Spelling.

A Triumph to the pint sized participants of Spelling Bee. For me, they are a down fall.

Peepers.

Lashes like a majestic Palm's leaves
Bedeck Veils that flutter
Gracing glances
Of Her Glances.
Lotus Petals ? Almonds ? Shining jewels ?
Enormity of the Oceans ?
Cast of the infinite skies ?
Words fall flat,
Expressions short -
To capture the glory
Of her Eyes!

Resolve.

Lost and found - Peace of mind, Love for writing and a sentence to keep my blog going!

Books, Writers and Beyond.

Okay, no marks for a creative title. Deal!

Bible comics were the initiation into the world of reading for me. I remember Cane and Abel and Moses vividly from those drawings. My third grade teacher, Sr. Gracy was the influence. I was more drawn towards reading than towards the religion ironically.

The first novel I'd read was "anonymous letters" by Agatha Christie. I was charmed by Ms.Christie's brains and prowess to create suspense.

I read a few Nancy Drew files, Hardy Boys, Ruskin bond, Anita Desai, Sherlock Holmes, Mark Twain and R L Stevenson in that period. Agatha Christie made the lasting impression plot wise. I was immensely influenced by Mark Twain.

The first grown up novel I'd read was by Jeffrey Archer. I read The Almighty, Cane and Abel, Daddy and a few Danielle Steel ones in that period. Cane and Abel was a real page turner.

I had a chance to read a few Mills and Boons when vacationing with my cousin Nalini after my high school. I remember finishing a Mills and Boon skipping an evening trek with the rest of the gang. M&Bs never excited me probably because I was already past seventeen by then or because the plots were always the same. A Billionaire playboy, a forthright and stunningly beautiful virgin. Both meet, reforms happen, Love happens, heart breaks happen and the end is all Cinderella types. Though the names and locations do change, giving the reader some credit to intelligence.

I read Anna Karenina in my teens. I thought it was a great classic. At the same time I'd read "the Autobiography of a Yogi" The book changed the course of my life. I am not a disciple but The Yogi continues to cross paths with me ever since.

Finders Keepers is one pulp fiction book that really was nice.

Sandra Brown writes chick flick kind of fiction. They are very absorbing without having the overly sweet 'M&B feel to them.

Ayn Rand does nothing to me. I think her style of writing is very very dry for lack of a worse word. Yeah, I know it kind of sounds insulting to all those friends of mine who'd read "fountain head" a zillion times but please excuse me. Better yet - Pardon me.

The DaVinci Code failed to form it's impression upon me. rather I failed to understand what the hoopla about Dan Brown was.

Middlesex is one great, off beat book I'd read. So is "The Death of Vishnu" by Manil Suri.

Jumpha Lahari has a very keen observation. The imagery in her writings click high resolution pictures for the reader. I wish I could write short stories like she does. After reading (and loving) Jhumpa, I read Chitra Banerjie Devakaruni. I wanted to like her, but I didn't.

R K Narayan is the best Indian writer in my humble and honest opinion.

"The Life of Pi" is a must read. I will read it again one of these days. That book is what I call 'world class writing'

Philippa Gregory is a great writer. I love the way she weaves facts into fiction. I am yet to read more of her.

John Steinbeck reminds me of Bapu, the Telugu director in a very strange way. Steinbeck's style of writing is divine.

John Grisham works read effortlessly. I love the way he makes me feel after completing a book - accomplished, intelligent and satisfied with the way I spent my time.

Danielle Steel is still in my 'read' list. Some of her characters are memorable.

Poetry inspires me. I self-studied many works by John Keats. He is the kind of person I'd go on a date with If I'd lived in his day. Shakespeare's works are a boon to the human kind. I particularly like his Sonnets. Wordsworth is a wordsmith. I love him to death.

