After a long long time again I have nothing to post…to tell you frankly many a times I lack ideas….you can also say that most of the time I am short of ideas…and when I go through these phases…I get a little…don’t know what…

Few days’ back I had a chat with a girl…in my dreamland…the girl whom I know for a long time…(of course in my vision)…completely injured and devastated by life’s ruthlessness…she was flaming…
Her body smelt of salt…pungent odor of rotten flower…that even yellow leaves fear to touch….
‘Filth’ is what they call her…the streetwise suave humans…the life she has been living for long is nothing but pestilence…
But I loved her…I knew I did…and had a long exchange of ideas over existence…there I found what she wants to say…a morbid discourse of life…

” Life has so little to give…so less to perform…overseer of catastrophe…observes in proposition…
I know what my position is…pest of a worst species…what humans fear to see…but tramples with militancy…
But…I fight with all I have…the strength that I hoard…love is what I brawl for…in the sea without a shore…
Mourning for years …for the things…I crave for long…thought I would achieve it one day…
Laugh those gentlemen…up from the porch…In a cynical mode…(as if) I was dreaming on a sunny day…
Days passed by and I realized…Slavery…that might work…that is what I was made for…
But…the smell…that rotten smell…made their house a vinegary dump…
I thought I was not a human being…feminine exhibition was a luxury…men harked for the beauty that’s real…not the sordid body…
Soon I realized…as an lesser creature should do…!!!…
My body was a piece of flesh…how can I refute the gaze of a beast…and make them enrage…
They are the masters…of the home, the world and also of the mass of the fair sex…where I am just a part of the clan where I represent the darkness…

The first night I bled like hell…awful malady of wounded places…blood was oozing from the scratches that were made…and numbed my senses with pain…
I again started thinking…and realized it as necessary…the stored toxic in my body…needed a path to flow…
The time might come one day…when the pain will be no more…and I shall be born a fresh new bud…in the garden of my Lord…
Then came the next night…then the next…and it went on and on and on…breaking all the fantasies a life can afford with a potent blow…
By that time I had already realize…the way the things go…The debris I gather every night…is the burden of the world…the filth of paradise…which stops men to reach there…once they are liberated…they might find the path of eternity…
I was the reason once those men did fall…and now it’s my turn to restore them all…
So…here I am…taking all the blame…the burden one might say…
A long term fights with what is called life…apparently in a vulnerable way… “

That’s all that she did say…the smell was vanishing…or may be I was getting familiar to the odor…she was not moved for a single second…nor did her eyelashes shiver…who she was…where did she come from was left unknown….might be forever…

Been a long time that my pen gave birth to any productive piece…
But…they say (and I appreciate what they say)…that you got to maintain a gap among your babies…so do I maintain that…
And above all…as I don’t have so many blog readers like others …I think I can afford to do that…

Muse and poet is all that I have been writing for a long time…so….I have made my mind to write something else today…(the reason is also that I don’t have anything to write)…and under this circumstance…a burning social issue would be highly preferable…

So…
Let’s talk about life today…..
Life of a girl…who in turn, naturally grows to be a lady…(if I am permitted to say that)….
And regarding this….I have a very strange way to give the impression of being…
For me…
Life (of course of a present day girl) starts where this fairy tales ends….you know….”and they lived happily ever after…”…?…and stuff…

I wonder where does these sweet stories lead us to…?…Is it a fairy land…where the fairy god mothers or the angels will save the sweet beautiful princess’ and will bless the ugly offspring to be the most gorgeous one…and gradually she will turn out to be the princess that every prince heart will long for…and once he wins the lady heart…they will live happily ever after…..

But….doesn’t this life acquaints us with a different story……?….
The story of the princess…who no more lives in a land far far far away…and the time when she enters into the life… knowing or unknowingly…cries for shelter….
She was the little princess…centre of honest desire; consideration….how can she fit into the world so mundane….she can either be a beauty to look upon or a muse to dedicate…..
But…the harsh reality of existence does not let her to stay in that fairy land any more….she is no more a baby smiling with her cute little gums that would make us adore her…now she has beautiful set of teeth…and when she smiles…the infuriated cannibals starts polishing their incisor….
The soft bosom of her stature is no more what we make her to read in passionate work of fiction…but…a pair of seasoned outgrowth that will boost the repressed hunger of any lustful delinquent…
She is no more the beauty who sleeps…with skin as white as snow…never can she open her Rapunzel hair…she is now a budding quantity of animal protein and in these cases all she can do…is…restrain…restrain…and…restrain…!!!….

