tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330891942024-03-13T05:02:58.325-07:00effluviaRajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33089194.post-75960960303010557432010-05-16T22:17:00.000-07:002010-05-16T22:19:44.446-07:00Loving your liliesLive like the lilies<br />White and free<br />As they define it<br />They say, feel easy<br />They say, row the boat steady<br /><br />Live like the daisies<br />Feel free and sugary<br />Try to understand freedom<br />Like the wind beneath your collarbone<br />Around your navel<br /><br />Pour caffeine into your heart<br />Feel excited and young<br />Define your own flavors<br />Ask: Are you self satisfied now?<br />Is the mighty mind without fear?<br /><br />Is love overrated?<br />Is it a good music to dance to?<br />Or is it your own drawing room<br />Where visitors are allowed<br />Only to admire your penthouse/pantyhose<br /><br />Why is innocence so desired?<br />Is it like coma?<br />Is it vanilla without the knowledge of it?<br />Is it a tasty tearjerker?<br />Is it boredom induced happiness?<br />Where you cannot complain?<br /><br />Happiness is like a tree<br />That has found a few more sunshine<br />Than the rest.<br />Happiness is having known the sunshine<br />Not always living under it<br /><br />A complaint is like the song<br />That ends but lingers<br />Then, you must begin to paint<br />And create the illusion<br />Locked inside your reality.<br /><br />Betrayal is love<br />Caught without the architecture<br />So, ultimately<br />Remember your lilies with love....<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://55-words.blogspot.com/2007/02/rajashi.html</div>Rajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33089194.post-11026996595642632262008-06-30T00:40:00.000-07:002008-06-30T01:24:40.391-07:00KilosThere is no Bengali word for graffiti<br />Or for Spanish Rice that has been cooked<br />With Kashmiri Spice!<br /><br />I can rhyme well<br />When I cannot find the right words.<br /><br />Amidst a city, serving alien fish egg kichdi<br />That my friend had noticed first<br />I can only remember the highway<br />That lead to my official materialism<br />Where I sat - blinking at my tits carved in the cold<br />Admonishing it to get tame and settle down with the rest<br />Of the team members...<br /><br />I must remain a bengali<br />Talking in a half-baked language with my mates -<br />Bengali, that I picked up in campus,<br />Sitting with the bad boys and their good guitars<br />Good girls with their bad hairs<br />Bad girls with their good mothers<br />Good boys who have been forgotten by now.<br /><br />I have travelled without knowing myself<br />Sometimes.<br /><br />I have taken a bath not knowing<br />How to caress myself.<br /><br />I have eaten<br />Knowing I cannot ever be fatfree,<br />Or a respectful vegetarian.<br /><br />Every night I watched TV<br />Knowing I will shit it out in the morning<br />Not the content, but the hours spent -<br />In the jumbled dictum of thoughts who know you know they are worms<br />Eating at your precious madness<br />That you had whipped up with fantastic pleasure<br />Of educated shamelessness.<br /><br />I am not surprised at the fake eternity of things<br />That you can memorise out of any literary anthology<br />Eternity, that Joyce had feared so much when a boy artist.<br />Eternity, that is fatfree and pretty darn long - a size zero<br />That can exist anywhere without occupying any space<br />Even inside the air of a padded bra.<br /><br />I am fond of tea<br />And Rum<br />And my thumb<br />The rest can go to hell without an orgasm.<br /><br />I think women like to talk sex<br />Only when they can affect a liberal mind,<br />Or a desperate urge to feel fatfree.<br /><br />I have not seen it all -<br />But I can hold a good bottle of vodka<br />Infront of my eyes and wink at myself<br />Just for the kicks.<br /><br />I write when nobody is looking.<br />I feel insulted when I read canonical writing.<br />I repeat the fantasies of ophelia -<br />For brand effect - I am a fake amusement park<br />To those who come to desire me<br />For I can never return a promised ride.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://55-words.blogspot.com/2007/02/rajashi.html</div>Rajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33089194.post-23430702375683081952008-06-30T00:22:00.000-07:002008-06-30T00:37:55.128-07:00Yellow ButterfliesNeed to make peace with the yellow butterflies<br />And the navel.<br /><br />I cannot wait until I can start hurrying<br />Scurrying<br />Baffling the center of gravity.<br /><br />Drinking is a sport<br />And so is writing... Ain't it?