Postscript

That last bit about Bob Dylan's rendition of Little Drummer Boy (which I'm assuming you enjoyed) was post number 100.

A hundred posts in about three-and-a-half years is, by all accounts, a pretty dismal output. Nevertheless, it's still a milestone and any milestone is worth celebrating. Maybe I'll wear my santa hat and have a mince pie.

It is also a good time, perhaps, to call it a day. Thanks for pushing and prodding this little blog along. For commenting, sharing, or just coming along for the ride. But above all, thanks for reading. For validating its existence. Tomorrow's stories await another voice.

Merry Christmas. And a Happy New Year.

One more Dylan post...

...last one for this year, I promise.

'Little Drummer Boy' is probably my all-time favourite Christmas song (despite the occasional mildly traumatic school nativity play flashback) and Bob Dylan sings it like it's never been sung before. Does anyone else think he's perfect for this song? Yeah, yeah, I know it's 'little' drummer boy, but there's no need to get all literal about it...

Just when I thought I'd heard it far too many times, Dylan's rasping voice makes this timeless classic seem 'cool' again. That, and one of the most quirky, off-beat videos you're likely to have seen all year. But don't just take my supremely biased word for it, check it out. pa rum pum pum pum.

Madness

Oddly enough, my watch stopped working yesterday.

Going Underground

The travelling circus is coming to town,
Plenty of freaks and I'm the clown,
Mind the gap please, mind the gap-
I'm going Underground.

*Alight here for New Zealand and the Royal Albert Hall*

*Ladies and gents, this train will not be stopping at the next station. This is due to planned engineering works that I was not aware of.*

(Girl on phone): Did you see his face when I glassed him?
(Assumed response): No, what was it like?
(Girl on phone): I dunno, I wasn't looking, was I?

*There is a good service on all lines on the London Underground today except where there is a bad service.*

(Same girl on phone): Wat u wearing 2nite luv?..I'm worried mine's ova-da-top... yeh, it's a dress, like, what u call da type of thing dat goes round your neck?
"A noose?" I offer, hopefully.

My mind wanders.
The girl in the next seat catches me reading her texts in the reflection in the window.
She shoots me a look.
Oh, for a book.

The travelling circus is coming to town,
Plenty of freaks and I'm the clown,
Mind the gap please, mind the gap-
I'm going Underground.

Christmas is coming...

...and for the first time ever, Bob Dylan is ringing it in. That's right, the greatest songwriter of our times is singing Little Drummer Boy on his latest album. 'Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum, on my drum (and guitar. and harmonica)'

I haven't heard Christmas in the Heart yet; I'm having too much fun just reading some of the reviews. Here's an excerpt from one of them:

"Whereas most vocalists might prepare to record by getting plenty of rest and sipping warm tea with honey and lemon, Dylan sounds as if he just closed down the bars in Bethlehem with the Three Wise Men and then smoked some frankincense and myrrh as a nightcap." Heh.

My favourite piece though, is this part-review, part-worship-at-the alter. Always somewhat comforting to come across a kindred spirit.

And of course I'm going to buy it. It's Dylan. I would probably pay just to hear him breathe heavily on an album. Besides, he's not making a dime from this one, all proceeds go to charity. So there you go. Greatness for a good cause.
pa rum pum pum pum.

Mistaken Identity

A friend of mine mailed me earlier today asking if the person giving the talk below was me. Given that he hasn't seen me in a while, I can only guess it was the name or the sparkling wit that caused the misunderstanding. Either way, I can confirm it isn't me.

Despite that, I would still recommend watching the video. It's pretty interesting stuff. But then again, most of the stuff on TED.com is.

On Writing

India Uncut, one of the blogs I follow, recently had a short but interesting post titled 'Education'. A Quinton Tarantino quote was used to make a larger point about whether or not writing, like films, can be taught in a classroom. The original post can be read here, and the response I sent to Amit Varma, the author of India Uncut, is below. If any of you have thoughts on the topic, do write in.

