded Jesus is khaki wearing policeman.

 

Oh young girl by the highway,

Stripping skirts to wear leather pants,

Frozen fire of millennium delights

Save yourself near flood

it will vanquish your little joys

 

M.

(Taken from my colossal incomplete poetry hive)    

 

That hole

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It is a deep well

Circular as nine hell

 

My head need support

Two flapping wings

And a red shoe. Find me,

Deep inside  

Your wretched heart while

Erstwhile some angry dove frisked

Along the cloud of silence,

Blotched and blunted as silver knife,

Singing Poe’s raven

And athwart mirror that once

Held Lady who vanquished-

Drowning, pining for the knight of moon star.

 

Someone stitched my mouth

With invisible threads and

Held me at gunpoint coaxing

‘Go and fly’.

 

There is a hole

Deeper and steeper,

And Tumbling Me once fell.

Gradually like sun burns the day into night

Wines of words meshed around

And a kidney,

They say shape of a bean,

A fetus, a sleeping man, a clenched first,

Aches with similar memory of

First day at school, whimpering whispers

First love, first heart break, first realization of weaker sex

First war, first night and days of linear clock.

 By M.