Grotesque figures in dimly lit windows,
Half broken, half forgotten objects;
Lurking in those hazy lights,
Looking with their dreary eyes,
At cabs lurching, men trudging by.
Dull and grey and grisly pieces,
Exhumed from their graves,
Lounging with ghoulish ease,
Epitaphs abrased by ages.
Broken cameos, graceless, weatherbeaten stones
Leaden jars that held mystic brews
Or silent busts with their secret lores, whatever they be;
They inspire poetry in me.
We are on opposite shores of the river. Its banks fertile, the soil alluvial. The water meanders, little deltas form, wearing the etchings of the mountains;
In Jun 2022, I was at the Duna Arena in Budapest, Hungary watching the Finals of the Swimming World Championship. One of the races that
Everything you can imagine is real – Picasso In One Hundred Years of Solitude, Marquez weaves a tale of fantasy hitherto unknown in the literary
That piece of rock I held tight fisted
I thought I would give it trajectory.
A parabola in the sky,
Circles in the water.
“If you ever decide to gift that willow to someone, remember the man behind the wickets.”
– Jeff Dujon to Sunil Gavaskar when
Our story lit with borrowed powers
Rather, by what our spirits burned,
Embered in words, to us returned.
– Vikram Seth in An Equal Music