When people ask me if I went to film school I tell them, ‘no, I went to films.’
-- Quentin Tarantino

As someone who put down a small fortune on a (relatively) expensive writing degree here in the UK, I have come up against this line of argument on more than one occasion- before, during and after the course. My answer has always been the same: Writing, like any other art form, is both an art as well as a craft. The art is a largely metaphysical thing and can never be captured in a textbook (some say you are born with it, but I'm not convinced you are born with anything. That's another debate, though). The craft, on the other hand, can and should be learnt. The classroom is not a bad place to start.

While Mr Tarantino's quote makes good copy, I would begin by questioning the truth of it. The most obvious reason is because films, more than most other art forms, have a technical element that cannot be learnt from merely watching them. This might be reading too much into his quote, but I am certain that at some point he was just an unknown clever guy who wanted to make films but didn't have the foggiest idea how. He would then have hung around people who knew what they were doing and sucked up everything like a sponge. This process would most likely have involved sleeping on a few couches, recreational drugs, and some beautiful free-spirited ladies. Mr too-cool-for-school Tarantino might never call this an 'education', but for those of us who lead far less exciting lives, that's exactly what it is.

It's a similar argument that one sometimes comes across in sports as well. Mr Tarantino's quote, when used in a sporting context, would be akin to a gifted cricketer saying all he needed to do to become a world-class batsman was watch Sachin Tendulkar bat. This is meaningless because all he would be watching is the end-product of years of hard graft, the distillation of months of toil to perfect a certain shot or correct a flaw in technique. He is watching the final edited version, with no awareness of what has gone on behind the scenes.

Yes, writing is, at its core, a solitary activity. But there is a collaborative element, however subliminal, to all good writing. This is what I leant from the few months spent in workshops with other writers discussing each other’s work, all of us believing all the while that our individual pieces were nudging perfection but realising in the end that we merely did different things well.

You would no doubt have felt this too, over the course of your promotional tour for your first book. Those who came to the various venues to listen to you read and discuss your writing will inevitably try to incorporate certain things they liked into their own work, and some of their questions, reactions and comments would have set off sparks, however tiny, in your mind as well.

It is this constant process of moulding and shaping, modulating your own inner voice in relation to others, that creative writing classes seek to capture. Has all this made me a better writer? I'm not sure. What it has given me is a better understanding of what I do, and the ways and means of doing it better.

Still, I am by no means suggesting this is the only way to go about turning into a 'writer', whatever that creature is. At the end of the day, as they say, there are no answers. Only choices.

All the best.

The inevitable Dylan post

One of the great pleasures of shopping for books (or anything else, for that matter) is walking in to a shop and finding you have a 50 per cent discount on a title you would have gladly paid full price for. And so the Cambridge Companion to Bob Dylan is now on my shelf, along with the 9 other books under 'D'. All on Dylan. One more will make ten, just in case any of you have been staying up at night wondering what to get me for Christmas...

I've got about 25 pages in; the excerpt below is from the Introduction:

...Dylan from an early age boasted the voice of a seemingly old man – seemingly the very voice, to steal a phrase from Greil Marcus, of “old, weird America.” In an era when pop (and even folk) stars were, as today, meant to sing like the nightingale, Dylan instead sang as the crow. But that croak, it seemed, contained a depth of feeling and passion and anger and joy and wisdom and disillusionment not hinted at by the songbirds; it came as a revelation. And it sounded like the voice of Truth...

The rest of the first half consists of essays, each taking on a different perspective Of Dylan's life and career, while the second half takes a closer look at some of his landmark albums. I am hoping it will shed some light on at least a few of the 800-odd Dylan songs I currently have on my iPod. I was going to post the link to a review I wrote of his 2006 album (and one of my personal favourites), Modern Times, but the article is no longer on the Amazon website. I’ll try and post a review of the most recent album, Together Through Life, soon.

Yes, I'm obsessed. I have no friends. Well, except Dylan.

One Night in October...

...the clocks go back...

Check out the ridiculously infectious tune by the Tiny Comets.

