Please Infect Me!

Smiling is infectious;

you catch it like the flu,

When someone smiled at me today,

I started smiling, too.

I passed around the corner and

someone saw my grin

When he smiled I realized I'd

passed it on to him.

I thought about that smile and

then I realized its worth,

A single smile, just like mine,

could travel round the earth.

So if you feel a smile begin,

don't try to contain it,

Let's start an epidemic, quick,

and get the world infected!

-- The Speaking Tree, April 11, 2010

Taala (The Lock)

Some times, some things affect you in a way you would have never thought of. And they occur out of sheer randomness -- out of the blue! That's exactly how I came across this beautiful poem, pasted inside a bus in Mumbai, in Sept'08. I couldn't help but jot it down. Read on.
--

ताला

आती है गौरय्या
और दरवाज़े के लटकते ताले पर
मारती है ठोर

कुत्ता आता है
खोलने की कोशिश में
ताबड़-तोड़ पटकता है पांव

दौड़ती हुई आती है गाय
और ज़ोर-ज़ोर से हंकरने लगती है

सोच नहीं पाता है डाकिया
किसको दे वह चिट्ठी
ताला
कई दिनों से लटका है यहाँ

पुरबईया और पछुआ हवा के झोंके
हिला नहीं पाते हैं ताले को
कितना भारी हो गया है
यह ताला

कितना अखरता है एक व्यक्ति का न होना

-- कुमार वीरेन्द्र

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

A poem, which I like very much, courtesy M R.

--

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

-- W. H. Auden

so you want to be a writer?

- Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.