Year end singing

 

Sometimes it can guess what was, only from what’s left.

The rivers need no meddling with to course correct.

I watch the wakes of boats and, though I am afraid

the differences of skies and rivers progressively fade.

 

The year flits by without a word on how to cope,

the highs are high but the lows are fathomless in scope,

still the waters hold the blue and its light reflect,

the river needs no meddling with to course correct.  

 

I tally the sums of what I got and what I gave

count the wakes of the boats, and count the leaves and waves

in the end no measures quite define the intercepts

the river brooks no meddling with to course correct.

 

On my fingers are smeared the remnants of the past

some leaves of melancholy, joys that do not last

words that run off the page, rhymes that aren’t perfect

but they need no meddling with to course correct.

 

I sing not for heights achieved but more to endure,

take stumbling in my stride, go where the footing’s unsure

the river flows heedless to the paths that I select,

and it brooks no meddling with to course correct.

 

I sing for that one small step taken towards justice,

for the unseen courage that’s so easy to miss.  

Like the river ignores all attempts to deflect

quietly brooks no meddling with to course correct.

 

I’d rather talk of the common, ordinary and plain,

the songless birds, scentless blooms, the coarser woodgrains,

the river takes no notice of the boats nor subjects

and it needs no meddling with to course correct.

 

Come with me to the banks where fallen leaves lie thick

the winter light spins the waves into silver magic

the trees dance naked as they wait, lines of spiky shade

and differences of skies and waters progressively fade.

Happy New Year 2024 to all who stop by, from Raleigh, NC. Wishing for a gentler, more peaceful and stress free year for everyone. I'm getting back to the old hometown a couple weeks into the year and hopefully I'll get right back into couch potato mode pronto. See you soon. 

Write...Edit...Publish... December 2023 : Over to You

Hello writers, 

I can't believe the year is over, can you?! Personally it has been tumultuous, mixed is an understatement. As I discovered during the first Covid year, time flies whether one's having a good time or bad. I am back at Write...Edit...Publish... where the prompt is "Over to You." It's an open prompt where the writer chooses her/his favourite film/title for inspiration. I have so many favourites and they are all in different languages so it's a fairly impossible task to pick one. Therefore I decided to use the phrase itself as a prompt - btw, there is a movie called Over to You, which I haven't watched, not very helpful. :) 

So here's the final instalment of Chiaroscuro, which began in Dec 2022 with the Roberta Flack song 'The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.' I didn't think the story would get so lo-o-n-g,  I'm glad I can bring it to its conclusion finally, phew! 

What's happened so far:

The MC finds a B/W profile picture on a social media platform intriguing. He writes on an impulse to the woman and finds that the picture is of her grandmother and was shot in a studio that once belonged to a relative, now dead. 

The MC goes back to his hometown and explores the derelict studio. He finally comes upon a series of nudes of a woman in different stages of life, the last of which he recognises as the grandmother.

He finds a letter that breaks the bombshell news that his Great Uncle Sam, the studio owner and the grandmother had an ongoing relationship in the past. 

He meets with the granddaughter in their common hometown and shares the findings...which naturally shocks the granddaughter. The MC assures her that the secret is safe with him and he will support her through this bombshell discovery. They say goodbye but he feels she will not want to see him again. 

The MC goes to Sam's ancestral house situated a little way away from the city and finds the furniture that's used as props in the Janhobi's portrait - the radio, the table etc. He also chances upon an old tree engraving that clearly indicates Sam and Janhobi spent time in the house. Mukta does not get in touch as he had feared.

The old radio goes berserk in the middle of the night and Shovan doesn't get much sleep due to a stream of spooky electrical events. In the morning he finds further evidence of Sam and Janhobi's presence in the room from many years ago. His phone beeps meanwhile - it's from Mukta. 

Now please read on: