C is for Caligula

Comfortably rested after the weekend? Caught up with the chores, and your Comrades? Cool, then let's Commence with the Challenge - Currently we are seeing to C, and Coming up is :

is for Caligula

Caligula the straight but bent ruler

B is for Buddha

 is for Buddha

Buddha’s contribution

A is for April...n A-Z ...n Archie

is for Archimedes

Archie’s sparse bathing routine

Before the beginning of April, there came to the making of this woman...In praise of the A-Z

For the past week, I have been too taken up transitioning from a pantser to a planner in the terminal stages of control freakery, and also been up and down and sideways on the theme reveal list, so there's no fresh, smoking, write-it-as-it-comes poetry here today.  For all I know the verses might have come and banged the door down and biffed me a solid one on the back of my head.  But I was too busy to notice, too busy being astounded at the sheer variety of subjects that people choose to blog about – from ancestors to living on a yacht to a wishlist of cities to maths and mythology and metals and alloys that changed the world, I mean wow! It’s a *&^%£@# education, the A-Z is! Incidentally, if you're looking for my theme reveal it's right here.

And in the middle of reading 541 blogs, of which I managed to cover right upto 520, a bolt from the blue! (Some were dud links; some forgot to post the reveal altogether; some warned me off with those skull and crossbones virus alert symbols; and I avoided the AC, because censorship is major where I am, and the definition of what is permissible and what is not is mind boggling!) Seriously chuffed with what I managed to read of the theme reveal,  as I did set myself the goal of covering more than I have done in the previous years.


But for the actual challenge, where all anyone has is one day per letter, and about three times as many blogs, I can tell you right NOW what I am NOT going to do. If I land on your site and can't see your A-Z post right away, I am NOT going to scroll around forever.  If I land on your blog, and am faced with five little cutesy boxes before I can get to the posts, I am NOT going to wait for them to gently implode and let me in. Out in a jiffy, that's me. Same goes for comment boxes and buttons that are AWOL, or have the verification on.  (And what's with these teeny-tiny thumbnails of grass and water anyways?! Not easy on my terrible eyesight!) I am by nature a pathological non-commenter/avid lurker, so you give me an excuse to scoot right out without commenting, you know what's going to happen, right? Yup, out in a jiffy.  


On the other hand, the length of your posts is NOT going to faze me one bit, you can write upto a picture's worth of words, and if you grab my interest I will read to the end, and if your comment button is visible, I will comment if I can, because I am conflicted like that. For the duration of the A-Z, I am absolutely willing to give up my silent lurker persona. I have every intention of returning every comment made here. Please do unto me as you would have me do unto you - leave me your link when you comment. This post tells you how to create a signature for your blog.

Credit

Okay, back to the topic at hand - the bolt from the blue. In the middle of all that reading frenzy, the Bangla-mania struck again, uff uff uff. Not that I gave in or anything, no way.  I have last minute tweaks on my A-Z posts still.  But it did lead to a new Bengali book idea, a brainwave inspired by a combo of the A-Z theme reading and a casual suggestion a blogger friend once made here yonks ago.  


I have, right from the first time I participated, held that the A-Z benefits me in ways most unpredictable and hard to imagine, and to pinpoint. And the Challenge hasn’t even begun yet!! How far beyond cracking cool is that?? 

Not posted for the A-Z, but still besotted with it! 

A-Z Challenge Theme Reveal

Poetry in some form or other, of course.  That goes without saying.  Incapable of thinking beyond poetry for a theme. This year it's going to be Light n Limerick-y.  

