Writing – storiesofmigrant

I am a Slow Learner

As you talk all around the dinner table,
I cannot comprehend that which you elucidate.
I cannot understand , they are all disjointed syllables.
I listen, I sincerely strive to know. It is all hollow.
I yearn to be on your level field. I aspire empty.
Now helpless, I look down at the disarray of my thought.
I pretend to eat but deep within, I really want to cry.
I cannot, because I am a man though a child in your eyes.
As you laugh, I smile in instinct to preserve to earn approval.
I am standing at the base of the flue , of the chimney.
I desire to be you. I know I cannot be you.
I am just me.
Me and my rage.
All that I see is the hope in your eye.

Why do we blog?

Is it
to fill the emptiness in our lives with granules of thoughts?
Because
we believe we have something to say?
we cannot speak and so we write?
we are filled with bitterness at what we see?
Run away from all of them and all of these?
we love and dare not say it?
of the strange urge of self- expressionism?
we wanna document our experiences for posterity?
believe that the message is in the medium?
no one notices me otherwise?
of my urge to escape reality?
I really need a group to belong?
I have nowhere else to turn?
I am intensely lonely?
It is just vanity publishing?
Could you tell me why you blog?

River Ganges

As you unlock yourself from the Himalayas,

Hurling boulders as they gurgle along side you,

Reformat this ancient, harrowed , civil terrain,

I stand by your decrepit bank in fear and awe,

Touch your cold water to soothe my torments

Wash my sins, drench my dilapidated emotions,

Watch the decrepit dirt slip away in the splash of your colours

I think of my ramshackle past, then, snap the tenuous thread

Death of thought, of reflect, of felt, of sensate, of disgust,

Birth of light, of detach, of spirit, so indifferent, of calm,

A thousand lamps lit along you in hurried, hazy hues

Each one a tear drop of time, your biographer,

Me lost save in your arms , so welcome icy cold,

You drench with your countless drops, chill my fire within.

Faces

Faces-
They come back to me in time,
I see them repeating as before,
Visages which seem the same,
They remind- stirrings once more,
From among crowd, they haunt,
The stares- the mind they challenge,
Memories, they nudge and taunt,
Rise from the ashes of passage,
Anger at frothing amnesia so selective,
From the dustbin, burnt leaves reformatted,
Books of the past, in reclaims so restive,
Knocking at strained re-collective doors in regret ,
Countenances so lucid that they fade,
Into oblivion yet more jaded.

Democratization of the writer and of writing. . .

The Poem (Photo credit: Zavarykin Sergey)

Few wrote earlier.
Fewer published.
The elite read.
The miniscule number published.
We had to visit libraries to borrow books.
WordPress changed all that …
All of us write now. Or at least most of us blog…
We read each other’s writings.
There are several million blogging on a daily basis reading or writing.
We comment on what another writes.
We appreciate what the other person writes.
We encourage each other to write better.
We try not to criticise in mean manner.
We listen to the other voice.
We are multitudes; we are global…
We never knew each other until we met here.
We encourage each other and raise the bar subtly.
Raise Expectations … authors attempt to reach these expectation stars.
It is no more a feudalistic few privileged who are men of letters but several millions talking in a babble that each one of us listen to and try to comprehend… (at least we think we comprehend).
We make leaders of blog writers… we follow them…and leaders become servant leaders who follow followers…Gandhi called for servant leaders for democracy to succeed…
We are not ethnocentric. We are several nationalities and several cultures.
I call this the Democracy of the WordPress Mosaic…
May be we are all vain …
But more so I think we are what Thomas Grey wrote: ” full many a flower is born to blush unseen and lose its fragrance in the desert air…
WP gave us an opportunity to blush seen , not to be lost in the searing heat of the desert of life…
WP is what I see as proletariat power writing in force as Marx would have said…or the advancement of the plebians as Romans would have said…
And all of us write so ‘pressingly’ as Keynes would have wanted it here and now for in the long run we are dead!!!

Author’s fears- of non completion.

I have not visited you for quite some time.
No apologies.
Cannot visit.
Am up aginst a wall.
Unjust Berliner Mauer.
Formidable, daunting, bleak cliff.
Between me and creativity.
Cannot climb.
Can see no stairs.
Can see no ladder.
Every attempt, I slip back, falter, tired.
Every page I type, stares back at me in derision.
Every word I draft, seems already writ.
Every effort I agonize, seems a futile bit.
Yet I shall chip the Wall, brick by brick.
To run and reach the freedom of creativity.

An Author’s nagging doubts…

Can I deliver excellence?
Can I manage the change I need to imbibe, to absorb?
Is there a unique value proposition in what I write?
Am I focussed in what I scribble?
Is there credibility in my writings?
Am I congruent with my readers?
Am I intellectually a stimulant
Have I updated my competencies?
Can I just engage my reader?