Peace before destruction

From within the sea

Surges a powerful smoke

Disturbs a tranquility

That I did never see

There’s written a soliloquy

Upon the flinching waves

Sings once in a while

And growls above the graves

The song of helplessness

The picnic was a mess

But the picnic was

And that I did never see

That the picnic was

Unimportance that they had felt

Now lurks behind them

And asks to care

The unimportant them

As millions in it die

The sea swells up high

Pride rests in horror

Glee rests on the shore

Pain rests everywhere

Millions in it die

But some of them survive

Daily Notes

I found myself on the street. Men and women walking, rushing, lost in their business. There were kids, too. I’m sure I saw them laugh, but it was hard to hear their laughter. It must have been sweet, bubbling laughter, washing the dust of gloom away. But I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t feel it amidst the blare of the street. I looked up, and saw no birds. No squirrels near the trees, no snakes near the pits. Too many men and women walking in disarray. Some brushed me hard on the arm, some yelled at me in anger. They wanted me to walk along or else go die in the pits. Burdened by the disappointment of fitting nowhere, I sat down on the footpath. They still walked past me, they wanted me to run along. For I was like that small pebble which held no meaning to them but was to be footed if found. I looked up and saw a bit of sky. The sun forced my eyes down, and I looked inside.

***

I was living with the hope of having somebody to tell all that was going on in my mind. There was anguish of a fight, happiness that usually comes on winning an Olympic Gold, but to me it came on bunking a class instead, tricking the guards; pain of injury, I was hit by a woman who was running breathlessly, and I felt like suing her big time because she hurt my elbow and brushed with my bag. Later, there was this idea of writing it down.

***

A huge mouthed woman slept holding her bag tightly. There were two panic-struck young girls sitting right in front of me, discussing college assignments. Sitting next to the window of the train with teal blue interior, I was crying. The sob had turned my nose red and I kept a scarf over it in order to shield it, to keep things from flowing down. The girls’ attempts at resisting an eye contact and still observing me made it easy for me to believe they had assumed I was hurt. I was not. I had only turned emotional, only that my heart was melting after reading the short biography of Henri Rousseau rendered in an online blog.

That read felt lyrical to my soul because it hurt. It hurt so deeply that I understood almost immediately that it was/could be my own song. Yes, why not! Lack of recognition shouldn’t let you down in your own eyes. We must make audacity, dignity and passion-inspite-of-failure a convention. We are bound to fail. Of course, who on earth can avoid failure. But we must have never to fail in going on, that is, if we really love to. And everybody loves some kind of art. Because art is the most beautiful and attractive phenomenon to have happened to us. Art is in compassion and in love and in faith and in hope, too. Art has various forms; all of them are celebrated; some will need some more effort to be recognized and wondered at. Effort isn’t bad, it’s phenomenal to put effort into art to make it pop heads. Because the effort goes for the art, and we benefit from it in all possible ways the best out of which is discovering self. Every human has his world fitted into his soul, and that is why we are born, to search the surprise that lies in there – a unique one for everyone.