Sunday, June 17, 2012
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
This Harper and Madeleine volume contains letters from 2001 to 2007.
Madeleine my ancient Quest,
Our singing has not reached it's best
But upon some Goan climes
A beach, a star, a moon that mimes
I do hope we'll reach our peak
Of lazy afternoon songs we seek.
My God, I think of Canada
My home has shifted rather far
It's strange to think that two years hence
My life will lead to some suspense
But until then if I'm alive
Tomorrow we leave at half past five.
Harper hail once more to you
What smoke these ugly cities spew.
Illicit joy that no one buys
While cities scream into the skies.
Tomorrow is a promised land
Sinful sea and stardust sand
I beg to wake in solitude
At the risk of sounding rude.
Fond agendas of Bombay type
Are tiresome and too much of hype
I'll trade all plans for a NOTHING NEW
If Goan grass and sand comes true.
Weary with the want for want
Is the sacred land a tempting haunt
Is the clever sea a wishful theme
Or part of an insomniac's dream?
I still have to pack.
Madeleine with the bottomless pit,
It's in a blue train that I sit
While you sleep in the top most bunker
My thoughts at the window are left to wander.
The rhythmic motion of the train
Makes my writing quite insane
Good day biscuits and a sip of chai
Misty morning landscapes pass my eye.
A man sits atop a pipe
Reading a book like a Godly Stipe
A hijda clapped his/her hands at me
Stared waiting for some money.
Mother sleeps on her camera bag
Where oh where is my jet lag?
A little boy on a winding road
A bunch of sticks his only load.
Beauty comes with perfect bliss.....
This is what I used to miss.
On the train from Bombay to Goa. 2001.
Usually when I take a pee
My life gets sorted out immediately
It's a release of questions I've thought about
And I pass onto the next without a doubt
Vodka and watermelon juice
To swim in the sea not much to lose
A trip to Bourbon island and back
There's really not much that we lack.
I hope your lunar mistress wishes you well
Four hours and your tampon might ring a bell
But the ocean beckons and so must you
Be welcomed by the sea to leave a clue.
Palolem beach, Goa. 2001.
I hate the....
that killed my page
magic blot you grabbed the stage.
Magic blot you chose to die
where my magic drawings lie.
Palolem beach, Goa. 2001.
Prash it's 6:30 now and you're just not here somehow
Are you pursing noble cause
At which time it's hard to pause
I wonder if your inhaling things
Or orchestrating little flings
I'm here at the circle bar
And I met Dean
He'll play us music
And that he means.
Don't stand me up on a perfect date
Perhaps we shouldn't challenge fate
Did you drop in here before
Then that would make me worry more.
Palolem beach, Goa. 2001.
What a day for me my dear
I walked to Bourbon island without a beer
And there upon I crossed the strait
That took me there by mister fate.
Once on the island I traversed the rocks
Cut my toes, no concept of clocks
I walked around as the story goes
And came to a rock with the pointed nose
There I jumped into the sea
With a school of fish around me
While drying off I waved aloud
To fishermen who picked me up like a cloud
And brought me back to the beach
And to Ticano's I did reach
(John at the bar is a friend of mine
He get's me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there's some place that he'd rather be)
(Thank you Billy Joel)
At half past four I took a nap
And jumped into the sea perhaps
'cause later on at our circular space
Be introduced me to our grassy chase
And a whole lot of other people too
All this happened while waiting for you.
Unwinding may be deemed complete
Since my debut swimming feat
I feel the tampon days recede
And a lightness which is all I need.
Walked down the beach about 10 miles
Since PMS it's been a while
Inspite of the Calangute killer
I reached Valentino feeling sillier.
Franc lost his way wanted a cab
And yes I work in a media lab
My stunning sense of composition
Made us take the right decisions
The perfect turns and deft navigation
Allowed us to find our destination.
The wounded ship and the deceptive lighthouse
Gave us the useful points
That we could refer to incase
We ran out of joints.
Notice how my handwriting
Which part is true
I'd like to ask
To be con't - M
Baga to Calangute, Goa. 2001.
Valentino's native curse
Couldn't have turned out any worse.
Gross ill luck with any food
Goa is turning a little rude.
Garlic in the watermelon juice.
They must think we've nothing to lose.
Evil men in no disguise
Beg to judge bikini size.
But somewhere inspite o f this routine
Some pleasant instances were seen.
A choppy ride upon the seas
That swung to the midday breeze
We swam upon unconquered shores
Not certain of what lay in store.
A pool of blessed perfection
Lies waiting for your inspection
On Butterfly island's quiet skin
Where butterflies are known to sin.
And night swimming as of yesterday
When the sea is like a blind man's prayer.
On your back you float like a sheet
The waters and the skies they meet.
Skinny dipping in the night
Is the most delicious sight
For mortal eyes that never knew
All the things that night could do.
....I'll continue my chronicles, in a little while,
In between there's breakfast, and a sun that doesn't smile.
Where hast thou been?
Across the oceans like a conquering dream?
Today has been a day without food
An unsatisfying discontent wherever I stood
The colour palette was blue and grey
A melancholy mix for a mellow day
It lasted mostly all day long,
which somehow seemed to be all wrong
How can we redeem tonight?
What is to be our plight?
Harper of the following page,
My consciousness you do engage
The gallery of modern art,
is playing my film in parts
And at Leopold we dine again
with memories of our days in Spain.
Bangalore I trust was good for you
Now once more you return to what is true.
My charcoal tan is my only reminder
To my body the beach was kinder
Exhilarating for no reason
And it helps if it's the season
Cool wind and watermelon juice
The brain just wanders a little loose.
.8 's aren't good for me
I do prefer the .3's
Harper of the oldest kind,
Holidays are hard to find
So in the splendor of these days
Let us bow to nature's ways
Of reuniting fondest friends
And letting sunshine make amends.
Your travels have brought you back to where
Blind men see and babies dare
Beaches roll and bluebells toll
And festivities steal your soul.
As you prepare to fly again
And I recoil into my den
I think of all the stories
that need to be written
And all the films that need to be made
And pledge solemnly to no one
That these visions shall not fade.
Moonboy and Kirke lurk in the backfield of my mind
And the purpose of this poem is the ensure that we find
Time in the coming days
That we could leave to chance
From where we'll continue
The correspondence dance.....
That was quite a jive indeed
One that I must say was much in need
You twirl like a cycle rickshaw's spokes
And can be quite light when you're out of jokes.
The crossings project just crossed my head
which you had done it all instead.
Parts of it were really nice.
Some films I'll never watch twice.
For now our cosmic jive hath ended
A dance that simply must be commended
So now I sit in a Paris port
Waiting for my flight to float.....
And think of all that has been done
And yet to do....webs to be spun
India is such a magical space
And I'll be back to see her/your face.
Paris, en route to Toronto. 2001.