But…every infantile female is not as ill-fated as I am portraying…there are some…who does…or at least tries…or sometimes trained…to fight back…but of course….the poor little soul…the only protection is her legendary Don Quixote sword…
You can guess where she ends up to…

Well…I can comprehend that many of my readers would call this piece unfair or biased…but you know… this piece may look one side of the story…and I do agree that…but according to me…abusing female child does not need the other side of the story at all…because you curved the chocolate bitter…
And still if you have anything to say…please do write the other side of the story…I would be happy to know as to what does really drive you people to mistreat these under aged angels…

I don’t want my baby to born,
I don’t want my daughter to born.
In the world so grimy,
Life so hell,
She would be choked,
In sickly saccharine gale.
I’ll rather keep her…
Nurture in my womb,
On no account shall deliver her,
To the land of the wolf.

[I am aware of the fact that there are evidences that the under aged boys are also many a times victim of these cunning beasts…and I don't intend to avoid that factor either….but an old story of one of my best friend's (girl) childhood all of a sudden made me write this…and this is the reason that I entirely focused on girl child abuse…]

“As no pleasure last for long,/So did our love had gone,/So did our merry ended,/And we met never.”

to see my latest post…

http://shenjuti-myvoice.blogspot.com

I saw you following me on the streets of the metropolis….the place where I wander around….with the sack of manuscripts….
I have seen you following me the dungeons I pass…the place where natives fear to trade…the dingy lanes of conurbation…
I found you following me in the vehicles I journey….the window frames of a motorized tramcar…fleeting images that mind seeks to imprison…
I feel your presence in everyday life I perform…in every phase of a day….in every place that I move….

Who are you (to me)…!!!…

A versifier who picks the scraps of my deconstructed verse…a poet, being stimulated from those fragments…composing an unforeseen epic….
You are the soul whom I have seen…searching in the toxic heap of city waste….the filthy write-ups (that you find refreshing)…
You are the person along for the journey…may be by my side…(I don’t observe as I stare outside)…demanding nothing…only a company in the ride…
[but] I feel that you exist when I start to write…the self whom I tend to pass up…the face that I often glare…recurring like a refrain in a clumsy poetry line…

Then who am I (to you)…!!!…

I remember what you called me once…a muse (that writes)…a figurine in a garden unkempt for years….an angel (that hardly could prove a protector)…
On the streets of the city…when I toss my verse pieces…I have seen you picking them up…standing by the road side…in the golden waves of halogen…(trying to) read the scribbles I made on leafs…can you read them…?…
You said these scraps stir you a lot…
Then am I a muse to you….to a poet….a (urban) folk-teller…
I don’t know….
But when I see you read those nonsense scraps of mine and glimpse your eyes spark…I get reassured…

You cry that I am lost…you mourn that I am dead…but if you seek deep in your heart…I must say…as every penguin has a “heart song” for his mate…so do you, the bard, have a muse for your odes (if you wish to have one)…this muse may not even acknowledge your glare when the eyes meet….might not even care to inspire your verse (when you need her most)…but…O poet, the beloved of the muse…she does somewhere inside, awaits your work of art…

I was waiting for the time when the spring will blow its trumpet….
When will the warm breeze blow over me…
When will the gentle wind rouse me from the wintry sleep….

Once a poet called this wind…”Wild”…an exorcist…”breath of Autumn’s beings”…the spirit…the life of personified Autumn…
Like an enchanter…blowing away the dead…decay…pale….phase of life…
Anticipation of a future….revitalization…regeneration…
A life-size assertion…!!!…

This is the wind I was looking for…which will appear like a storm…carrying bits and pieces of words…and will drive the life out of soil…
A touch of life would I feel…in contrast to ‘a claustrophobic state of affair’…a divine touch…
I’ll be possessed…!!!…

Then I realized one day…
I mistook love for this wind…a muse for motivation…angel for tranquility…
Love was the rain…and washed away my words…
Muse was buried…in the darkness of the soil…
The angel I longed…dated back in history…
Where am I now…was I living in a world of fantasy…???…or I lost it…because of the foolish me…
I don’t know…!!!…

