He who hath glory lost, nor hath
Found any soul to fellow his,
Among his foes in scorn and wrath
Holding to ancient nobleness,
That high unconsortable one —
His love is his companion.
He who hath glory lost, nor hath
How old are you?, she asked.
I am at the age where all my friends are married and are worrying if they should go for fixed interest rate on their home loans, I replied
Let me begin to explain to you
When I warn you of pitfalls
It is not so that I can trick you
To swoop like a raptorial bird
And win what is rightfully yours.
It is to ever so gently remind you
That I, as you, have walked this path
And fallen. Many times over.
You ask of me a sacrifice
in the name of honour and friendship
It is not an apple or loaf of bread
that you desire, my friend
That, I’d gladly and willfully forfeit
I shall not eat, nor you
We shall starve, the two of us and
bards of the future will pen
odes to the strength
of our friendship
(Or barbs at our follies)
The object of your passion
has its own passions
It lives and breathes and chooses
And bats its scalpel eyes
I have no will over it
How can I give that which is not mine?
Harm, I do not wish you
But I must deny you
You mistake it for treason
How can I with you reason
It is not I, who lashes the welt
It is your heart that fills you
with promise and burning rage
Do not steer by its venomous voice
Lose your passions and heed me
May cooler and dare I hope
saner heads prevail
‘How do you read?’, he asked. ‘I can never finish even a detective novel and you read 1000 pages of Tolstoy’
‘It’s simple’, I said. ‘You begin at the beginning and keep going until the end’.
The Adam and Eve myth, with its dangerous Tree of Knowledge that mustn’t be touched, is paralleled in many cultures which also feel that ultimate knowledge is reserved for the gods. Most religions have a thread of anti-intellectualism, some trace of preference of faith or belief or piety rather than for knowledge, or the feeling that some forms of knowledge were too dangerous to meddle with and had best be forbidden or reserved to a few special people.
— Maslow in Towards a psychology of being
There comes a day in all our lives when we realise that we are no longer our father’s son and we step from the shadows to the light of the day. That day, which I have fought and staved off is here. I am my own man.
little dark girl with
when it comes time to
use the knife
oh! i don’t say it would
nor that i might
if it does,
I won’t flinch and
I won’t blame
on the life of bukowski.
maybe i would
but flinch, i will not.
The silence of the evening was broken by the pitter-patter of the rain. Not much of a downpour. Just enough to break the silence. My car purred in distaste to be woken up from its Oh! so lovely nap. Trilok Gurtu fought with the wind and the rain and the much-in-need-of-service-car to be heard (one of my speakers was a little whiny).Trilok wished a tree upside down and I imagined one with its roots dangling high and little squirrels running up and down in confusion.
At the lights, I had my head out, sniffing the rain and Hmmmm… Fresh earth.
Earth and rain were lovers, the folklore goes. Rain was banished to the skies by Earth’s strict father, the Sun. Rain, however, was persistent in his love. Every now and again, when the Sun was out of sight, under the cover of clouds, it would come down to meet his beloved. How the passionate lovers rejoiced!
The sun poked its head through the clouds and the rain, caught in its act, sheepishly retired. Another time, my love. Another time.
For a second, I felt like a voyeur caught peeping into the neighbour’s bedroom.
Traffic, much like my mood, was light and it took me less than one song time to reach the university. I enjoy the rain but I loved the minutes after a shower more. There was something tender, soul-stirringly sad about it.
Maybe the folklore is true and the earth does moan the departure of her lover.
Of that so sweet imprisonment
My soul, dearest, is fain — –
Soft arms that woo me to relent
And woo me to detain.
Ah, could they ever hold me there
Gladly were I a prisoner!
Dearest, through interwoven arms
By love made tremulous,
That night allures me where alarms
Nowise may trouble us;
But sleep to dreamier sleep be wed
Where soul with soul lies prisoned.
James Joyce – Chamber Music (XXII)