<br />So why the compromise with signing underneath it all?<br />Possesive afterglow of pen and paper fuckmaking.<br /><br />That was a statement for the weakhearted<br />Who can never decide if they should win at all<br />After a loudmouthed argument - even when you know you are bullshitting.<br /><br />Reaching for an end and an apple award<br />Sweet ecstasy of a french kiss on the television<br />Memories of last nights football game<br />Doused in matchboxes set on fire...<br /><br />Nobody can make sense of a poem<br />That has no intention for intellectualism<br />I am free.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://55-words.blogspot.com/2007/02/rajashi.html</div>Rajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33089194.post-14067108201441005772007-08-14T03:31:00.000-07:002007-08-14T04:15:58.255-07:00Rapunzel, Rapunzel why are you dead?<span style="font-family:lucida grande;color:#000000;">Rapunzel leaves home with hair hanging bright from around her throat.<br /><br />Rapunzel, Rapunzel why are you dead?<br /><br />She knows she is dead without a fairy tale praising her imprisoned state…<br />Without the lingering nostalgia of a princely rescue,<br />Without the savoring unfulfillment of an automated reality,<br />Arising out of exact measurement of a good cook’s recipe<br />Who plays chef everywhere…<br /><br />But Rapunzel must know how to die<br />She must fall out of the bookish tower of blindfolded wait<br />Strange elevated beauty that drips from her skin<br />Which cannot be felt without a mirror…within her blood vessels<br />Her stomach…when she splits open herself with her hairpin<br />Her fingers enter her nerves and try to get that beauty out<br />Nothing. Nothing. She enters her guts. Still no beauty there.<br />The pain of emptiness. The pain of ugly dripping blood.<br />She was aghast at her ugliness!<br /><br />A strange drizzling rain falls from within her dress<br />Into everywhere, where her hair rests in a bundle on the floor.<br />She stares at herself inside out…the monotony of a being<br />Awaiting a common dream that all prisoners of the tower are forced to see…<br />What delusions of a cramped isolation!<br />Every arrival of a prince seems the only destination.<br />What enforced short-sightlessness of Rapunzel<br />That can make a fairy tale happen!<br />Delicious failure of a mind’s inability to search for one’s own escape.<br /><br />Rapunzel laughs out loud.<br />Her escape waits within herself...<br /><br />But she must see what enthralls the eyes of the towers<br />That set her apart from the fascinating ugliness of the masses<br />Rapunzel must know what beauty keeps her still from<br />Knowing the beauty that howls of the forest outside<br />The sodden rain clogged mud of the ground beneath<br />The moist wind at the top of the tower…<br />The stunning rage of the sun’s breath down her legs<br />To soothe the hunger of her hair to become tangled<br />Impossible to be tamed into a braid.<br /><br />Yet, Rapunzel, Rapunzel why are you still dead?<br /><br />Rapunzel must find an answer to the Prince’s sweet delay.<br />Rescue was inevitable.<br />From tower to tower she must travel.<br />Rescue was inevitable.<br />To be rescued was her fate.<br /><br />Hark! The prince comes.<br />The prince calls her to throw down her hair.<br />Rapunzel must now climb out of the tower<br />And into the ascertained happiness of the Prince’s hands.<br />Her fairy tale was coming to an end. Rapunzel laughs again!<br />The book was left with a few more words? Pages, maybe?<br />Rapunzel couldn’t let this happen.<br /><br />With the final toss of her hair, she throws herself out of the window,<br />Her red hair screaming behind her to rescue her before it is too late<br />To wrap itself around her throat in a fantastic embrace of togetherness -<br />Rapunzel escapes before it is too late<br />Rapunzel becomes Porphyria’s death story.<br /><br />She crawls out of the old page of my diary<br />Where prince charming keeps calling her name<br />From out of that turreted forest<br />Towers chasing her to employ her in their silence<br />Rapunzel must keep her feet moving<br />Even when plunging in her own blood<br />Even when her hair strangles<br />All the more, to remind herself of her escape<br />Before she hits the ground forever…and flies away.<br /><br />Rapunzel, Rapunzel are you still dead?<br />No. She has rescued herself out of another fairy tale.