Dear Mr Griffin

On Question Time yesterday when a young Asian man, like myself, asked you where you would like him to go, you said you were happy for him to stay. I am certain that the young man would have slept much easier last night knowing that you, Mr Griffin, safeguarder and protector of British society, deemed him good enough to stay in your country. I doubt, however, that you would have had the same feelings about me.

You see, I, unlike that young man, was not born in this country. I came here to study, found a job, and yes, I'm still here three years later. Do I dare ask where you think I should go?

Nick, (do you mind if I call you Nick? Mr Griffin makes you sound like a serious politician) you appear to be a man with a tremendous memory (albeit selective) that stretches back to 700 A.D, when your ancestors obviously magically appeared from beneath the melting ice.

You might remember, then, that when these 'indigenous British' people you refer to first arrived in India not so long ago, they ended up staying for over 200 years. A lot happened in that time, but you would be hard pressed to find an Indian who does not acknowledge the contribution that the British made to my country. They, much like the Mughals, Portuguese, Dutch and French before them, came and went, leaving us with the rich and diverse culture that I am so proud of today.

History has shown us that in times of cultural and economic unrest, people sometimes actually acknowledge the presence of individuals such as yourself. There is no doubt that people are unhappy, not just in this country but around the world. There are several reasons for this. Your mistake lies in confusing that discontent with a mandate. Soon this time too will pass, and you will go back to being a political non-entity, a mere irritation, admired perhaps only for the extent of your own delusion.

To be honest, Nick, I almost felt sorry for you last night. A big, strong man like yourself, twitching and sweating like someone in an electric chair. I know you don't need my pity. Or my advice. But I'm going to give you some anyway. Read, Nick. Travel. Introspect. I would suggest a degree in History, but given that a degree in Law couldn't help you identify an illegal constitution, I doubt another one would do you much good. Still, you never really know, do you?

Regards,
Ajay Jacob (yes, there are Christians in India)

Question Time in 30 mins

In just over 30 minutes, Nick Griffin, leader of the British National Party, will take his place for the first time on the panel of BBC's Question Time. The decision to invite him on the programme has attracted a huge amount of publicity and caused outrage among both the mainstream parties as well as the wider public. A good friend of mine is one of several hundred people making their protests heard outside the BBC's London studios at this very moment.

But even amongst those who despise this openly racist party, opinion seems to be divided- either deprive the BNP of the 'oxygen of publicity' or put them on a national stage and expose them for what they are. It is, to be honest, a tricky one. I'm not sure to which camp I belong. Not yet, anyway. Maybe in a couple of hours, depending on how the debate goes, I will have an opinion.

For the other panellists from the mainstream parties, it could be a challenge. Merely calling the BNP a ‘vile and despicable party’, is not going to cut it. They are going to have to tread a fine line between engaging with them on issues while distancing themselves from the party’s real agenda. If the Tories, Lib Dems and Labour can join forces and systematically pick them apart, the BNP will look stupid and out of their depth. If they overdo it, however, it will look like they’re flogging a dead horse. It is vital they achieve the right balance.

For Griffin himself, the advantages of appearing on the show are clear. A record audience will be tuning in and he will want to milk it for all it is worth. There is also no doubt that it will lend a certain legitimacy to a party whose constitution is still officially illegal. On the other hand, you've almost got to hand it to him. I would be surprised if every word he utters isn’t booed and hissed at, and in between all that he has to try and prove he is not a Nazi. Or prove that he is. Whatever the case, it should be an interesting show.

Mince Pies

are the reason
I thought of you tonight.
soft shortcrust,
sugar-dust,
secrets inside.
And only around for a season.

Home Sweet Home

fairy lights,
which once lent the stairwell
a festive air,
now hover over the edge
of the banister,
weighing up their options;
their luminescence
a kind of indifference.

chairs,
once high-backed and proud,
now lie scattered around
the floor like unfinished sentences;
stooped over
with the indignity of months
masquerading as
coat hangers,
doorstops,
resting places for moths.

curtains,
drawn tight,
to keep in the dark.

