The monk was tired, he drank the water from the rivulet, still felt the same. Like the dark heavy clouds that take over the sky so often, the monk had almost surrendered to such heaviness. If only he could just sit there forever and listen what stories the wind brought to him.
Thinking this he got up and moved ahead. One step at a time. The seamless pattern, the embroidery cross, squares, diamonds, chevrons on his sweater soaked in the sun; it was a parting gift, the monk couldn’t refuse the loving people of that small village.
Strong wind currents and his rough hard shoes made music together; often the pebbles added to it.
Lines on his forehead made him look tense. Just then he reached a fork in the road; the monk stood still and saw two things – the rough path ahead and a tiny little flower beaming at him, growing out of the rocky mountain. The monk walked towards the flower and stared at it.
He smiled and resumed walking ahead. His smile echoed in the mountain valley.
The precious ones also have to clear debts. It is always painful and quick, they come and go. Mysteries alone hint at what must have happened. Holding life so sincerely, the precious ones look no different from the rest. Tip toe-tip toe, crafting the time in hands, breathing the air as rationed, meeting the eyes as destined, the precious ones partly remain aware… the end is near.
Must it be so devastating, so random, so sudden? The precious ones acknowledge death wholly making it inconceivable for the others.
Like a quiet walk in the garden full of flowers, playing and making friends, acting the monologues, reciting life, the precious ones draw the curtain on their own.
Without walking a step, without eating a morsel, without knowing the ties, without seeing the whole world a precious one said goodbye just in seven days. Her eyes looked at bliss even after her body turned cold.
In a thin air-light piece of blue paper words were written, no space wasted, legibly shinning, beautifully written. It was for everyone, Cid Corman called it direct poetry.
Cid Corman wrote for and ran the magazine Origin. He followed a lovely rule, he replied to each and every letter that the magazine received within 24 hours, if he couldn’t, he didn’t do it at all.
Lucky must be the ones who got his answer, that too in the form of direct poetry. The book, Famous Blue Aerogrammes, is about these replies.
I have just read a few of these, still I can say that it continues to create magic… blue feathery magic that makes you smile.
But for a time I make moon and shadow my companions;
taking one’s pleasure must last until spring.
I sing — the moon wavers back and forth.
I dance — my shadow flickers and scatters.
When I’m sober we take pleasure together.
When I’m drunk, we each go our own ways.
I make an oath to journey forever free of feelings,
making an appointment with them to meet in the Milky Way afar.
Li Bo overwhelms one with the powerful yet simple use of imagery in this particular poem. You’ll see him walking alone, with a pot of wine, the moon shining above and his shadow dancing along. Loneliness is what drives him, hope is what is hidden. Maybe he laments for the dead past or he cries to see the uncertain future, but he is definitely, truly in the present. The moon, his shadow, his two close friends, vouch for it.
Read more about the poem and the translator’s take on it here. For the poem’s literal translation, click here.
Stopping for a while, I look down from the bridge. I cannot hear the river flowing by, it must be very deep. I cannot see through the dense cold fog, yet I keep gazing. My footsteps cannot be traced, nor can I trace someone else’s footsteps. A skylark’s song breaks the reverie. What lies at the end? ‘Shush’, I tell my mind. What is the hurry, I question it back; the end is the end.
Taking a deep breath, I start walking ahead. The fog engulfs me for a moment and then disappears just to reveal the endless bridge. My eyes glistens, my mind speaks up, ‘seemingly real?’
Endless footprints following footprints/
When suddenly a few of them rise/
To bloom like a flower.
Greetings!
A storyteller, following the ancient tradition of cave chroniclers, standing in vrikshasana (the tree pose) on a hill top (it is sunny, but windy), breathing in and out stories (relishing it all, but at times overwhelmed), declares animatedly that she will continue to – tell stories, share rare story gems, and connect with the pacy universe while also keeping the website ad-free.
Big thanks to my readers. Stay tuned!
Also, a humble request to the new subscribers to check the spam folder after subscribing. Silly (but necessary) confirmation emails often land there instead of the bright inboxes. Merci!
Ya-hoy!
Chiming Stories (formerly Home Chimes)
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Gabbeh, the 1996 film, is a simple tale of a gipsy girl, her clan and the way their life goes on. Unfolding beautifully just like an artist painting a canvas, Gabbeh quietly touches the grand questions.
Ranked as one of the greatest British films of all time, The Lavender Hill Mob confides in the audience, letting them see, feel, laugh and think without tickling persuasively with a joke here and a punch-line there.
Godard… Breathless and Alive
A Tribute to Jean-Luc Godard, the Film Philologist who Reinvented Cinema.
Yes fly! For walking on the second track is dull and usual, but dreaming high, high, high requires tools. Tools like the right pair of shoes, a chirpy, gritty soul that eats butter-jam dreams, a soul that drinks milky-milky creams.
Silver cascade shimmering the night sky, music to the waves and surreal beauty to the eyes, the Moon loves the art of discipline.
It may be difficult to believe for the Moon’s splendour defies time, it stupefies the clock, it follows the path of a dreamer, but how could this be possible if the Moon knew not discipline?
In this moment, I am a little bit of this and a little bit of that, I am complete and incomplete, I am pleased and uncertain, I wish for nothing and I know I have to wait.
Because the distance covered reminds me of the hurdles I have crossed and the ones I could not, it reminds me of a throbbing past and a dreamy future and it reminds me of how much time is left.
Meredith and the Green Lake
Illimitable Splendour
A joy so complete without any rise or fall, so free without any time corners, so real without true being false, false being true.
