Things on my desk

We have shifted from our original location to a newer and uninhabited island of a place. Anyways, wanted to write down what is on my desk at the moment.

1. A photograph of a girl jumping on a beach from Chromasia – with Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” on it
2. Clocks – Coldplay
3. Calvin & Hobbes
4. Snap of STAR-PLUS at Indijoes (a lovely restaurant on Airport Road) in Bangalore just before the Rehman concert (which is another amazing story)
5. Something there is that doesn’t love a wall – Akanksha
6. Hugh Macleod
7. If – Rudyard Kipling
8. Daffodils – William Wordsworth
9. Mending Wall – Robert Frost
10. Sabka Katega – bodhiTree

Other than these I have a laminated copy of a Charles Swindoll saying and some work related stuff.

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Not-so-romantic poetry

Through bash.org: 

roses are red
violets are blue
all of my base
are belong to you

Madhusala – Bachchan

Madhusala by Harivansh Rai Bachchan is one of my favourite Hindi poems of all time. Below are a few excerpts from it. You can read the entire thing here.

मुसलमान औ’ हिन्दू है दो, एक, मगर, उनका प्याला,
एक, मगर, उनका मदिरालय, एक, मगर, उनकी हाला,
दोनों रहते एक न जब तक मस्जिद मन्दिर में जाते,
बैर बढ़ाते मस्जिद मन्दिर मेल कराती मधुशाला!।५०।

आज करे परहेज़ जगत, पर, कल पीनी होगी हाला,
आज करे इन्कार जगत पर कल पीना होगा प्याला,
होने दो पैदा मद का महमूद जगत में कोई, फिर
जहाँ अभी हैं मन्दिर मस्जिद वहाँ बनेगी मधुशाला।।५३।

कभी न सुन पड़ता, ‘इसने, हा, छू दी मेरी हाला’,
कभी न कोई कहता, ‘उसने जूठा कर डाला प्याला’,
सभी जाति के लोग यहाँ पर साथ बैठकर पीते हैं,
सौ सुधारकों का करती है काम अकेले मधुशाला।।५७।

छोटे-से जीवन में कितना प्यार करुँ, पी लूँ हाला,
आने के ही साथ जगत में कहलाया ‘जानेवाला’,
स्वागत के ही साथ विदा की होती देखी तैयारी,
बंद लगी होने खुलते ही मेरी जीवन-मधुशाला।।६६।

PS: A few spellings may be incorrect but there is only that much a transliterator can do.

Poetry – Pablo Neruda

Read a lot of Neruda poems in the past few days. Here are some lines I liked.

Poetry

And it was at that age…Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

Saddest Poem

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Love Sonnet XVII

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

in which there is no I or you
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand
so intimate that when you fall asleep it is my eyes that close

~Pablo Neruda~