There’s nothing on the telly,
except me on the laptop,
which is a reflection
of the way things have been
these past few days, even
the clock has a sad face,
stuck at twenty-to-five.

the sink is full of wishes.

photos,
merely portals to the past,
where once there was laughter
like the tinkle of crystal
but now only silence,
broken every so often by the breaking
of a wave
off a distant shore
washing up another memory.

on the mantelpiece,
a starfish of keys.

!ndia in under 2 Minutes

The latest Incredible !ndia video...If you're homesick, that makes two of us.

The RG Enigma

It is, in many ways, already a striking story. Born into India's most famous political family, is barely 14 when his grandmother and India's first woman prime-minister is assassinated; at 20 his own father is killed by a suicide bomber; escapes to a life of anonymity first in America and then London where he works (under an assumed name); eventually returns home to help his widowed mother bring the Congress party back to power.

And yet, with Rahul Gandhi, you get the feeling the story is only just beginning.

Not long ago, with the Congress in turmoil and the right-wing BJP on the rise, Rahul was happy to be just a peripheral figure, popping up now and then for a party meeting or at a memorial for one of his relatives, while his older sister, Priyanka, was being touted as the natural heir to the dynasty. Today, he is at the very heart of a resurgent Congress and the BJP is on the brink of self-destruction. Even by Indian politics' famously unpredictable standards, it is a turnaround few would have foreseen.

The fact that Rahul Gandhi's rise has coincided with that of the Congress party is no accident; the party’s fortunes have always been inextricably linked with that of its first family. However, it is the evolution of Rahul the politician that has captured the imagination. Now, finally, he appears to have emerged from the multiple shadows he has grown up in. The second name- one that he spent most of his life trying to escape from- has been embraced. And, ever so slowly, little wheels of change are being put in motion. 62 years after his great-grandfather articulated India's original tryst with destiny, is he the one to renew it?

It is a curious situation Rahul finds himself in. He is well aware that the moment he wanted to lead the Congress party, the position would be offered to him on a plate. And yet, he seems perceptive enough to know that he is not ready, and has set about schooling himself. How tempting it must be to reach for it now, surround himself with a competent and loyal inner circle and enjoy the trappings of power. Even more tempting must be the prospect of being able to pull all the strings but have none of the burden of responsibility. Rahul Gandhi seems to have chosen a middle path. Blessed with a birthright but free from its shackles, he knows he can bring about radical change.

'Radical' is not a word one hears often in Indian politics, and certainly not in the positive sense. For a large majority of the disillusioned electorate, another Gandhi leading India's Grand Old Party simply means more of the same. But if early signs are anything to go by, Rahul will not be just another Gandhi. Since winning his seat to Parliament in 2004, he has stayed away from Delhi's corridors of power, choosing to pursue his own vision for rural India while leaving the PM and his cabinet to look after the business of running the country. The poor and the youth have been at the top of his agenda; and while it is easy to be cynical and suggest that this is merely vote-bank politics on a larger scale, it would be a failure to acknowledge the significance of what he has already achieved.

Along the way, he has used words that have had old-timers squirming in their high-backed chairs while reaching for their dictionaries. Words like inclusiveness, inner-party democracy and empowerment. He has also not hesitated to speak his mind, and gives credit where credit is due, even if that means praising an opposition party. He has overseen the rise of a new generation of young politicians who are now infiltrating the rank and file of the Congress. Nandan Nilekani, Chairman of the Unique Identification Authority of India, recently described India as 'the only young country in an ageing world’, a fact Rahul seems determined to extend into the country's politics as well. Elders, from within the Congress as well as the coalition parties, have muttered under their breath about youthful exuberance and inexperience, but Rahul himself seems unfazed.

It is also a measure of the man that in a culture that lives by the dictum of any publicity being good publicity, the young Gandhi's rise has taken place not in the tabloids, but in the dustbowl of the hinterland. Apart from the odd sensational headline- (Rahul Gandhi and David Miliband! Future Prime Ministers of their respective countries! Sleeping in a hut! On the floor!), his campaign has been a silent one, far removed from the haze of celebrity that seems to have enveloped New Delhi like early morning fog. While other star-sons stagger through the capital intoxicated by their own sense of entitlement, Rahul chooses to make unannounced trips to Dalit villages instead, often without his security entourage and a convoy of cars. His particular brand of grass-roots activism has endeared him to the masses.

