No cake, this time, for us. A broken fifth sounds hollow, but right; My company this sedative night - A cold bright beam, gives off no musk. Perhaps the climate is to blame, (surely, feelings can't be lame) Or else, the stars. You know - they fall in heaps these days And no one ever… Continue reading Once in August
The idea of explaining music or putting it into words has never been sympathetic to me. Superficial talks about the nature of Music also leave me untouched and skeptical, even more so now than before. I had held many such talks, I believed in them, I was disappointed in them. They resembled 50/50 versions at… Continue reading Sounds of Verses
Nothing ever dies And no one is more alive, Than your severe and ironic rhymes. In blind man's darkness I seek my tunnel reddened by distant lights; I don't see the righteous Neither do I look behind. What can I do but advance, Given no light, though gifted a guide. A guide who took me… Continue reading In memoriam J.B.
Five years ago today, I made my way home across 8000 km of sky, land, and ocean. I'd been away for 12 years. I sat suspended, tasting the feel of Time on my lips, looking down at retreating lands veiling a future being minutely drawn over with dense cloud coverage. I was but a somnambulist… Continue reading The Fifth Anniversary
What do you think of the famous questions dating back to 19th century Salons of Paris, later given the name of the Proust Questionnaire? Marcel Proust, the great author of the 7-volume life-long work "In Search of Lost Time" had answered similar questions twice, however without any part in their invention or wording. I sit, thinking,… Continue reading Proust Questionnaire
"Life is worth living, even in a prison cell" said Artur Rubinstein. These words had always caused conflicting emotions in me. While believing in their completely unhypocritical power, it had always escaped me how they're possible in hard core reality. "Life is worth living, even in a prison cell". A strong and demanding statement which few… Continue reading P.S. on Joseph Brodsky’s ‘In Praise of Boredom’
Autumn Isn't dreary, autumn isn't a maid grown old. Autumn is a maid stripped bare. By rain, by wind, by human hand. Undressed. Left to live with bare essentials. Only thus, she shall come to know the bare essence of things. And waiting for new times she will praise these. What she's waiting for is… Continue reading A thought on Autumn
The Season of Phantasmal Peace BY DEREK WALCOTT Then all the nations of birds lifted together the huge net of the shadows of this earth in multitudinous dialects, twittering tongues, stitching and crossing it. They lifted up the shadows of long pines down trackless slopes, the shadows of glass-faced towers down evening streets, the shadow… Continue reading The Season of Phantasmal Peace