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://55-words.blogspot.com/2007/02/rajashi.html</div>Rajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33089194.post-17929826468744281742007-02-14T03:19:00.000-08:002007-02-14T03:21:20.218-08:00Oprah-Flavored Ice-Cream<span > Who are these people, that come and haunt you<br />The happy father, the phallic tongue of<br />Your mother<br />My Mother<br />All our children.<br /><br />Happiness is an Osho temple<br />Sorry, a boutique island<br />A real estate agent<br />A Travel and Living catch phrase<br />About travel and indulgence<br />Or royalty<br />Or a perfect smoked salmon fish<br />Challenge.<br /><br />Sadness is nothing more than a bad fit<br />A bad choice with your hat<br />Watching the Oscars<br />Longing for some of the fame.<br />A bad trip and a job gone awry<br />Sadness is a mild dream of yester years.<br /><br />Humble spirits raise you to hear<br />The true color of life<br />Between the trawled sea and gashed ozone layer<br />So much metaphysical speculation<br />About the stars that lit up our<br />Domestic chores<br />Market and bazaar fare<br />A normal day of unfaithfulness.<br /><br /> Day care centre breeding your kids,<br />The pet dog accompanying you to the Austria trip<br />Maids with fallible human strength refuse<br />Another day of maddening labour<br />Super-mom sweeps the sky<br />Replacing the witches of Salem<br />I stand alone beneath the stars<br />Inspecting my washed clothes<br />Cleared dishes<br />And evaporating enchantment with<br />A supposedly greater order<br />Called life.<br /><br />Cable guy is always the Jim Carrey show<br />Oprah reminds you of orphans and idiots<br />Living under the same roofs<br />Katrina sweeps the Earth,<br />An ineffectual West Wind.<br />So much for a good bungle<br />And the riot victims get their<br />Fifteen minutes of fame.<br />Allah, Almighty, Amen.<br />All is the same and again.<br /><br /> </span><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://55-words.blogspot.com/2007/02/rajashi.html</div>Rajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33089194.post-14715180504973346602007-02-09T22:46:00.000-08:002007-02-09T22:43:40.462-08:00On the bank of AllegoryIt was unnecessary.<br />To have failed once more<br /><br />I know how to kill a curiosity<br />And a cat.<br /><br />My allowance is a maidenhood<br />Of soliloquy<br />And arbitrary endings<br />That nurses poems<br />Of high school feelings<br />And hopes<br />Of nursery softness.<br /><br /><br />Later today<br />I am supposed to find<br />An allegory<br />To my answer,<br />Do I or don’t I deserve<br />Hopelessness<br />Of the right shade<br />Grey or a blinding dazzle -<br />Incompletion.<br />Debacle.<br />Abortive correspondence<br />With prominence.<br />Fatigued fulsomeness,<br />Gaunt dreams,<br />Weary with chase and rotting,<br />With mass verisimilitude.<br />Custom made fantasy frolics<br />Fallible scholarship of a three hour<br />Canvass.<br />Bridge courses meandering between<br />Degree calibre<br />And unacknowledged help<br />Of non-improvisations.<br /><br /><br />On the bank of allegory<br />And by the edge of pungent satire<br />I stand precariously<br />With failure at one hand<br />And the recognition<br />Of a handicap in me.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://55-words.blogspot.com/2007/02/rajashi.html</div>Rajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33089194.post-1168190803226381302007-01-07T09:21:00.000-08:002007-01-07T09:26:43.236-08:00<strong>Farther down the road….<br /></strong><br /><br />There is little beauty in the mind.<br />It is a warehouse of orphan thoughts,<br />Run by a hefty matron brewing leathery<br />One time rotten meals.<br /><br /><br />One-track mind of a calendar year…<br />My mind is a dejavu of fixed income<br />Sincere meanings and added values<br />I am a warehouse of broken panes<br />I have been thrown stones at<br />And compensated with disabled<br />Bank statements, junkets and happy<br />Jars of certificate of merits<br />Made of tree cut papers and your delusions<br />And my laughter or fatigued farewells<br /><br /><br />Nothing matters inside your mind<br />Anybody and flesh, any body<br />Any any one, any somebody, anything<br />Any me, and you<br />Any any any<br />All all all…<br /><br /><br />Another me will come along<br />And make me give up my mind<br />For it.<br /><br /><br />And still I will remain<br />In solitude<br />And a prisoner of my minds<br />Helplessness without me…<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://55-words.blogspot.com/2007/02/rajashi.html</div>Rajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33089194.post-1166679488954070232006-12-20T21:35:00.000-08:002006-12-20T21:38:08.966-08:00<span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Newer Niceties<br /></strong><br />I am dissatisfied<br />Being a woman everyday<br />I am false.