The one poem that is an eternal memory is Andrew Marvell's 'Garden". I am yet to figure out if it is the poet or the teacher that had taught me the poem that makes the poem immortal for me. Sir did teach me one thing though - the way a poem must me appreciated. I am forever indebted to him for unfolding to me, the joy of a beautifully written poem.

J K Rowling is a creator in her own right. I am baffled by her fertile imagination and the way she bought back my childhood when I was ready to bear a child. I read Harry Potter series back to back while carrying Aarti. I sometimes stayed awake till wee hours just to complete a Harry Potter book. I am ready to read and reread all of them if time permits.

Gulzar is a poet that can flirt with sorrow and make it sound and feel like joy. I find javed Akhtar repetitive.

Sirivennela SitaramaSastry is a legend. I can never cease to wonder at the kind of imagination and creativity that crosses his mind. I think Veturi is not consistent. He is excellent at one time and mediocre at another.

My Friend Avinash writes like a pro. His style of writing is refreshing, funny and very shrewd. I treasure his numerous letters as I'd treasure my copy of Anna Karenina.

to be continued.

Lover and Loved.

An attachment to you,
Latched on like a hungry infant
To its mother's breast
Quenches the thirst of my love.

A cord pulls me tighter
Towards an attraction
Called You.

A word, a thought, a simple feeling
A fluid expression, a rigid emotion,
A happy dance in celebration ,
A soulful symphony playing,
A meaningless worry.
An irking concern.

Someone yearns
To be united,
With you in soul
To feel good
In theirs !

Block.

Tick tick tick...the keys on the laptop sound like a feeble, off key music playing in a distance. The blue bed light cuts through the darkness of the room. Brightly illuminated screen on the laptop beams overpoweringly into a sleepy face, smothering the eyes with it's brightness. The windows of thought shut themselves creating pitch darkness in the auditorium of creativity.

Distant sounds, rumble of the thermostat, the rhythm of inhalation and exhalation fill the dead of the night like seedlings of life. Everything seems to be functioning - the key board, fingers, the bed light, the eyes, the lungs.

Everything except something grey.
Yes, something grey is in slumber! I fail, I attempt, I fail.

Okay, my work here is done!


:-)

Doltish?

Sometimes time comes to a standstill. Moments freeze in volatile joy or viscous sorrow. Sometimes birds seem to wander in the invisible air, like souls trapped in the webs of attachment. Flowers seem to long for a second glance from passersby, dresses in their best hues. Sometimes little babies stare like they need to feel something with their eyes., Like they need to utter out a word or two with their fixed gaze. Sometimes people deceive themselves into believing that material things are here to stay. Sometimes they lose their consciousness, kill their conscience in a mad pursuit of pleasure. Sometimes happiness lingers around in corners of peoples' houses, disguised as a blooming cherry or a weeping willow , but people drive with their tinted windows pulled up to unknown destinations of hopefulness or is it hopelessness?
Sometimes lethargy lingers in the soul like the smoke of stale cigarettes in an overloaded ashtray. All we need to do would be to dump the filth in a trash can but we are way too lethargic to do that simple act. Sometimes people repeat a false so many times that it starts sounding true. Sometimes they squish the truth under the feet of their selfishness so much so that it disforms itself into a false.
Sometimes people say what they do not mean. Sometimes they mean what they do not say. Sometimes people judge ruthlessly, blindly - conveniently forgetting about their own shortcomings that are ushered into the deathly silence of ego.
sometimes they nurture grudges feeding them with a miracle-grow named hatred. Sometimes they let their whims decide the course of their destiny.
Sometimes smiles are forced, tears are faked and compliments are contorted into sharp sarcasm. Sometimes lives are wasted, Love is hoaxed and lust is celebrated.
Sometimes God is forgotten! Sometimes God's voice is overpowered with that of the devil's.

Sometimes we just let things be. Sometimes, sometimes is repeated several times , in a desperation to keep a blog alive as sometimes a wee break can manifest itself into an edifice like break.