When the spotlight is turned on him, however, he has seemed increasingly at ease. In interviews he comes across as gracious, polite, and softly articulate. The person he says he is closest to is his sister and he is known to be very possessive of his mother. Could this suave Harvard-educated, London-trained poster boy of emerging India really have his finger on the pulse of India's faceless millions? It is an intriguing question, and the answer may yet surprise us. Scepticism is ingrained in our DNA, and so is the tendency to dish out halos and elevate mortals to saint-like status. Perhaps we should take a cue from the man himself and choose a middle path. That path, for now, involves giving Rahul Gandhi the benefit of the doubt. Who knows where it might lead?

Wait it Out

If you were anything like me and spent most of last night flicking through clips on ted.com after listening to Nandan Nilekani, you would probably have come across this video. If you didn't, well, here it is.

Just in case beginning afresh, afresh, afresh isn't your style- wait it out.

A Spring poem for Autumn

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

-Philip Larkin, The Trees

India Poised: V1 and 2

A couple of years ago, Indian cinema's grand patriarch Amitabh Bachchan appeared in a slickly produced television ad called 'India Poised'. There he was, in his perfect suit and his 'This is God speaking' voice, mouthing some soaring rhetoric that someone no doubt got paid a small fortune to come up with. The ad became an internet phenomenon, but ultimately, didn't amount to much.

A few months ago, Nandan Nilekani, Chairman of the not-very-catchy Unique Identification Authority of India (UIDAI) made a presentation at TEDtalks that revolves around the same theme- except this time backed up by facts and statistics. The fact that India was poised was never in doubt. Nilekani articulates exactly where. It is an honest and inspiring summary of India's place on the world stage and well worth a listen.

For those curious about the Amitabh Bachchan vid, (you know who you are) don't go away and search You Tube. It's right here. And you're welcome.

A Long Shot

Somewhere in the bowels of Wembley stadium is a blue jumper.

It is the jumper a friend bought for me two Christmases ago.
It is the jumper I rolled into a ball to make a pillow, before I settled in for the night at Bristol Temple Meads station, one year ago.
I will miss my blue jumper.So send it on its way, if you must. But if you can, try not to wipe the floor with it.
Thanks.

Mumbai International Airport, 2 a.m.

And so, a journey that began on a rainy morning in Mumbai comes to an end in the same city with another midnight downpour. I arrived on the first day of the Ganesh festival- the day on which clay statues of the beloved half-man, half-elephant diety are installed in homes and temples across the region- and here I am now, watching them being led in endless procession back to the sea where the smaller, less expensive versions dissolve almost immediately while the larger incarnations bob up and down, trunks and limbs flailing in the brackish water before eventually being reclaimed for another year. Ashes to ashes, tusk to tusk. In India, even ten days is like a lifetime.
I will miss home.

Cricket in the Sun: Sandford Park, 6:30 pm

So what is it about the old game that makes it such a welcome break from the dull monotony of everyday life and covers everything in a warm glow? I'm not sure. Has the monotony itself become so dull so that a break of any sort seems welcome? Possibly. But I doubt any other sport would have the same effect cricket does. Not for me.

Maybe it's because for just the briefest of moments I feel as though I'm back in India; that larger-than-life country where everything revolves around this larger-than-life sport. Because it makes me feel like I'm getting in touch with my roots. Somehow maintaining the bloodline. Or, perhaps it's because it's one of the few remaining links to my childhood. And playing it somehow feels like I'm re-acquainting myself with the boy I was 15 years ago whose face I can barely recognise. Running up to the crease with the wind in his hair, without a care in the world.

There is, of course, a third possibility. That I am simply romanticising it because I'm no longer that good. And I am forced to attach significance to what would otherwise be a pointless childish pursuit.

Ah well. Time for tea, lads.

So...

