Month: January 2017

Sapphire and Salt

Poetry

Sapphire and Salt

Melting into each other under mellow heat;
Upon my restless skin, your tender hide wanders.

Some unearthly shivers, down my back astray;
As the droplets of your might add more black to my grey.

The Sun, the Moon bow down at our feet;
While under the stars, your hips to my lips greet.

Like dew to a petal, a pianist’s fingers on the keys;
You roll into my slipping grip with lathering ease.

Until the time comes, for us to lack;
You shall, like always, only tide back.

Then again in a quantum moment we live our eternal halt;
Between the stretches of this continuum join,

your sapphire and my salt.

poetry by – Deven

artwork by – @EroticWatercolor

Islands

Uncategorized

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I hear them flock
To my wet sands;
In packs of many
Or disarrayed bands.
Some arrive waving wings to the wind’s roars,
Others come floating on the dancing oars.
I have heard from the tides, what it would be like;
To have life on my untouched terrain, taking a hike.
Every first light I hear a million singing their songs,
By every setting sun only a handful stay along.
The ones holding on are nothing but stray,
Finding their solace in my comforting hay.
Since the beginning of time islands like me have longed for love,
Sometimes to my shores, even empty boats are enough…

Half

Poetry

Blood Moon Partial Lunar Eclipse, 4:4:15 Nashik

Lying half naked in the timid laps of the sky
In it’s unveiling self, the moon half unsatisfied.
Searches for the other half, tattered, in the winter cold.
Trying his best to fit the mould.
Unfit, and outcast, amongst the other things that hang out in space.
For quite a while he carries along time, this half disgrace.
Until one night after losing all hope, he finds out his pointless worries have been wrong.
And turns a bit only to see his other half has been there all along…

Symphony

Poetry

Pheromones'

Her hair painted by the sun himself
Pearls like cosmic orbs embraced her neck
Under the shadow her shape left on the soil
Lays my cosmos as a mere speck.
Autumn leaves tore themselves from the sky every time she turned around
Struck her strings as they touched the ground,
As if the spring had blossomed not elsewhere but only upon the flushed palms that met mine.
I have heard them play, every part of her; a cello, a violin, a sitar,
She whispered to me the music of her voice on an untuned guitar.
Like a flawless tune from a seasoned musical,
Like an early morning dream of a pianist,
Her silence envelopes a thousand orchestras,
Her every word like an insist.
By her lips played the air a flute
Under her feet the earth sounded tambourines,
As I dance in utter hypnosis to her unending symphonies…

poem by  Deven

artwork by @alphachanneling

Empty Heads

The Science of Doing Nothing and the Art of Wasting Time

Life and Other Such Things

The notorious imp of eternal idle-ship has crept under the blankets of us the young every now and then. As it did about a few months ago, infest me, in my most vulnerable time; I obviously have had a lot of spare day dreaming periods in hand to think about the graveness of this topic. It’s not so very difficult, letting the feather of laziness weigh you down in one spot for elongated clusters of tick-tocks, in an utter unwillingness to move and let it fly away. For it’s very characteristic, to give you the feeling that your extravagant expenditure of hours on the ‘jobless beach’ has a certain superpower to stop time from running at your will, is addictive and most temptingly unavoidable. That those who waste time are fools, I know not if it’s true; but I know this for sure that the falsity or truth of it has no whatsoever effect on it’s widely practiced traditions and socially accepted cults. To the extent that certain practitioners, or devotees, or victims (as some may address to these sans motivation creatures) do so in groups, together, in closed environments and in public.

That was all about others, now coming back to myself (since I am the writer and a selfish one), I have realised that there is no way in which it (wasting time and doing nothing) can be labelled good or evil. It (wasting time and doing nothing) really depends upon how you perceive the undertakings that underlie this imprudent passing of time. “Doing Nothing” does not mean what it literally means, but that the individual occupied in doing nothing is doing nothing physically that it is supposed to or that is materialistically productive. But while you are doing nothing, there is a lot your mind is doing, like introspection, cosmic reflection, decision-making, day dreaming, admiring nature, hearing sounds, tasting tastes, smelling smells, weirdly staring out into a nothingness… Psychologically, “doing nothing” involves mental processes that are complex and vital to every social organism’s life cycle, and hence doing nothing is a ‘science’. “Wasting time” on the other hand is something one can go wild with; from just the good old “breath-in breath-out” to creating a huge dominoes queue just to watch it fall (like our future will), there are infinite ways of doing it. There exists a ginormous amount of brilliant and productive ways of wasting time and hence ‘wasting time’ is an ‘art’.

While my time in this cozy imprisonment of doing nothing or wasting time, I have realised though a serious side effect. And since the time it all started I have had but one question, “Why my art has to suffer?”. Ironically enough, though I find my cranky misspent pendulum swings quite poetic, I suffer from a severely constipated mind. It’s like a poem, an idea, is right there hurdled up somewhere in my brain but it just doesn’t want to be put down on paper; and hence in a long time I have not been able to produce any worthy material worth reading (just like this piece of writing). My wasting of time very stereotypically involves warming the bed in my room while I watch an endless thread of cinema. Which is sometimes accompanied by a glass of some cheap whiskey or rum to make the whole experience a psychedelic one. Although as a filmmaker, in shameless and forceful optimism, I hope all this viewing of films shall some day help me grow in the field. For now, only the thought that it might help is enough to continue with this trend…

The biggest paradox but is to be unfolded now. In personal observational study (a part of my ‘doing nothing’ time) I have found that most of my best works have come after a long exertion of boredom. ‘Boredom’ is like a vehicle that the science of doing nothing and the art of wasting time ride on; like two pals humming tunes, walking in a random direction, thinking they’re invincible. The rate of boredom is directly proportional to the rate of doing nothing and the possibility of quality in writing, at the same time. But, the rate of boredom yet is indirectly proportional to the quantity of writing I do. Wait no, I think I made a mistake there. May be not. Ok basically, the more bored one is, the more the chance that that person will do nothing productive. But, the more bored one gets, the more there is chance of that person coming up with great things, only distributed over vast gaps of wasted time.

Alas most of my best works are results of pure boredom. But does boredom have any ‘necessary connection’ to quality of work is yet to be found. It is very uncertain and unexperimented upon, and hence it is not yet a science. Next time I shall be a bit more aware while doing nothing, and ponder upon the labyrinths of ‘boredom as a science’, may be that would be a successful way of doing nothing.

P.S. I don’t know for sure whether this article is another one of my creations with which I have wasted my time. But if you, have read this whole article, you have certainly successfully wasted yours.

Bibliography : Mental Conjectures by Doing Nothing

Inspiration : Time by Pink Floyd and critique of my own products formed by wastage of time.

yours truly,

Deven