<br />My friends know who is inside me<br />There is strange warmth<br />In losing<br />Outwitting the ardour of impatience<br />Knowing not why I laugh<br />At you all so much<br />Strange theft<br />Monotonous escape from people’s lives<br />Marked with knowledgeable<br />Bubbles<br />Fears of the neon self<br />I too am like that!!<br />I write poems from Robert Frost<br />I am false.<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I am not a prized story<br />I am only a surface<br />Curves<br />Tortuous<br />Senses<br />Children<br />Tears<br />Madness<br />Reading Plath.<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Nothing makes it special.<br />To be married before 30<br />Or god won’t give me<br />Another chance.<br />Except for that<br />Laughter of the bitter blood.<br />Clotted<br />Silent and sterile<br />Stench of the past.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Who wrote this before me?<br />I am false.<br />This is a stubborn hell<br />A feast where I must sell<br />Gain<br />Bargain<br />Chaos<br />Laughter<br />Sex.<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Tricks of the trade.<br />Belittled by foolish women<br />My confused race<br />My confused men say.<br />Belittled by foolish men bred by them<br />And our fathers<br />I am false<br />For some who must not know<br />How much must go into a day<br />Of gathering sanity<br />Farces<br />Vodka and slime<br />Empty womb<br />Fun.<br /><br /><br />Liberty is another name<br />Of discounted men<br />Who came your way<br />And make you a wife<br />Out of lashed love<br />And funny eyes<br />That strays between you<br />And the sky of hopelessness.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </span><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://55-words.blogspot.com/2007/02/rajashi.html</div>Rajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33089194.post-1162012282170629272006-10-27T22:01:00.000-07:002006-10-27T22:11:22.183-07:00I have not known the streets as yet…….<span style="font-size:85%;">I have not known the streets as yet…….<br /><br />I must go now. I must pass between the streets boxed within the grey skies, full of memories of the rains. Did you know that they remain the same within my heart, full of memories of the rains too? It must be getting dark soon and the chill will come to settle between my fingers holding a darkly lit roll of cigarette. The smoke merges with my breath, and I play with it till the dragon in me feels quite regular. I ask myself in a voice, that feels so much like a practiced huskiness, “Am I regular?” Standing alone I let some ash fall on the street and instantly get punctured by the moist floor. I say again “The streets are always wet, my ashes can hardly fly and make a nuisance of my dark overcoat”. But it is a matter of no importance, I decide then and there. The wet floor becomes puddles at places, and I try to skip them by and nibble at the only question that nags my mind “Am I really regular?” I try to dally with the answer for bedtime soporific musings. Then I think, If I must go home now, there will be so much to do with the rest of the day. For instance, I will have to avoid being alone amidst the whole of the neighborhood, praying before dinner, holding hands across fences or already making love in their kitchen. In the street I only need fear the rain and the sky that is chequered with the fate of the stars. It is never regular and yet always the forgotten limit. The street is now a little darker; every window looks warm and lost in velvety warmth that has withstood the daylights assault. There! that’s my home, my house, and my shelter. I will have the darkness to stir from the porch to the bed till I leave a wake of flooded ennui. I am lost within my own rhythm of chores. A sensitized journey along the streets to the unique shelter that I call my home is undergone and a homeostasis is reached for the day, until the day begins again and I start from the same point. I was supposed to know you by name, but I shall call you ‘My synthetic journey’. This is a strange place I must visit, everyday between the sheets of happy colored mazes that make the lusts of my vision quite happy. I crawl with my mind to the sunny garden at the back of my house just from where all the streets begin all over again and I must not complain but they make me feel so less interesting! They are the distance between you and me and I wonder how to walk between them, so that, for once I may lose my way. But they always take me beneath the skies of endless rainbow