fabric of truth

And then a drop of rain
slid through the yellow scales
leaving on its wake a watery trail
A beetle approached, on the leaf it lodged
the leaf with a sigh bent -
and it shed the watery gem
on the grey folds of a tiny humorless pebble below

This scene they enacted before my eyes
yet I cannot concede
that the beetle was sent to make the leaf bend
so that I could see
all the places where the vagabond water perches -
as the clouds retreat

I keep running around the corridors of Thought
looking for something I no longer apprehend
And keep repeating to myself - why the beetle,
the beetle, to the leaf it went?

I dig a hole here and poke a finger there
But I never manage to get through the door
I have no clue what I'll find on the other side
a book, a gong or maybe a grail or another door?

Or perhaps a garden breathing fresh, after a light shower
And then the drop of rain
would slide through the yellow scales yet again
And a mad beetle would complete
the selfsame act that destiny ordained

Pray say truth is not what lies behind that door
its woven everywhere in all I see, do and hear
like a pattern 
through the fabric
of time and space

amateurish aesthetics

Beauty seems to be that aspect which makes infinite meditation possible. So the beauty of the flower inspires the poet to compose a beautiful verse which sets off a series of composition by those inspired by the beautiful verse and so on.. The flower, the scene, the sky, the bird the river, the maiden are just forms which in a certain sense contain the possibility of this infinite meditation.. anything derived from them.. possess this character too..

But in what exactly does this quality lie? At times its the entire scene, at times its a particular shade of sky's pink or a particular bent of a plant's stem... perhaps it depends on who is looking for it... In that respect too what the form holds within itself is a web of possibilities and appeals..

So maybe there is a difference between possessing beauty, which is a characteristic of all forms and being beautiful which is an appeal to particular mind(s)...

Its getting difficult now to write poetry or to even think about fiction. Feels as if every single line will squeeze the life out of me. That I've to be mad, not just a little bit-which I'm already, but let madness take over me in a fit of delirium. Words and sentences, which at first are as garbled as the noise made by the radio when tuned in between two genuine stations, yet which in their absurdity begin to form a life of their own, have to be impregnated with some divine essence like the painter's madness taking birth in roman signs.

What happened to those imageries of a writer carefully planning his next moves, why suddenly he has to be in a maddening fit to sit between his reality and his fiction, has to be on the border on the verge of a reality he lives and the reality he creates. And there then standing on the cusp.. half tempted by the suicide so many writers commit by jumping into their own stories, yet not being able to somehow escape featuring altogether, he imagines and creates, the former in images the latter in words, another life and world.

Those who are all so sane are altogether dull. Of all the millions of imaginary conversations I've had with real people, and of the million of strange twists and turns I've rendered to bizarre endings of life's phases, if even one was real, I would have been sure that I was mad enough. Not yet..