"Glimpse, peek, and if you seek
of pointy ears, and eyes that leer,
four of a finger -
do all but linger,
for the chance is that you will find
the strangest of our kind."
- Old elves song
There's a Goblin in the mirror!
Friday, August 19, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Oh me goodness, Macavity, I loves you!
This poem is the shizzle. I so mean it. The imagery is wondrous... and is a brilliant concoction of Elliot's inimitable palate of wit. I wish I could write like him. Each character in Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats is impossibly perfect and malignant. I am going to order the book from Flipkart as soon as I can, given the current state of my finances. The poem has just taken over my afternoon and I am ditching work to re-discover further fascinations by Elliot, in the form of one Growltiger, who is dosed his own medicine and is forced to take his last stance on board a treacherous ship.Feline melodrama, ahoy!
This poem reminds me of school and my aunt who is an English professor and once attempted teaching me Elocution. It reminds me of the extremely eventful train journey to Lucknow in school, where I did get up on a massive and blinding stage, all by myself, and vomited my version of The Listeners by Walter De La Mare, a powerful and evocative poem if there was one, wearing a leather cowboy hat, breeches, a checked shirt and ankle boots -uh uh, stirrups, if you please- and only thing missing in my attire was a lasso at the waist. The poem was meant to be eerie (maybe that was successful) and was sprinkled with innovative words like 'Spake'. Spake! Too bad I didn't have my own horsie, like the fellow in the poem had, that 'champs' on the grass. I was initially supposed to recite Macavity itself, and I am so glad that I did not (yes, did NOT), because, hold still, the school would have made me wear a tail. I'd take Eerie Cowboy over Demented Cat (me, not Macavity) any day, although, in retrospect, without the cat outfit, Macavity would have been a blast. So, I did The Listeners to a half-filled auditorium, blushed purple and got the hell out of there. For good. I have never ever recited anything else in my life. Never will. And speeches make me nervous as hell too, and I had to do a few to the school assembly even after the hideous recitation. On one particular occasion, the only thing that kept me going was the fact that I had written it off so damned well. It might have sounded lousy over the mic but in my head, it was the World's Greatest Assambly Speech. Which is where originated my belief that I think am better with the written word than the spoken, a concepy I even shoved into the faces of my current bosses, one drunken evening (too many). Also, the above mentioned assembly speech helped me win an election, yessir.
Any which way, smug as I may be right now about my fantastic speech-writing abilities, I am nowhere near writing well, as I would like to be. I am out of shape and have encountered the Block too many daunting times lately. I need practice and I need some forsaken inspiration! But it is poems like these that light some matches, and the fact that it was created by our own human kind, given that I believe everyone is born equal, I may have a shot somewhere, if only I am willing to explore the possibilities of what I may be good at. But I am too lazy for that and will possibly be bored half-way through, having the attention span of a drunken monkey. In the meantime, I present to you, and please read it, because this whole post is about how great it is, Macavity, the Mystery Cat:
-- T S Eliot
This poem reminds me of school and my aunt who is an English professor and once attempted teaching me Elocution. It reminds me of the extremely eventful train journey to Lucknow in school, where I did get up on a massive and blinding stage, all by myself, and vomited my version of The Listeners by Walter De La Mare, a powerful and evocative poem if there was one, wearing a leather cowboy hat, breeches, a checked shirt and ankle boots -uh uh, stirrups, if you please- and only thing missing in my attire was a lasso at the waist. The poem was meant to be eerie (maybe that was successful) and was sprinkled with innovative words like 'Spake'. Spake! Too bad I didn't have my own horsie, like the fellow in the poem had, that 'champs' on the grass. I was initially supposed to recite Macavity itself, and I am so glad that I did not (yes, did NOT), because, hold still, the school would have made me wear a tail. I'd take Eerie Cowboy over Demented Cat (me, not Macavity) any day, although, in retrospect, without the cat outfit, Macavity would have been a blast. So, I did The Listeners to a half-filled auditorium, blushed purple and got the hell out of there. For good. I have never ever recited anything else in my life. Never will. And speeches make me nervous as hell too, and I had to do a few to the school assembly even after the hideous recitation. On one particular occasion, the only thing that kept me going was the fact that I had written it off so damned well. It might have sounded lousy over the mic but in my head, it was the World's Greatest Assambly Speech. Which is where originated my belief that I think am better with the written word than the spoken, a concepy I even shoved into the faces of my current bosses, one drunken evening (too many). Also, the above mentioned assembly speech helped me win an election, yessir.
