As the poet said, ‘Only God can make a tree,’ probably because it’s so hard to figure out how to get the bark on.
– Woody Allen

Our modern maidens

Or just dejected stumps?

Perhaps both.


The Burial of the Dead*

Death will rise to greet me

Grieve not, for ’tis goodbye

Until we again rendezvous


*The Burial of the Dead is a poem by T.S. Eliot.


And though each word be wan and blurred
I’ll tap you till I die.

– Robert William Service; from ‘My Typewriter’

Like sweetest serenades

Of forgotten times

Abandoned words beckon

(Found this extraordinary piece of equipment in my college’s ECA (Extra Curricular Activity) room during the recently concluded Wordsmith 2012. Needless to say, it made for a fascinating subject. There are more photos but since this is my current favorite, I chose this to accompany the poetry. If you’d like to see some more photos of this delightful machine, just drop a line in the comments below. Thanks!)

The Locked Door

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things through narrow chinks of his cavern

– Wiliam Blake; The Marriage of Heaven and Hell


Life-long misers left their Summer Gold
behind a beguiling locked door
while starved metaphysical mules stared.

Platform Conversations

Uninnocent, these conversations start,
and then engage the senses,
only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice,
and then there is no sense

– Conversation; Elizabeth Bishop

Your sylvan Gods won’t surmise

What puerile minds devised

A concert on each vernal freckle