I Love You

I love you.

Though I love you, I may not be able to meet you.

But I know you.

I know your heart.

You know me, as you do my heart.

I am you, and you are me.

Hold tight a person to you, and I will be in that body.

Touch a person next to you, and feel me touch you.

Grip the hand of a comrade, and you grip mine.

I am with you, as you are with me.

Walk further, because my love lives in your step.

Write more, because my love lives in your words.

Speak more, because my love lives in your voice.

I walk, write and speak to keep your love in me alive.

Bless you. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.

Learnings form DH Lawrence's Sons And Lovers

Below is an excerpt from SONS AND LOVERS written by D.H. Lawrence in 1913. I wanted to post this excerpt to share with you the beauty of D.H. Lawrence, but some other things surfaced when I was copying this out:

He followed her across the nibbled pasture in the dusk. There was a coolness in the wood, a scent of leaves, of honey-suckle, and a twilight. The two walked in silence. Night came wonderfully there, among the throng of dark tree-trunks. He looked around, expentant.
She wanted to show him a certain wild-rose bush she had discovered. She knew it was wonderful. And yet, till he had seen it, she felt it had not come into her soul. Only he could make it her own, immortal. She was dissatisfied.
Dew was already on the paths. In the old oak-wood a mist was rising, and he hesitated, wondering whether one whiteness were a strand of fog or only campion-flowers pallid in a cloud.
By the time they came to the pine-trees Mirim was getting very eager and very tense. Her bush might be gone. She might not be able to find it and she wanted it so much. Almost passionately she wanted to be with him when he stood before the flowers. They were going to have a communion together - something that thrilled her, something holy. He was walking beside her in silence. They were very near to each other. She trembled, and he listened, vaguely anxious.
Coming to the edge of the wood, they saw the sky in front, like mother-of-pearl, and the earth growing dark. Somewhere on the outermost branches of the pine-wood the honeysuckle was streaming scent.
"Where?" he asked
"Down the middle path," she murmured, quivering.
When they turned the corner of the path she stood still. In the wide walk between the pines, gazing rather frightened, she could distinguish nothing for some moments; the greying light robbed things of their colour. Then she saw her bush.
"Ah!" she cried, hastening forward.
It was very still. The tree was tall and straggling. It had thrown its briers over a hawthorn-bush, and its long streamers trailed thick, right down to the grass, splashing the darkness everywhere with great split stars, pure white. In bosses of ivory and in large splashed stars the roses gleamed on the darkness of foliage and stems and grass. Paul and Miriam stood close together, silent, and watched. Point after point the steady roses shone out of them, seeming to kindle something in their souls. The dusk came like smoke around, and still did not put out the roses.
Paul looked into Miriam's eyes. She was pale and expectant with wonder, her lips were parted, and her dark eyes lay open to him. His look seem to travel down into her. Her soul quivered. It was the communion she wanted. He turned aside, as if pained. He turned to the bush.
"They seem as if they walk like butterflies, and shake themselves," he said.
She looked at her roses. They were white, some incurved and holy, others expanded in ecstasy. The tree was dark as a shadow. She lifted her hand impulsively to the flowers; she went forward and touched them in worship.
"Let us go," he said.
There was a cool scent of ivory roses - a white, virgin scent. Something made him feel anxious and imprisoned. The two walked in silence.

1. Miriam has given Paul trespass.

She wanted to show him a certain wild-rose bush she had discovered. She knew it was wonderful. And yet, till he had seen it, she felt it had not come into her soul. Only he could make it her own, immortal. She was dissatisfied.

This reminded me of trespass. She herself knew it was good, but unless someone highly qualified and revered had approved of it, it still meant nothing to her.

2. Miriam's behaviour during the track.

By the time they came to the pine-trees Mirim was getting very eager and very tense. Her bush might be gone. She might not be able to find it and she wanted it so much. Almost passionately she wanted to be with him when he stood before the flowers. They were going to have a communion together - something that thrilled her, something holy.

She was nervous during the entire episode. It reminded me a little of myself when I'm excited about my ideas and drag my loved ones to share it with me XD

3. Paul's uncomfortableness.

There was a cool scent of ivory roses - a white, virgin scent. Something made him feel anxious and imprisoned. The two walked in silence.

This too, I found, occurs alot with my prospects. I'm full of excitement, I've found an amazing garden, and I want to share it with the rest of the world. Paul, my prospect, does not realize what an amazing rose bush it is. He simply knows that I love it, and it is good for me. Of course he will never love the rose bush and worship it as I do!

Curiosity

Curiosity is what makes me tick.
It gives me a reason to breathe,
makes blood run through my veins.

Curiosity made Barnum and Bailey rich,
millions of others too.
It makes for competition and opportunity,
it puts food on the table.

Curiosity makes for a healthy relationship.
It keeps the family together,
even long after its gone.

A Rainbow Morning

*************************************
Early morning blue skies greeting
hand in hand with a smiling rainbow.

An indirect effect of a cured depression
when a rainy dawn lifts to a sunny morning.

For all of your faint presence,
Your imposition is more than welcome.

As the sun rises higher in the midst of
its current expression of happiness,
your brief hour is passing,
you take your leave,
as humble as anyone can be.

A storm at Kokuritsu

********************************************

Kokuritsu was empty, still, dark, and quiet.

A slow breeze brushed the silent walls and steps.

5 beings stood in the centre of the field.

The first stood silently at the back of the group.
He protected the group with large blue wings.

The second stood at the head of the group,
straight and wary of the surroundings.

In the centre, stood 3 conjoined men
with a voice of a nightingale, beauty of a phoenix,
and the pride of a peacock.

Far above them, lightning flashed
and the sky thundered, waiting.

The dark Kokuritsu was now filled to its maximum capacity,
watching, waiting, for the storm to finally be released.

View from the top at Kokuritsu

A norrow pathway circles around the top of the stadium, wide enough for only one man to walk.

There I stood, at 4 in the morning, my back to the sprawling green space below me.

Dim-lighted buildings stood in the distance.

It might as well have been the dead of the night for them. Dark nights are no different from dark mornings.

A sense of calmness seeped through my skin as the lights disappeared one by one.

I could not understand the calm that came with the complete darkness.

My Lady Muse?

What should I do, what should I do?
It has been many days since I last clicked the publish button.
Drafts there are plenty, and they remain as they were, a knotted mess of beautiful hair spit out on the keyboard.

Since the beginning of my 25th year, which is now nearly half full, I see the same faces, the same places, the same walls, the same traffic lights.

Am I too comfortable? Has my Muse faded into non existence following my slow pace?

I miss her sad whispers. All I hear now are the loud and cheerful sounds of a bustling cafe.

Different takes on thunderstorms

This is an excerpt of a poem I've read recently:
Rain.
Light.
Those sounds.
Are absolutely.
Of a sky bursting with delight.


Love the poem, but... I don't like thunderstoms. So, here is my take on thunderstorms (in the same style as above, just to try it out):

Black sky.
Heavy.
Hard.
Suffocating.

An angry crack.
Careful. Something might fall.

Need to find shelter.
A tree.
A closure.
A roof.
A blanket.

It's raining.
It stings.
It howls.
It roars.
It blinds.

It's no use.
There's no escape.
No peace.
Till it stops.

This poem is a contradiction to myself. I wrote one earlier in 2006, saying how much I liked rain.

Bye bye.
Love,
Meenu