This might come as a surprise to those who know me well, but I'm going to admit it- all said and done, it's pretty awesome to be alive. I don't normally 'do' happy, and 'gloom and doom' is definitely my default setting. Today, however, as another year rolls around, I'm going to embrace the sun instead of cowering in the shadows it casts. We'll see how long it lasts.

Cold Steel Implements

There I was, staring into the sink as the pale green coloured fluid flowed down the pipe, down and out through the yard into some unknown darkness and, next thing I knew I was in a bright hospital room with the light burning holes in the back of my head and a nurse staring down at me from a hole in the ceiling and something smelled strange and do you know where you are? what day of the week is it? tell me your full name please, and date of birth, can he talk, I’ll need this information please, yes I'm in hospital and how did you get here it's Thomas spelt t-h-o-m-a-s fourteenthjulynineteeneightyone are any of you Nextofkin? does he have family here? is there a number you can call? I was, um, driven here by my friend Pete, he stays next door, yes there is, it's in my phone, no, stored under J, is he going to be ok nurse, we're his friends, he was ok this evening, no he hasn't been drinking, said he had a headache, no he hasn't had dinner, he threw up before we…,that's right Mrs. Davis, third room on your left the doctor will be along in a minute, would you mind waiting? there's an ambulance call at 34, is there a driver? can someone get that please? i'm just going to take some blood from your finger ok, could you please extend your arm, there's a good boy, this is going to scratch just a bit now could you please...is he on any medication, any known allergies? John's my uncle, he's in London, yes i suppose you could call is he going to be ok? can't take it you know, just can't take it, why is she off the shift, there's five people waiting, there's a queue here, mrs. davis that is, on the right, under observation, the ECG is on its way, no he hasn't been drinking i need you to take these pills it will bring the pain down ok? can you sit up? that's it, in they go are you ok there, luv, more water? could you roll up your sleeve for me please, no the left arm that’s it all the way up, that’s lovely, we're just going to take your blood pressure, can you turn the light off please its hurting my eyes, no that's it just the one sleeve, it will take a while, no there's just the one doctor on duty, the twenty-fourth is the earliest he can see you, now make a fist please, slowly, there's a good boy, the water fountain is down the hall on your left; gloves, doctor? that's it open wide, what's your name, Andy? Andy? yes in a minute, and how old are you Andy? can you open your mouth for me please, that’s right, good lad, I want you to cough for me now ok? I'll go first, watch me, cough, can you do that for me please? excellent, now I want you to go there and lie down on that bed and I'll be there in a minute ok? that's great, are you..? it’s a bit low but there's really nothing to worry about, we're going to have to do a couple more tests and keep him under observation, have a lie-down how are you feeling there? Mummy’s right here sweetie, no you can’t have a sweetie right now, I’ll be right there ok, kiss. no, it's Thomas spelt t-h-o-m-a-s fourteenthjulynineteeneightyone, yes I do, no, no allergies, no I don't take pills for it, Gloves. Please. Nurse. could we get the ECG in here please? is that an octopus on the wall? why would they have an octopus on the wall of a children's ward? is that supposed to be friendly? no the elephant doesn't look too friendly either, and there's a bleedin’ tiger as well, what is this, Alice-in-Jungleland? can you take your top off please, we will need a bedpan in 5, someone get that please? just relax there, this isn't going to hurt, just normal procedure, deep breath for me please, can you do that, was there a pink patch anywhere on his face or body, we can't rule it out at this point, it’s an ECG, that's it flat on your back please could you put your arms down by your side please? yeah, National Hell Service more like, in other news tonight no its perfectly normal would you like some more water? Man U lost? But it's bloody Fulham for God's sake! Hail Mary Mother of, it bloody stinks in here yes i hear you Mrs. Davis I heard you the first time he will be along in a minute...can i what? does it hurt when i do that? can you take a deep breath for me please, just relax its going to be fine, close your eyes, i'm going to turn the lights back on and are you ok there in that sink you're not throwing up again are you? Thomas? Guys, i think we need to get him to the hospital...

Paradise

Three crosses stood in the distance,
On that night of shame,
On one of them hung the man,
Nobody knew his name.