This should end my writings on writing…I have realized…even if I search for years…I’ll not find what really these words are doing to me…
And will remain a poor soul…eternally in quest of words…and will go on try to arrange them…shape them…in a strange sense of meaning…
I give up…!!!…

At times when I am all alone…nowhere to fool around…or…no works to perform…I prefer to write…scribble…and savor the enduring pen-crafts of consciousness…
And that is the time…!!!…when I face my self…a persona that is hardly known to any one…not even me…!!!…

This is not my first attempt to know the chore of these words…but the desire it evokes…is still a mystery for me…series of phases…that keeps me alive…a process…that makes me…a woman…!!!…

On occasions I am really charged with scores of ideas….at that moment, emotively I don’t need to injure those leafy pages…the words then tend to flow ceaselessly…electrified in a way that they even don’t feel like waiting for me to guide…
But times like now…when I can’t find anything to write…or loose hold of my words…or…when all of my ideas vanish into thin air…I struggle…violently I look for them…a mad woman in search of abstraction…
Can’t locate them…!!!…

But I know…it is a cycle…once again the time comes…when I see them from a far distant island…Pages are once again soft…orgasmic progression of pen…overflowing ink…set of secret languages delightfully taking a shape…
I conceive…!!!…

A mystic effect on the writer it forms…transforms itself to be something paranormal…
No more a preserved text in a medium…not just a sign or a symbol…not a dated history…but…a web that entangles a self called writer…a claustrophobic state of affair…the poor soul scratches the pages of notebook with her nail-nib…
A piece is born…!!!…

to see my latest post…

http://shenjuti-myvoice.blogspot.com

She is struck in a remote island (good for her)…often isolated by fiery storm…delimited by towering cliffs….mercilessly rock-strewn…under judgmental annihilation…implausible survival…!!!

Have mercy…(please!!!)

No winter…no summer…an eternal struggle…ceaseless battle…with the turbulent ocean…in a frail-wood canvas…
Even if she is dead…the planks…for her coffin are hard to come by…
Howls of the sea…camouflage her keen face….she is no longer the muse…!!!

She can see her own reflection on the water…
Water…!!!…salty…brackish…pungent…
A tragic struggle (that’s exactly what she deserves…tragic destructive muse)…the outer conflict between a dominating persona (for the poet) and a power beyond and above it…the primitive…the disposition of modern time is curiously confused…

She deserves…!!!

Let her die…a cruel death…a hungry monster ever on the lookout for human (poet) victim…
Wailing…roaring throughout…fighting the powerful…let her die an ugly death…
She was a killer…a disastrous power…an implacable foe…

Oh poet….!!!…you were a fool to love her…she will make you vanish into thin air…before that; curse her to death…

Cried Apollo in Hyperion: “I strive to search wherefore I am so sad / Until a melancholy numbs my limbs.”

True…a sense of loss…melancholy…if really exists….kind of pre-empts the attention of poet’s (also the muse who writes) imagination and permanence…appearance and reality…thought and sensation…quiescent and rousing….
This oscillation….restlessness…in its essence…might…fluctuate from altruistic idealism…to selfish hedonism…
Poet’s quest for permanence…a lifelong spiritual guard….goes against…his awareness of human mutability….

…”If I am destined to be happy with you here, how short is the longest life!”…

Poet chases the eternal vanishing figure of his muse….in a mood of profound dejection….the aching heart….might be…metaphoric for the state of mind…key to which…is the mythological allusion to the river Lethe…the drowsy numbness…regressive movement…(sorry poet!!!)

…”if it were now to die / I were now to be most happy”…

Now the muse….what she goes through….suffering…?…agony…?…wretched…?…a Grecian urn…un-calendared past…un-divined future…defeats (tries to) the ruthless exactions of mortal plague…the eternally vanishing figure…most explicit exegesis of the crux…(disgraceful!!!)

The mourning poet cannot hear the mourning muse…he can at best….internalize the image…the symbolic muse…supreme power of art (witty)…ideal beauty (not pretty)…
Driven by his own artistic sensibility…poet…is trapped in the dozy deadness of reflex creativity…

(I really have no idea what this piece is about….just felt an urge to write….)