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Archive for September, 2006

A little piece of Flotsam

A little piece of Flotsam,

floated slowly past by

on a river with all of them

all slowly passing by.


As it drifted slowly aloong,

some disquiet in it crept

real came straight, imagination oblong

“how long had i slept?”


“Hey! hold on! what’s all this going on?”

how come I am drifting away?

Is it noon, is it night, is it dust, is it dawn

stop all this stuff I say!


I was a beautiful piece of puzzle

fitting perfectly in a beautiful jigsaw

everything was right, so snug

then why now everything raw?


And now, where am i

among all these flotsams

why am I slowly drifting by

pass these, pass those, past them.


Well, i guess, i’ll find a new puzzle

and fit cozily right in

that’s all required, so simple

now the world can continue its spin.


But to the little flotsam, no one told

that a piece from a puzzle fit no other

that it wasn’t a piece of sparkling gold

or a song so sweet, a fair so feather.


And it did, this unpolished gem

try settle in, to atleast try

a little piece of flotsam

floating slowly past by.


– Written a long time ago, when school had ended and college had begun, and everything felt unfamiliar.


The Lady of Shalott

The Lady of Shalott

 The lady of Shalott

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower’d Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil’d,
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower’d Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, ” ‘Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott.”

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower’d Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance —
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right —
The leaves upon her falling light —
Thro’ the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”

-Alfred Tennyson

Don’t Stop Writing

This is supposedly my page but I’m already writing it for the sake of others. I dont know why, but I have a need to reaffirm to myself that thinking is not bad, that thinking is not rare.

Thoughts have a way of their own. Sometimes while thinking long, a thought may form that seems beyond your abilities. It comes easier as you write, that an idle thought grows into a mature idea.
One thing I constantly try is not to restrict my thoughts by any boundary. Narrow mindedness is a perfect waste of a good mind. There is no point in having a brain, in having the power to think if all one can see is one’s own nose.

 Apart from that, there’s something in writing that takes the place of a pretty picture. Thanks to the habit of writing I developed earlier on,  I still have accounts of my 5th std teacher that everytime I read gives a new insight. Not about the teacher, about how my mind used to work at that time. With each reading comes a new understanding of how a 10 yr old used to think.

 Thats just the thing about writing, and reading for that matter. When you write, you transfer your point of views to the paper. Your character, your mode of thinking are stripped naked onto that piece where you write all down. And when you read, you are not only learning about some event accounted but you are peeping into the mind of the author. When i read O Henry, i can feel the way he must have thought, of how his views might have been modelled. Anyone who’s read Ayn Rand will know how strongly capitalistic her views were and how she felt about money and the right to own it. Anybody who’s ventured Thomas Hardy would know what a fatalist view he must have had of life, if not melancholic.

Its just that. Writing involves letting your ideas, your perspectives and thoughts out and reading involves gathering someone elses perspective. Reading, if not writing, is how a thinking mind develops. (Here again, it’s my opinion coming out.)

I write so that I may have my memories stored, and years from now it would feel like talking to the past. I write so that I may know how I have changed, and how I was wrong/right. I write so that what I have been shall not fade into the evening sky subtly, but with a mark etched in someone’s mind.