Monday, July 27, 2009

She Laughs...

It was that time of the year, again.
When the breeze of love touches her,
rattles through her long, widespread branches,
and makes her heart sing with joy.

And she tosses up her head,
and she laughs,
and like a moment frozen in time,
her laughter echoes,
Over the hills, on to the plains.
You can see her laughter 
for miles around her,
A Red halo of Joy,
Of a new beginning, of hope.

Her red, wild tresses all over her...
Like a wild, joyous and echoing laugh...
Like a Tribal beauty,
The Gulmohur Tree Laughs...
Maithili Desai

Saturday, July 25, 2009


She pored over page after page, 
Her script notes all over the table. 
An unseen organized pattern
in the seemingly random mess.
she was tired, frustrated
planing a Scene and a dinner
in her head.

She got up and went to cook,
the Script on her mind all the while.
her face lined with years of fatigue,
her eyes, legends of sleepless nights,
she placed the evening's bread on the table
once fed and satisfied
the family went to bed, 
leaving the frustrated woman to the kitchen.
finally, almost dead, she walked back to her Script,
waiting to find solace and familiarity
in her organized mess.

And her eyes widened 
and her temper rose, breaking her taunt nerves,
As she surveyed the little pile of all her papers.
"Who" she yelled, "Dared to touch my papers?"
inwardly she cringed at the thought 
of having to sort all over again...

And from the doorway
came a tiny, scared wobbly voice..
"I did"
the little girl stood, shaking in her bunny slippers
As her mother screamed at her 
for what seemed like an eternity
her tiny eyes prickled with unspilt tears
and the throat felt like a lemon was stuck there

"Why!" her mother yelled "Why did you do that?
Why do you make life ten times more difficult!!"

"But mommie..." She trembled,
"you were tired, I just wanted to help.."

and a tear slid....
from two eyes, over two cheeks...
one, of a little ten year old,
the other, of a little thirty year old...

Friday, December 19, 2008

Something Stupid

well, that is what this journal entry is....

i need to do something stupid once in a while to keep my brains in
good condition......

you know, you should try that too...... it really helps to give some
rest to your poor brain cells.

no really!! it is like party time for your over worked brain....

it can do whatever it wants,

play music at top notch volume, eat a hell a load of junk, see some
stupid movie and laugh itself silly over it, get totally drunk and
talk bullshit in high spirits, drunk call people and laugh as they go
up the wall, then take a book and try to read it and find that the
words are dancing all over the page, then getting tired of the jumping
letters, go over to the window and wonder at something silly, then
remember some long forgotten day from the golden days of childhood,
remember all the fun it had been and how close it felt to everyone....
no let downs, no backstabbing, no bitching, no heart breaks, just pure
fun and life!!!!, then start questioning where those days have
vanished, then weep drunkenly for those times, then see a baloon
floating around outside the window and giggle at it, and then sit up
with a start when it giggles back and sticks it's tongue out, then
feel a little thirsty and go for another drink, see three glasses of
vodka on the bar top, try to seize one and it dances out of reach.....
Damn!! try of the other.....Damn it!!! wonder who made these dancing
glasses and curse them.... then try for the third and it comes
readily.... take a thirsty gulp of the much awaited liquid, then hear
a voice coming from the bed room, like a soft cajoling call, go in to
find out who's gotten in there in the dead of the night, find no one
there but the bed, but the bed seems to be talking, it says it's been
lonely all day and wants company..'you mind??', then go and sit with
the bed on the floor and hear it talk about how boring it is to be a
bed, sympathise wih it, then tell it how lucky it is it never has to
face life, that it never has to nurse a broken heart or back stabbs,
tell it that it has a really nice life, safe and secure, well clothed
with a satin sheet, then it says that it can't get drunk, so just to
prove it wrong go and get two vodkas, offer one to the bed, it says it
dosen't have hands, so feed the bed some vodka, feel good about doing
a favor for the poor handless bed who's never been drunk before, hear
the bed giggle drunkenly, hear it say 'thank.....u...' and drift into
a slumber, smile and watch the sleeping bed, cuddle up to the bed as
best as possible, and sing it a lullaby just in case it stirs, and
then watch as someone comes and asks you to sleep on the bed, not
below it, tell them to talk softly, the bed is sleeping, they help you
to get up, bump your head....ouch!! then lay down on the sleeping bed,
slowly, in case you wake it , then feel a soft blanket fall on you,
the blanket wispers...'one hell of a head ache is gonna wish you in
the morning n u gonna need a truck load of coffee..... sleep now....
good night...', feel the blanket cuddle up to you, feel nice to be
sleeping with the bed and blanket for company.....and sleep it out
till normalcy returns like a sore head ache in the morning.........

