An Ode to WH Davies- Some days are so utterly beautiful. They shake you up. So utterly calm, they rest you in spirit. Today is one such day for me. And today is a day for music and for the air to flow past you and for you to just reach around and feel it. And it is here. No deadline, no rush-hour, no office-work, no to-do lists, no buying or selling- today is just for solemn somnambulance and for contemplating the free spirit that life bestows on you one way or another. Winter is almost over- brief though it was and summer is playing peek-a-boo. And the summer- she had her own music . An enchantress who casts her spell long before she arrives. She perfumes her way much ahead of her arrival so that enraptured souls lie await in torment and await with bated breath for what is to come. Today I wish my name was Balthazar and I was in Corsica or Naples sitting atop a winding hill at my window writing beautiful prose that will surv...
“What is this life if full of care, We have no time to stand and stare, No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows.” How do I describe the influence of the two great loves of my life? It is akin to the stirring I felt when I truly comprehended my first poem — ‘Leisure’ by the Welsh poet WH Davies. Suddenly I could smell the wet grass, feel the texture of those wooden boughs and actually feel life slipping by. Davies’ idea struck me like the gong of a school bell that shatters the studious silence of midday. I feel that only poetry can aptly capture the effect ‘Television’ and the magic of words had on a mere child that I was. Television gave me my first ever real ambition in life. I aspired, as only a little girl can, to become a police inspector, like the little village girl in red-ribboned plaits in the Doordarshan serial titled ‘Udaan’, the first of many successful serials to come in Indian television. Television, which was in its infancy ...
Stalker, I am your prey, we are both lost but you pretend to know the way I know you stare when I look the other way lets pretend that we are both going away our thoughts stray to a certain May Out here, the season shimmies to saturday soirees no summers nor fall just the fall of dusk's curtains while the crickets call a plentitude of sepia stories and the calm vigil of the moth~
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