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Shyamalee: October 2008
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The Women in me. Friday, October 17, 2008. Market, Death, etcetera. In my tiring thought. I have Kandhamal and Democracy. Sadness of not believing, in spite of knowing. Afternoon's wall and corral of sea. Apart from naked God. I remember the woman tying her hair. They have put a big market. Selling violence and terror. Like a lane of red ants. Putting fire is cheapest of all. Then comes raping a woman. Getting killed is not costly either. I Used Photofunia effect to get a f. Friday, October 03, 2008.
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Shyamalee: March 2009
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The Women in me. Saturday, March 07, 2009. A Sort of Review. I was tagged by Runa to write a review on books I read in January. When started writing I was confused and ended up writing on many books that I have read so far. It is a challenge for me to write prose that are outside my field of research. I don't know she will like this or not, but I enjoyed going through the nostalgia of books I have read. It is called Janhamamoon. That I often read ). By Orhan Palmuk, A Feast of the Goat. It has happened s...
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Shyamalee: January 2008
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The Women in me. Monday, January 21, 2008. I am in Love. Her acts are not harmonised. She hears only exclusive sets of words. Her imaginations have spread wings. Unaware of earthly happenings. She is in absolute disorder. She is in love……. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). I am in Love. View my complete profile.
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Shyamalee: In each sadness...
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The Women in me. Friday, July 25, 2014. Here was no cloud in today's morning sky. The sun was full of shine and brightness. Trees are happy either way. With the sun shine. With the expectation of rains. In her mournful afternoon's veranda. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). View my complete profile.
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Shyamalee: April 2011
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The Women in me. Friday, April 08, 2011. Don’t Come again. Don’t come again. I will never write. I will never write for you. For the pain you have given me. The pain of invisible love. The sadness of being in love. But I don’t know for how long I can keep my promise. Your charm ignites the thought. Forces the words out of vain. Don’t ask me to write a poem. If anything, I want to write about happiness and not love. Melancholy of joblessness and not being separated from you. Don’t come again….
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Shyamalee: July 2009
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The Women in me. Monday, July 27, 2009. Of River, Hills and Shyamalee. The river takes hundred turns here. To negotiate with the hills. In every turn there is a mark. A tiny flower,. And a good old tree. Only the tiny steps are missing. Some heartfelt laughter,. Little of undecipherable sounds. She would have made otherwise. The missing marks slowly vanish. As the river takes one more turn. This time, the river. With the hills. . . Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). Of River, Hills and Shyamalee.
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Shyamalee: August 2014
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The Women in me. Monday, August 25, 2014. Death of a poet. I am shrinking with every utterance. Clouds condescend to form darkness. Nights no more bring any dreams. Someone waits in distance. And cries at the death of the poet. In a far land. Every word shrinks and become formless. Your death is inevitable O' poet. Someone mourns in a distant land. Far from the crowd. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). Death of a poet. View my complete profile.
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Shyamalee: Don’t Come again...
http://shyamalee.blogspot.com/2011/04/dont-come-again.html
The Women in me. Friday, April 08, 2011. Don’t Come again. Don’t come again. I will never write. I will never write for you. For the pain you have given me. The pain of invisible love. The sadness of being in love. But I don’t know for how long I can keep my promise. Your charm ignites the thought. Forces the words out of vain. Don’t ask me to write a poem. If anything, I want to write about happiness and not love. Melancholy of joblessness and not being separated from you. Don’t come again…. Dear Devika...
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Shyamalee: Death of a poet
http://shyamalee.blogspot.com/2014/08/death-of-poet.html
The Women in me. Monday, August 25, 2014. Death of a poet. I am shrinking with every utterance. Clouds condescend to form darkness. Nights no more bring any dreams. Someone waits in distance. And cries at the death of the poet. In a far land. Every word shrinks and become formless. Your death is inevitable O' poet. Someone mourns in a distant land. Far from the crowd. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Death of a poet. View my complete profile.