কোথাও আমার ভালবাসার নেই মানা

তখনো জানি না চলে যেতে হবে তোমাকেও ফেলে, সব ছেড়ে -
সেই মোহানার ঘন নীল জল, ছোট লাল আলোকস্তম্ভটি  কিছু দুরে,
অসীম ধৈর্যশালী,  ছিপ হাতে অচেনা মানুষের সারি, পাথুরে
দেয়ালে পিঠ ঘষে বেড়াল, ক্ষুদ্র সাদা নৌকো, যাকে গাঙচিলে ঘেরে,


মনে হত সব আপন, আপন করার জন্যেই  ঠেলছে আমাকে।
সমগ্র পৃথিবী, সারা মহাদেশ, মরুভূমি চিরে নদ; বালির ভাঁজ
বাতাসে বিক্ষিপ্ত করে বটে, তাও যা সে মুছে ফেলে, দরাজ
হাতে লিখে দেয়  আবার। অন্নে, ফলে, পথে, নাকি নাম লেখা থাকে?


জেনেছি এখন, অবশেষে, খুঁজেপেতে, নষ্ট করে বহু সময়
তোমার গ্রামের পথে, খালপাড়ে, যেখানে বসন্তে কৃশকায় কিশোর
সবুজ ঘুড়ির পিছনে ছোটে, কষ্টে চলে একটি গাড়ি বড়জোর,
সে পথের বাঁকে বা নুড়িতে যে নাম লেখা আছে সে নাম আমার নয়।


তবু আমি ভালবাসি, সেই ভাঙ্গাচোরা পথ - এখনো আমার -
সবুজ ঘুড়ি ধরা থমকানো কিশোর; মরুভূমি; জল ; সেই খালপাড়।

No place that stops me from loving

I didn't know then, I'd have to leave even you, leave it all -

the deep blue estuary, the squat red lighthouse at some distance,

the endlessly patient line of unknown anglers, the seagulls' dance

around a small white craft. There a cat rubbed itself on a stone wall - 

and everything seemed mine,  as if they'd pushed me to put down roots,

the broad earth, the continent, the desert-slashing river. The folds of sand -

true, the wind scatters them, but it writes them afresh with generous

 hands.

I hear that specific names are written on roads, rice grains, and fruits?

I know this now, finally, having searched, having wasted much time -

your village track, that canal-side, where a slim boy runs for a green kite,

one car fits in max, greatly awkward, the space is way too tight,

well, the name that's written on its bends and pebbles, that's not mine. 

But still I love them, that broken track; they're still mine - that startled, 

wide-eyed

boy holding a green kite; the desert; those waters; that canal-side.

I think I just wrote my first Bengali sonnet.  Is that a life event or what?! :) And a rather rough translation for those of my blogger friends who don't speak my mother tongue.

The A-Z Theme Reveal is exactly one week away, the main A-Z event is in just over two weeks.  I have my theme ready, and some odd posts done, fewer than I would have liked. Working in Trojan mode now, this A-Z I'm going to give up my love for pantsing totally (yes I am, and I know the A-Z will help me do that, participation always leads to something useful). I need to, because I am a Ninja Minion! Anyways, I am planning to visit heaps of blogs apart from the duties too. Looking forward to the fun.  

I don't need to spell it out that writing in ye olde mother tongue is not exactly a priority right now, I spent couple days and nights maniacally writing and rhyming in Bengali when I should have known better..... no control whatsoever, sheesh! Bloody inconvenient, these insane urges. 

Blackmangled

Yes, you do not learn to write free verse

if you are used to bars, always have been -

curfews, quiet, composed, dinned rhyme words.

Freedom has rarely been dressed as a bird

in hand or bush; gnawing skies; even perched.

Annelids do not know a horizon.

The earth is scored with concentric rings

and the sky’s a terrace in azure.

The threshold’s swept, hair braided and pinned,

your fire’s just made for loving and giving

and freedom’s a crow with blackmangled wings

which hops away, and won’t come near.

Relieved to be back in usual verse mode, whew! This poem happened to waft into my brain, and I am putting it up here, though as with V-Day, it's Women's Day every single day, and Men's,  as far as I am concerned.  Happy humanity week to you!

