Behind the Iron Curtain

2 Feb

Sorry for the long break people but work is really catching up with me! Anyway, this poem was written back in the 10th Grade when I was studying Churchill’s famous speech wherein he referred to “The Iron Curtain” for the first time. Its a name that stuck for 50 years and is what many historians still use to denote Soviet territories from as Churchill put it, “From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic.”

This poem attempts to capture and identify emotions held behind that mythical wall through the years of the Cold War. Here’s hoping you’ll enjoy it!

Berlin;
Chase the little boy,
Chase him down the little road. And when you glimpse red.
You fear you may lose your head.

In Prague;
Jump on a bicycle;
Loose your self in the stony streets. And when you glimpse red.
You fear you must salute.

And then in Warsaw; Explore the recent ruins; Admire death camps.
And when you glimpse red. You fear you must obey.

Make it to Budapest;
Savor the best of chocolates. And when you glimpse red.
You fear the voice in your mind.

Live until Moscow;
Raise a toast at the Kremlin. Admire the ancient foods
And when you glimpse red;
You fear you have made it too far.

Look back at the curtain;
It’s no longer there.
That’s because you’ve faced it. And it has rusted away.

A barrier of the mind.
Melted;
You’ve become red.

Link

G-14 Opening Speech

21 Jan

G-14 Opening Speech

A very short speech I gave at the International Youth Conference addressing the future and talking about expectations from the conference.

Thrilled to say that committee went every bit as well as we’d expected if not better.

As Yet Untitled

21 Jan

(I’m getting a hang of these italicised paragraphs where you can really get into my head. In this next poem, I have consciously tried to use some abstract techniques and create a few questions. To all those who wonder, the character I speak of is indeed the creator. This poem is as yet untitled because I can’t yet find an appropriate title for it. I do hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have writing it. P.S. I wrote after watching a miserable ballon maker sell his wares on Marine Drive. Thank you.)

Come to me, the voice whispered.

Soft solace searching, darkness scared.
An artist amidst this all.
His definition stretched.
His art, not extending to the realm of art,
His art, the art that ticks the clock.
The world pays no tribute to his brush.
For it his brush that paints each sunrise
In all this, this artist, like any other.
Oblivious to the world he’s created.
Drowned in his muse. No space for thought.
Shades of green hit his eye.
It is a new colour. Left enamoured.
No search yet done but this one, the one.
Come whisper in my ear.
Tell me what you want.
I make animal balloons, don’t be afraid.
The madness of the maker challenged.
The rubber grating of two balloons.
And he thought he’d had a giraffe there.
But all he had was a knot tying the two.
The maker convinced it was what he intended to make.
And so, the boy, the whisperer,
Who had long given hope up.
Sighed, another balloon wasted.
The promised giraffe would never come.
Any art ever made unintentional the rest, natures play.

What Canvas Told

13 Jan

(Okay, so I thought I’g give this one a little bit of a background. Of late, I have found myself entirely captivated by Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris and Vicky Christina Barcelona. I found his portrayal of art and the artist to be quite interesting. So, the back drop of this poem is the world of an artist, or atleast someone who thinks she’s an artist (because don’t we all today?). Like art, I’ve attempted rather consciously to keep the poem abstract! Do tell me how you like it. Thank you)

Cigarettes brush the flow, 

Alive for that short transitory moment
The moment that follows,
A bare sole takes its life away.
 
That bare soul, staring on ahead,
A canvas, colours strewn;
Frustration in red. Calm in white.
And yet, this one, in black.
 
‘What feeling is it?’ asks she
And yet, the colours flow.
With intensity, anger yet emptying itself.
Insanity choosing a new abode.
 
Canvas it is. In that sheet of black,
What lay behind? The artist would know.
And yet, like the butt on the ground.
Clueless. Its art says she. 
 
Disappeared, not a thought. Dumped at the back.
But the canvas gnaws at the head. 
The greatest made? Far from it. 
At the top of the mind. Right up.
 
The canvas. The emptiness filled with darkness.
With it. In it. Filled in music.
Those spanish guitars, with their pain.
That violin with its grief.
 
And it never happened that it gave any answers.
Only questions arose.
One thing though, the artists aspiration. Shattered.
What did Poe say? Fell in love with melancholy.
 
She knew it’d happen one day. Earlier than hope. 
What canvas told…She hadn’t dared ask.
 

Cosmic Latte

6 Jan

And in the beginning,It all began.
Oh great creator whisper now,
“Now”
And with those words it all began.

Stars blending into darkness
Into the black velvet; settling in,
There to stay.

The stars arrived,
Time has begun,
Universe in motion.
The cosmos blending
Mitigating the effect.

A latte, a rich blend.
Heated and waiting to be consumed.
A rich cream on top, men calling it the milky way.

Oh great creator, grant us one last opportunity
To consume our lives and taste the cosmic blend.
We have this moment to integrate life and blend the darkness in.

The beans won’t alter truth,
Merely enhance illusion.
And you’re on a kick, feel the wonder,
The universe, my dear, beckons

In Sight

24 Dec

By the seaside,Each day, unlike the last.

The fog shifting, sand sifting

The water at once azure and green

Racing into the starlight; an endless horizon.

Beyond this horizon,

At the edge of reality and illusion

Hides within its facets,

A dream.

In all this laughter and all this cry,

There’s only one thing to do and that is try.

For great thinker of the burning cauldron

The dream is always there.

In sight, it lies within

The things that it would do.

The warmth of war; wild and smouldering.

Keeping alive.

Don’t lose sight, Its there.

The dream in touching range.

Gone; again.

The horizon too far to touch.

What of that beyond?

The Sound of Silence

11 Dec

When I see you,

I run out of things to say.

I really need you

Cause the sound of silence…the sound of silence

Makes you stay.

 

The sound of silence

The sound of two hearts beating

The sound of silence

The silence of all the worlds feelings.

 

When I hear you,

I run out of things to fear

Cause the sound of silence…the sound of silence

Makes me brave.

 

The sound of silence

The sound of two hands meeting

The sound of silence

The silence of all the minds cheating.