Monday, February 22, 2010
Friday, September 26, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Few lines from 'The waste land and other writing'
I love these monsoon weekends. The sound of raindrops reverberating on the roof, The red melting from the gulmohars and flowing with the water, The wet grandfatherly tree sparlking with water drops...
I have been reading 'If on a winters night a traveller' and ' The waste land and other poems' both in fragments, the way I generally read.
Here are few lines from a poem.
.....
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
.......
And I have known the eyes already, known them all-
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When i am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin,
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
..........
The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot
I have been reading 'If on a winters night a traveller' and ' The waste land and other poems' both in fragments, the way I generally read.
Here are few lines from a poem.
.....
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
.......
And I have known the eyes already, known them all-
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When i am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin,
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
..........
The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Ambrishes House
An old house with wooden Pitched roof overlooking buzzing grant road station, where one gets up hearing the hustle-bustle of the station, and ends the day gazing at the sleeping station under the stars. Though It fears changing colors, it wears Greecian blue today. It feels quite magical and vibrant like a celebration.
Photo Courtesy : Kalpit
Saturday, December 22, 2007
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