Nonpost slushfest

This blog is in imminent danger of degenerating into a personal slushfest. Because this entry certainly has nothing to do with poetry, imagination, or fiction, and I am not sure whether it at all fits in with the prevailing philosophy at M-i-V (all fictional stuff and please, no smartypants autobiographical snippets of wisdom, ever! Poetry is not the journal of the poet, remember?) But it’s beginning to sound just like one of those exact thingies, that comes with a moral at the tale-end. 

Last year, I found a local writers' outfit and joined up because they had a poets' group within a group, immediately hooked. Last year, I also had to reluctantly bow out of a chance to write some sci-fi at the Write…Edit…Publish blogfest as I was travelling. So I scheduled a non-fiction essay in support (which to my utter amazement/delight came in at the second place, thank you WEP and Alex J Cavanaugh!).  

Thinking of that old photograph

The photo’s on the same shelf, the two of us -

my hair thick and springy, my saree pleats mussed

by one dangling leg, much younger limbs draped

across the armrest,  lithe, lighter, well-shaped

body and spirit. My father on the chair,

wears his usual dignity and sparser hair.

Both of us unmindful, quite unaware

that it was the last time we’d get to share

a seat quite so closely, the last of times

when his chairs would feel so completely mine.

We use up things – arms, armrests, odd cushions

oblivious of the final occasions.

Someone clicks a photo by random chance,

it takes years to get its significance.

It's my father's 21st birthday today.  Wishing you happy, and tranquil times ahead, Baba.

Under all my tongues, even when I am silent

You can hear it still, though it’s a bit blurred -

the richly perfumed soil, the dawn birdsongs,

miles of latticed waters, still reflections,

emerald  paddies, scents of mango orchards

ripening their fruits under mango-coloured suns;

you can hear the cadence of the mother tongue

every time I write here and speak, and even

when I am struck dumb, though I’ve never been

there – never inhaled those rains, animal dung,

lentil paste daubed into delicate pointy shapes

drying in the yard; never seen those landscapes

of drizzly bamboo groves quietly quiver

by the whip-thin track tumbling to the river. 

ভাষা আন্দোলন দিবসের অভিনন্দন, শ্রদ্ধা জানাই সব মাতৃভাষাপ্রেমীদের যাঁরা শহীদ হয়েছেন নিজের কথা নিজের ভাষায় নিজের মত করে বলার মৌলিক ও অপরিহার্য অধিকার অক্ষুন্ন রাখতে।





Today is the International Mother Language Day, originally observed in India and Bangladesh, and now the world over since the UNESCO declaration in 1999, to honour the right to speak and value one's own mother tongue.  A day of pride and celebration, and also sombre commemoration and reflection, for all native speakers of Bengali. And for language lovers generally, in which category I automatically include all writers/poets/bloggers. Happy Mother Language Day to you!

Write...Edit...Publish : Is love then so simple?

