Haiku
[Source – Pixabay]
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Unattached, patiently, freely I go deep
Within myself and find
That love can transform it all.
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[Source – Pixabay]
WritersWorld
[Source – Pixabay]
Ode to the Book – Easy SUDOKU Puzzles
Literary Nonsense
[Image by Marie from Pixabay]
There is a book and it goes by the name
Easy SUDOKU Puzzles, it’s part of a series –
Medium SUDOKU Puzzles, Hard SUDOKU Puzzles.
All I can say is don’t buy the Easy ones.
The reason is damn straightforward,
Easy ones are way too easy and damn
Full of mistakes and it begins from the
Very first page. It makes you feel stingy.
Instead of creative juices flowing in your brain,
You fall asleep on the book and drool all over it
The book then sits eating dust and you forget it
Completely. And when you look at it, you start crying.
Friends might mock you for buying the book -Easy SUDOKU Puzzles;
They will crush your feelings and not understand,
Some will even question you as an individual.
Forget them, forgive yourself and solve the puzzles nevertheless
Or you can write a blog about it and kill the readers,
Oops!
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Reflection
Flash Fiction
The window was closed and I stood staring, the reflection looked better, I thought.
I took a step forward and could still see myself, but also the wind blowing outside. The flying leaves passed right through me and the golden rain tree caressed me gently.
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Image by Suanpa from Pixabay
Few more steps towards the window and I got closer to myself. The reflection was quiet… unlike the weather outside. I could even hear the wind, the music it played was resonant.
I forgot the reflection and saw through it as I stood by the window. The live drama outside and the rhythms playing caught me and I hummed along. I smiled.
Just then like a flash I again noticed my reflection on the window, it was also smiling this time. Immediately I changed my focus and tuned to watching the wind’s performance, smiling the whole while.
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“Only a few arrive at nothing, because the way is long.” – Antonio Porchia
Spirituality
[Source – Pixabay]
To keep walking is hard. Repeatedly dying on the way is a normal occurrence, but no less significant.
What breaks the heart often is not the crude world or a passer-by, but the heart itself. It allows itself to be crushed.
And as funny as it may sound, the truth doesn’t change that the heart also heals itself.
Let us keep aside the magical part for it blindfolds the ones with sightless minds and talks about reason and logic.
Oh! But that is already done – heart breaks itself and heals itself… very straightforward indeed. Brain, heart, brain, heart… and this is the journey.
Carrying on kills, but so does not-carrying on; carrying on also gives you a chance to live and to experience the universe. It is a long, long, long journey and then you reach nothing.
At nothing, you become everything.
Read about Antonio Porchia, the Argentinian poet here.
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MUSIC In A Silent Way
A Dedication
[Image by Lucas from Pixabay]
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Trumpet
The room was dimly lit, the colours were all crayon textured and old… they all easily submerged in it. More footsteps could be heard and voices… voices were telling each other tales only known as a secret before by some selected few. Voices were joking, but just for a while. Soon they were talking MUSIC.
Soprano saxophone and electric guitars
Rhythms were played verbally and details were given through gestures. People gathered around knew it was time… time to create. Like a charm, everyone flowed, everyone flowed and synced to reach the MUSIC.
Organ, double bass and drums
Time stopped to bask in the musical waves… the musical waves were powerful enough to capture time. It danced, yes, it did. The room stayed dimly-lit, crayon shades also didn’t change… the room and the colours were in awe like little children looking through a wire fence… even the floor swayed… in a silent way, everyone did.
Trumpet, soprano saxophone, electric guitars, organ, double bass and drums later reminded Time to move.
This post is dedicated to the studio album In A Silent Way by Miles Davis, listen to it now –
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What Made The Monk Smile?
Flash Fiction
[Image by Milena M from Pixabay]
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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.
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LINES WRITTEN
Observation
[Image by Michael Treu from Pixabay.]
Lines, full of an era’s touch, were written. Some read and understood. Some followed. They tried. And then, lines were drawn.
Lines drawn were stone-solid, iron-hard. But time can always seep through and can rust till it is dust. Thus, lines started to fade.
Lines started to change. Change bloomed. They so rightly say, whatever is unimaginable is imaginable.
Lines are narrowed down to a box. A box in the head. The head awaits to breakaway, not realising that because it awaits, it awaits.
Lines are pruned to look similar, to look contemporary, to look right.
Lines are shredded. Words crippled, meaning transformed.
Lines like a guide help a seeker. The one who is seeking life meets the mid-way end. The end is the beginning.
Are you seeking life? In this very moment?
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Li Bo
Short Coverage
[Source – Wikipedia]
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“Drinking Alone under the Moon,” by Li Bo
Translation by Paul Rouzer
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Among the flowers, a single jug of wine;
I drink alone. No one close to me.
I raise my cup, invite the bright moon;
facing my shadow, together we make three.
The moon doesn’t know how to drink;
and my shadow can only follow my body.
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.
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Moon, Moon, Moon, Moonlight
Haiku Talk
[Source – Pixabay]
In the search of a moon Haiku poem, I found how beautifully a 21st century poet addressed to his favourite classic poet –
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… lifting my cup,
I asked the moon
to drink with me …
Li Po
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And if Li Po had
got the moon in his mitts
what would he have done with it?
Cid Corman
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Today, I decided, I will stay with these words and leave rest of the search for tomorrow.
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Moon was its usual self,
I was the one, lost and fuzzy,
Moonlight still showed the way.
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The Fall
Mixed Fiction
[Source – Pixabay]
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If you fall and the fall resembles the fall of Macchu Picchu…
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The dust around you, the dust in you tells you the truth. Listen carefully. They blame the dreariness on the modern technology, but just open your eyes to see who is not moving. City streets shine blood-red and dead empty; finding fault is out of fashion now. Hiding is a fad, not believing is a fad, not feeling is a fad. You don’t check the time any more, the clock reflects grime all around. The war is also over, the hunt has ended, panic seeped within is now quelled and happily so. The dead ones are dying and the living ones are dying. You know nothing stays forever, yet you hope for a forever. Stale thoughts to no thoughts, you look outside the window, you imagine what it will be like to jump, to bring an end.
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If you fall and the fall resembles the fall of Macchu Picchu, you will rise back.
5W, 1H and a question mark.
If you go through The Heights of Macchu Picchu by Pablo Neruda, you’ll know. If you believe, you’ll know.
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[Source – Pixabay]
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Read The Heights Of Macchu Picchu by Pablo Neruda, translated by William Little, here.
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