Poem: Time

For you, I’d change the world,

back many moons, those unchained hay days

when we were young, not an ounce of weight

upon these slim shoulders weighed

nor a map for the road, just the sky as it were

dark, vast and sparkling

under whose influence we swayed

like young branches of now old trees

beside whom many a words were whispered

of promises and dreams dared for

despite the impossibility of mountains

out of mole hills

and dates that dissolved

a bit too soon for my liking

and there it was, that old age staring back

from the lined face for each lifetime I lived

in amongst the many stories told.

Time, how it changes worlds.

Poem: Bygone ways

Can it be you can breathe fire

in place of air?

Or touch the hot ice where ever it lay?

Feel the still wind against your skin,

or swim amongst the frozen water

like it all made sense?

Does the moon’s rays reach you like a fireplace 

and the sun douse out the heat of the night? 

Do mockingbirds sing of disarray

or can that all be repaired to the corners of mental grey?

Do the words sound melodious to the dead,

the colours brighter in blindness,

or the well toned muscles feel frayed?

So silly. 

So silly it is, the vanity of all that exists. 

For a moment forget, forget that you live not for you,

but for me,

the bygone ways. 

Poem: Be Dubious

What a weird piece this one is. Weird indeed. So how does it read? 🙂 tell me, tell me all.

Dubious
just be dubious
a little mysterious
even dare say frivolous
as the edges of the day frays
like a splash of crimson
in front of your hazy eyes,
the mighty they fall
as lead upon the soil
tired from trials and tribulations
of love, life and joy
or lack thereof
instead unwind
unravel curious
blinded by faith, that
the Sun may rise again in the East.
Certain.
As certain as the nightfall beyond I spy.
Dubious, be dubious
such is life.

Poem: Mistress of time

Sometimes the pen stands ready
as though a sentinel guarding
the sacred place where you lay resting
the words mere few and ordinary
when strung, begin singing,
whispering a precious tale
the lore of love, lost and gained
through time beyond centuries,
as though within these live the soul
young and old
precariously balancing
the lore from reality.

Some moments remain
some lost, erased,
as though a mistake upon the tapestry.

Life,
what a mistress of time you be
where guarded you are by fate
the scrawling ink upon the ageing story.

You, me,
all but temporary,
just a passing story.

Poem: Chains and Keys

Hold my hand and don’t let go
of the old dreams and memories,
hold my hand and don’t you throw
the keys and chains though rusty
the younger days of youth may know
how the breeze feels down by the night sea
spent with freedom and zeal
but don’t you let your heart feel
the years that have crept up too frequently
my bones may ache and scream, down by the old tree
in the backyards of hard country
but they sure know the meaning behind the veil
that life ain’t made for wasting
the best days, those that seem to look aplenty
ain’t no old man be regretting a life lived,
a life seen.

Youth,
they may be carefree, fearless with an air of invincibility
but they be just as likely to waste it in an eye’s blink.
So, hold my hand and don’t let go
your life in exchange for longevity,
don’t be a fool, go back to school
learn about the dark side of drugs and drinks
and wiped out nights that no longer stay in memory.
Hold my hand and don’t let go,
you each deserve a chance to grow old.

(Dedicated to all the youth struggling with addictions etc. especially the ones who tragically couldn’t hold on. 2013 was a year with many tragedy hitting the news. Hope this year will not be the same. Take care.)

Writing: FYI Writers have the most trouble writing of anyone!

Well, before I dig into this piece, I’d just like to express your surprise which no doubt peaked your interest in this particular post. ‘What the?!’, ‘How’s that possible?’, ‘Absurd!’, ‘Don’t be silly. Why would writers have trouble writing?!’

Yes, laugh at the idea, but this idea isn’t just mine but shared by a lot more people than one tinny-tiny Nepali writer and a naturalized Aussie (a.k.a, me!)

20131216-205125.jpg

Thomas Mann pinned that donkey’s tail quite accurately. I confess! I have a lot of difficulty writing. It’s not just the act of writing that is painful but all the aftermath, the emotions that are hard to handle, the anguish whether you did it well, how it will be perceived etc.

Think about it. A writer lives in the story realm for a very lengthy process: from inception of story, to character development, story development, writing process, countless editing process, and then the final draft! No one else, not the reader, nor actors of screenplay/plays etc. spend as much time being the character as much as the writer. Nope. No one but the writer knows that character, and ALL other characters, their motives and drive in a single story in such depth. In fact, I think I’m safe in telling you all that when these characters are written in stories, writers ‘become’ the characters. We don’t just understand the characters and try and portray them as an actor would, but for the duration of the writing process, we are the characters of stories, telling ‘our’ story. We see, feel, say, touch, taste everything the character does in that time we are them – or at least it feels very real, every situation they are in.

Now, go back to Mann’s statement; that writers have the most trouble writing. Can you not see why this is now? We are not only being the people who the stories are about, but we also have to learn to separate ourselves in an odd way simultaneously so than we may be able to jot down the story as we ‘play’ it. Then, to add more weight to this task, we have to constantly be aware of the POV of the story: whether first person, third/omnipresent, and the structure of the language, words and their meanings etc.

It’s all a lot to handle. No wonder sometimes the question ‘How do you write?’ gets asked, and I guess we will all tell you, we do not know how. All we know is that it is ‘one word at a time’ like Stephen King once noted. One word at a time; for our mental capacity is already so preoccupied with a hell of a lot more that is going on than on the actual ‘task’ of writing.

When I write, I’m not apart of the writing to be able to pause and look on what I’ve done so far. That tasks comes when we take a haitus from a story and need to jog our memory. No. When I write, my main trouble is in the story and how it may be unfolding.

After all the writing and editing comes the hardest thing I have to do; release the story with excitement and apprehension.

Will it do well? Won’t it? Will it read well or won’t it? Will they (the readers) feel the characters, be in their head, or won’t they?

Will they like me, or won’t they?

Yep. At the end of it all, the main reason we struggle to write reveals itself: me! The idea that the author invests so much time on their characters that it is said, (and I wholly agree) that each character possesses something of the author, they are the author. And who wouldn’t be nervous being scrutinized by readers such?

Not me. Hell, I’m even a tad nervous every time I post something or other in this blog. Why? Anxiety. Did you like it, or not? And that is the naked truth!

Life Thread

Will you not come home
step into the life
into the very threads sown?

Reach the Sky

I don’t know what it is about today but here is another reflective piece. I usually don’t write on this topic. Hope you like it anyway.

Reach the Sky
Lets reach up to the sky my dear
let us touch the blue heavens
and feel the wonder of it.
Lets pull down a cloud
wrap in its cool surround
and feel the vapor of life.
Maybe we can climb up high
into the air unleashed
and feel the breeze whisper and breathe.
Like the birds may we soar
higher and higher flight
to glimpse beyond the blue – the universe.
Let us try this one time, or the other
to break free from life bound
and reach the one who made us.

Stocktake Life

The joys do bring
the years that have been
through many sunrise and sunset
many a days that go missing
where do you start
that stocktake of life
when half the time
spent in search
of the elusive thing
called meaning
where do you turn
from this point on
do we turn back
through the knotted maze
and emerge ever whole?
the joys do bring
the memories been
their faded frayed ends glistening
but nonetheless
it’s yours to keep
the joys that may come
beyond today
take stock – fill them to rim
beyond this moment
the joys are not free
as a child’s
the joy of more sunsets
without mortal requiem