It's time for the first challenge of the Write...Edit...Publish blogfest for 2016, hosted by ubercool bloggers/authors Denise and Yolanda.  This month's prompt is naturally themed on Valentine's Day and celebrations of love.  I am back with some poetry and a...well, a rant, but don't worry, it's a mild one :)

~~~

If there is any form that positively leaps into my mind when anyone says 'love' it's got to be the sonnet. The sonnet is a fourteen line poem, a 'little song' that originated in 13th century Italy.  Over time it was adapted into English, and many English poets wrote sonnets using love as the theme, the most notable being Shakespeare, of course. A Western form that has been widely associated with love, its object, and its celebration, so it feels super-apt to use it here.

In sickness and in health

Years later, the day’s definitively spent

in illness, in cradling a vaguely odd grudge

quite certain this isn’t how it is meant

to be - festive boiling down to the sludge

of sickrooms and maladies and medicine.

Temples where love’s expressed now quiet, passive;

a travesty of differently fevered skin,

grubbier shades of meaning to live festive,

the usual flowers forgotten, left to droop;

the petals of the hours shredding, wasting.

There are offerings of silence and soup,

unremarked and consumed without tasting,

till a brief, lucid break when the fever lifts -

what if this version is also a gift?

Diseased

If I were called in to choose my own disease,

I'd choose a certain yearning of the blood

to tattoo itself into textures of trees

to lie down in and melt into the mud.

I'd choose the shapes of silence between the stars

tuck them into crooks of nerves and mainsprings

and if you peeled back the skin at ribs and shoulders

you'd find the pulsing starshine in their linings.

Sadly, much as I would prefer the above romantic diseases, I am ill with far more mundane stuff. Not been myself for days and days, and thoroughly fed-up of being a patient.  Patience as you know is so not my forte.  :) My respects once again to those who suffer chronic diseases with grace and fortitude, and that includes my mother.  I don't know how they do it.

Hope to be back next week.  Meanwhile, stay well and happy!

Murder & Obsession Cover Reveal

I am pleased to have the fascinating murder-mystery writer Yolanda Renee here today. She has just completed the last book in her trilogy, and is here with the cover reveal:

COVER REVEAL

 MURDER & OBSESSION

Flames burn between a hardboiled cop and a gifted artist, but soon extinguish as another man’s obsession ignites into an inferno of desire, driving him to destroy the object of his madness.

To be Released March 2016

As wedding bells echo like the ring of toasting champagne glasses in the ice carved mountains of Anchorage Alaska, detective Steven Quaid rehabs his grandfather’s cabin into a honeymoon cottage for his new bride.

When he returns from a hunting trip, Steven’s faced with five police officers, who “Want to talk.” Plagued by two unsolved murders, the Department is searching for answers.

The conversation comes to a deafening halt as the team finds a bloody crime scene in the bridal suite. "Where's her body?" is a question Steven cannot fathom. 

Steven’s jaw clenches and his heart races. Images of Sarah streak through his mind.

The silence breaks as an explosion of accusations vibrate through every fiber of his being.

Steven bolts…

Although running is never the smart thing to do, Steven’s not thinking clearly and his escape into the wilderness of the Brooks Range proves almost fatal.

This Steven Quaid mystery is both personal and heartbreaking.

*****

   Yolanda Renee

At one time Alaska called to me and I answered. I learned to sleep under the midnight sun, survive in below zero temperatures, and hike the Mountain Ranges. I've traveled from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez, and the memories are some of my most valued. The wonders, mysteries, and incredible beauty that is Alaska has never left me and thus now influence my writing.

Despite my adventurous spirit, I achieved my educational goals, married, and I have two wonderful sons. Writing is now my focus, my newest adventure!

You can find Yolanda at:

Blog: Defending the Pen

Facebook

Twitter 

Pinterest

 Amazon

New Covers:

Murder, Madness & Love

After a gritty detective becomes involved with a beautiful widow suspected of murder, rumor and obsession obstruct his quest for justice.

Memories of Murder

World damnation is a psychotic man’s goal, but two obstacles stand in his way, greed and a dedicated detective. 

They do look ubercool, don't they, all three? Congrats, Yolanda! and looking forward to reading more.

Lost & Found Valentine's Edition

Today I am participating in the Lost & Found Valentine's Edition, a special blogging event inspired by a collaboration between Arlee Bird and Guilie Castillo-Oriard, co-hosted by Elizabeth Seckman, Yolanda Renee, Denise Covey and Alex J. Cavanaugh. 

The guidelines for participating in the event are:

Do you remember that special feeling of love found? And who hasn't experienced the emotional experience of love lost? Some of you might have even lost a love only to find that person later for another go around.

Tell your story about love lost or found in our special Valentine's blogfest.   Your post can be a short fiction, an essay, poetry, or even a song--let your imagination run free. Any genre is fair game, be it romance, historical fiction, memoir, or even science fiction. After all there are no limitations when it comes to love.

    

My post consists of a two part poem.  

Revisit

I.

The tobacco shop where you bought your first -

soft eighties music tinkles from somewhere,

but the rest’s changed, we’re not so well-versed

any more with the buildings in this square.