and a constellation of fate that remain cradled in the basket of puddles, everytime I jump over them and ask “Am I only very regular?” I have known so many darknesses, and yet all think that it is a monolithic smear that either stays or goes away. Have you ever known a darkness that pours like liquid over you when you walk all the way home? Or what about the thick darkness that hangs between you and the people around you, waving and smiling? The darkness that follows me like an endless temptation and licks my feet when I sit on my bed and sigh ‘amen’ for the day. The darkness that I cradle in my arms as I pass along lighted shops with manikin make-up people, choosing what ought not to be regular for them, I clutch it close to my heart and kiss the soft touch of its abysses. I finally enter my house and feel for the switches…<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://55-words.blogspot.com/2007/02/rajashi.html</div>Rajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33089194.post-1158091891043980142006-09-12T12:55:00.000-07:002006-09-12T13:11:31.053-07:00fairy doodleI am a fairy doodle<br />The biggest ass bird that flies with Icarus<br />I am a accoutrement of flat discoveries<br />With a Once Upon a Time love...!!!<br /><br />I make no sense with poetry and never with my words<br />I make sense with the buttons of your memories<br />and when the rain drops down in my pillow<br />and fly away leaving me chained to laughters<br />I am a fairy doodle<br />I am a Fairy doodle<br /><br />I have no dreams coz I only have maintenance bills to pay for them<br />yesterdays a filthy flat dumpster and today's a dustbin<br />Inside my heart<br />I am a fairy doodle<br />I only hate superstars with extra cheese<br />I hate the world's justice with a silly saucepan man<br />I love nothing but my mom's scorn<br />For having caviare with boxer shots<br /><br />I do not know who made the Wall<br />I am the fairy doodle woman<br />I am alone in this celophane town<br />asking for some lighthouse isolation<br />amidst dissolving eyes that seperate me and you<br /><br />You the fairy doodle do not forget<br />you who made the stars throb<br />you who you who who who who<br />you you you<br /><br />I am the fairy doodle still.....<br />la la la la doom doom dum doom<br />o am just marooned here<br />maa aa roo roo ned...da da doom<br />da doom dum doom doom damn<br />damn damn am just nobody to me<br />to you you you who who who damn doom<br />damn damndamn damn<br /><br />I am a marooned fairy doodle<br />from my own damn dreams<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://55-words.blogspot.com/2007/02/rajashi.html</div>Rajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33089194.post-1156147520022938922006-08-21T00:31:00.000-07:002006-08-21T01:19:28.043-07:00Why should women think beyond the present<br /><br />As a woman what I missed most was an epic heroine who would make me travel my own dreams in my own terms. I miss that still. There was no world for me beyond being a secondary mate on the back of a horse riding along with the prince or the villain or the story. I was never deemed the centre of my own story except for in Romances where there was no flavour beyond what the man-writer thought I was all about. My voice was never there. I was never me. I was living in someone else's dream. I wanted my own story where I am something beyond a final prejudice and an approximation of something multiple, higher and extensive. I wanted to be so special with all the effort a man-writer or a woman-writer would invest in me and make me not so much of a woman but a free spirit. Idiosyncratic, human, a social construct and yet tearing away from it all the time.<br /><br />The present is full of such monotony and without any understanding of where to start defining a woman. I think a woman is not a definable object. She is a summation of her own quests and achievements. That's where we talk about histories and women. A woman is an epic of experiences and her present is a matter of subjective documentation. Discourse is the very field of wrestling and women should try to derive their own sense of history and thereby create it for our pasts and our futures. A woman or a generation without a voice in the histories is again a story without any place for her. She is a shadow of error.<br /><br />Woman and her politics is never resolved until she herself write her agenda beyond the present.....<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://55-words.blogspot.com/2007/02/rajashi.html</div>Rajashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06947204759763331665noreply@blogger.com1