Any which way, smug as I may be right now about my fantastic speech-writing abilities, I am nowhere near writing well, as I would like to be. I am out of shape and have encountered the Block too many daunting times lately. I need practice and I need some forsaken inspiration! But it is poems like these that light some matches, and the fact that it was created by our own human kind, given that I believe everyone is born equal, I may have a shot somewhere, if only I am willing to explore the possibilities of what I may be good at. But I am too lazy for that and will possibly be bored half-way through, having the attention span of a drunken monkey. In the meantime, I present to you, and please read it, because this whole post is about how great it is, Macavity, the Mystery Cat:
Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!
Mcavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square -
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!
He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair -
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!
And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair -
But it's useless to investigate - Mcavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
`It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spaer:
At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Un-understanding
Is my heart made of rubber?
And are my eyes deceptive saucers?
Do I have 'Stoopid' stamped on my forehead?
It's a burning white truth
on the way-side of me,
like the hills that make like elephants,
but to me, gloomy and gray.
Rain pacifies surfacing fury
the same as the world spins,
just to come back and start
at unfruitful cycles again.
People, we simplify,
give words to feelings,
which in truth
are infinite.
The elephants loom large and gloomy,
beacons of size and intensity,
calm and ferocity,
- the white truth,
than we flee from.
It's the white that reminds
that you cannot flee,
and the gray melts to find
a world never to be.
And are my eyes deceptive saucers?
Do I have 'Stoopid' stamped on my forehead?
It's a burning white truth
on the way-side of me,
like the hills that make like elephants,
but to me, gloomy and gray.
Rain pacifies surfacing fury
the same as the world spins,
just to come back and start
at unfruitful cycles again.
People, we simplify,
give words to feelings,
which in truth
are infinite.
The elephants loom large and gloomy,
beacons of size and intensity,
calm and ferocity,
- the white truth,
than we flee from.
It's the white that reminds
that you cannot flee,
and the gray melts to find
a world never to be.
At the bottom of the pond
We’ve walked some dirty roads together and climbed some wound up hills. We’ve travelled many miles of life together and now I find myself on a lonely road, sore without your presence, your guiding presence. You let my steps match yours, a rarity in this absurd world, even as I knew I am far behind in your walk of life. We talked some much, fought, parried and grumbled. Hurt, hurt, and envied. But laughed, and laughed so much. Sang, argued and talked. I learnt while you vented. I failed to answer and understand your swift mind sometimes but gained a world in every conversation. I hated you many times for being so calm (and correct) during my fits of anger and regular tantrums. People have told me how I have been the center of your universe and I didn’t see it through the daily grinds that we faced but I know I was your friend, more than anything else that I was to you.
Sometimes I forget what happened until those hazy visions barge into my mind and I am forced to remember how and what went by. It is the single most influential event in my life and I’ve lost more than I have ever gained from anything, including us. I need to talk to you sometimes, cry, laugh, whatever. I can’t stand the banality and mindlessness of conversations all around me; it makes me recall how we used to talk, which was nothing like anyone does anymore. Talks with you can be weighed in gold (for lack of a costlier metal), for the amount of knowledge anyone could gain, for the sheer pleasure of listening to your precision of words and navigation of subject. You were a clown. A king. A sailor, a minstrel, a soldier, my father. And like I do in my dreams, I hope to meet you again someday, when I have understood what you have taught me all along.
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