ah well,

told you.....

something stupid.......

Monday, June 16, 2008

Living Stone (The Gateway)

There on the ragged ocean's edge,
stands an edifice, tall and old.
Overlooking the silver in the night,
by dusk, admiring the gold.
She is the manefestation of a dream,
a lore made immortal in stone.
The crown of a long forgotten king,
the gold of a dusty forlon throne.
From her shoulders, the cloak of Time,
falls in many a satiny fold.
Perched on Her wizened high forehead
are stone flowers, eternal. Cold.
Millions of waves have cleansed Her feet,
But age hardly crumples Her countenance.
Yet those with a keen probing eye
will see the age of a thousand suns.
For years today, She has patiently stood,
and watched as the city has grown.
Like a Mother at Her child's pyre,
Like History trapped in a living stone...
~Maithili Desai

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

The Epidemic

Down the streets, cold and grey,
Death rides with a cold heart.
No matter where she puts her foot,
Hope and Joy, all depart.

She wipes away happy smiles,
Making place for a frown.
She pluks every strand of Life,
and tucks them in her crown.

She wraps away in her dark cloak,
some summer days, never lived...
She rattles down little country lanes,
leaving all sad and agrieved.

But then Life, in his chariot bright,
With Hope and Joy comes shining.
The Streets shine with a new vigour,
not the cloud, but the silver lining...
~Maithili Desai

For You I Cried....

I watch helplessly, as the sun goes down
just like I watched you go.
But the sun I know, will come again,
Of you, I never know.

It was you I loved and trusted in,
it was you I ever thought of.
But it was you who left me stranded,
and it was me you made a joke of.

Oh! the hours I spent in loving you,
the double I spend in tears.
All the dreams and hopes I ever had,
now haunt me as my fears.

I know of love, for it lives in me.
but you will never know.
You'll never feel that joy in you,
it will never make you glow.

For love is meant for gentle souls,
not for the likes of you,
who trample over loving hearts,
and bruise them black and blue.

Of me, you need not worry,
for life is kind and just.
She helped me build myself again,
with bricks of faith and trust.

I now live contentedly,
a life that is truly fun.
You, I know, will have a nasty end.
For me, life's just begun!

I know I will live and love again,
far better than i did before.
For you, I hope, someone will come,
And leave you bleeding and sore!!
~Maithili Desai

Tuesday, June 3, 2008


Poetry is not the juice of a fruit,
that on squeezing it must flow.
It is like a little feather,
it’ll fly, when the winds blow.

Poetry is not for the genius alone,
or only for the ones who write,
She lives in every beating, feeling heart,
she is every living soul’s right.

Poetry is not only the words,
written on paper with ink.
It is that collection of thoughts,
that you think when you don’t think.

Poetry is not just a nib,
scratching away on paper.
It springs forth from the heart,
and reaches much deeper.

Poetry is not just a string of lines,
entwined in a touching scheme.
It is the language of the heart,
to share it’s unspoken dream.

Poetry is not a ladder or crutch,
with which you reach the top.
She is the one, who stays with you,
no matter if you rise or drop.

A poetry and a poetry alone,
can tell you what a poetry is.
If you liked and understood what you just read,
well, then a little poetry this is!!
~~Maithili desai