He hung there, quietly dying,
For he was just a common thief,
Cheap wine was lifted to his lips,
But it brought him no relief.

As the pain slowly left his body,
And the life slowly left his eyes,
He turned his head to look upon,
The Saviour in disguise.

"Master", he called out softly,
In one last despairing breath,
In that moment winning redemption,
As the Master conquered death.

"You have trusted", said the Master,
As the thief closed his eyes,
"I promise you will be with me,
Tonight in Paradise."

It's been done before by the BBC but, in my opinion, none are as good as this one. The video was made as a promo for the finals of Wimbledon in 2008. Watch as arguably the two greatest players of the modern era read Rudyard Kipling's great poem before playing arguably the greatest tennis match in recent memory. It's practically oozing with greatness. Arguably.

It also presents a facinating insight into the two men- one, the polished, confident finished article. The other, the wide-eyed, rough-around-the-edges pretender. Enjoy.

This place

This place
Is no longer good for me.
I'm turning into a shadow
of the man I used to be.
Indepedence is all well and good,
but freedom's never free.

This place
Is full of things I now despise.
Most of the faces around me,
I can barely recognise.
Familiar sights breed discontent,
when viewed through weary eyes.

This place
has now turned into that place.
Satisfaction was in hot pursuit,
But has since given up the chase.
Indifference comes in various guises,
but has a charming face.

This place
has made its final empty boast.
It's time to pack the suitcase,
and re-direct the post.
In case you ever need me,
I'll be somewhere down the coast.

Life's this game of inches...

Scores highly on the cheese factor but this clip from Any Given Sunday is one of my favourite Al Pacino scenes. He's definitely cornered the market on the whole conflicted, battle-weary, cynical-and-still-so-cool thing. Oh, and the shouting. Does anyone else make shouting loudly look so good? Enjoy.

Some people want to be understood,
I just want to be left alone.
Please make no demands of me
and I will make no demands of you,
my solitude is all I own.

The word that rhymes with breath

One of these
Days the phone will ring.
I will pick up and say hello,
but the person on the other end won't.

Everything will go quiet,
and then that person will say my name
and ask if I’m sitting down.
I will impulsively say yes
while still standing,
trying to place the voice
as my feet turn to stone.

And then it will come,
one syllable, in a monotone,
followed by sorry or something,
but of course I wouldn't hear it,
because the word-
that word-
would still be throbbing
in my bones.

Suddenly,
maggots will start to crawl
out of cracks in the walls
and attach themselves
to almost everything I own.

That will be the last thing
I remember seeing.

And then,
after a few minutes
of silence,
there will be a sound
like the fluttering of wings,
and the walls,
the cracks in them,
the maggots from in between them
will all get sucked into the phone.

Half an eternity later, I
too will disappear,
and there will be nothing left
except darkness
and an engaged tone.

Poetry Matters

Old slipper wearing pessimist
Had mentioned, when he wrote of Yeats:
'Poetry makes nothing happen...'And in the greater scheme of things
He's right... No poem ever stilled
The guns, prevented war, or stopped a fight.
But poems work as epitaphs;
Become the pillows for our dreams,
Gather us up when times are rough:
Provide a comfort, soothe our needs.
Poems can conjure life or death,
Daffodils or a thrush in spring;
Poems have room for all mankind -
From beauty to the kitchen sink;
Whether in free verse or in rhyme,
The good ones make you think.

-Patrick Osada

May

In May I may find what I'm looking for.
Or at least find out what it is I'm meant to be
finding.

In May I may finally bite the bullet,
and take off on a run
just for the fun of it.

In May I may finally give in
to my better judgement,
and leave the broken pieces behind
for the wind to pick up.

In May I may get the call I've been waiting for.

In May I may be spontaneous,
and renew my old frienship with impulse.

In May I may stop kidding myself,
take off my rose-tinted glasses and squint
at the blindingly obvious.

In May I may wake in one city
and go to sleep in another.

All these things may happen in May.
But even if they don't,
at least it will soon be June.