Episódios
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Sometimes you just know. As someone once said "I knew you were the one, as soon you walked into the room. There was light coming out of your ass!" Frankly, more often then not, love has less drama associated to its arrival, because it is really a feeling which grows and found incrementally, one conversation at a time, one walk at a time, one infraction at a time.You know there's something happening inside you when there's an unexplainable feeling of excitement and queasiness and anticipation which starts to brew inside. Why queasy, I have often wondered. And the only answer I get is that you start feeling that you are losing control. And it makes you nervous, helpless. But it's a feeling you enjoy, giving into it is akin to some other power taking control of how you feel and act. The more irrational the act you see yourself do, the more you see yourself say things which you didn't know you were capable of saying, the more you realize you are in the power of something transcendental. Something which will now never leave you unscathed or unchanged. Love has made an entry. Life as you know it ceases to exist. Sometimes infinitesimally, sometimes significantly, you find yourself change. Even when the high fades, and love becomes a normal part of what you live with, there's a glow which never leaves you. Even as obsession tapers into normalcy, you know your life is forever touched with magic. The most significant change comes as you stop thinking in singular terms. Is it freedom curtailed, or life enchanted for its inclusion? If there's excitement inside thinking of experiences together, then you are on the way to a twosome. Plurality is only acceptable with its promise of shared experience if one does not consider sharing an encroachment or a loss of freedom. Because love is, in so many ways, an acceptance and an accumulation. It's the difference between being breathless and gasping for breath. In that thin line of differentiation, lies the richness of our choices and the changeability of everything we stand for in life. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the progression of love - I Come With MudI Said I Love You FirstQuietly Yours
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Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Angels by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/AngelsLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
Someone once said "The path of peace goes through power." It's not only the truth, but a reality. Sadly. In a world largely ruled by men, rules are set as statements of power and domination. Even if someone seeks a hassle-free existence, unencumbered by positions, they are forced to seek bullies as allies, and are blackmailed in the name of security guarantee. In the sick paradigm of domination, innocents are both targets and collateral. And we, who are unaffected till we are not, react in disgust, fear and with the full force of our prejudices. Somewhere in the chasm between left and right, right and wrong, righteousness and hope, prejudice and fact, we the innocents also become warmongers in the name of being opinion-makers. Even on the sidelines we bring in the full force of our prejudices and opinions, seeking to change who cannot be changed. Facts take flight, and we become mood makers, reflected in wayward news articles, op-eds masquerading as headlines, passion disguised as television reportage. We the populace, the common people, thus also become warriors. And find that the battlefields and nationalism which conjoins us, does not stop us from fighting our own battles of our versions of right or wrong on social media, newspapers and tv channels. We stand divided. And we, the hoi polloi, become our own worst enemies. And we find, later, much later, that we are the ones who are the ones who hollow a nation out. Much much after political parties have come and gone, our debilitating legacy stays on. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on country, war, and other confusions - Politics on the Dining TableMr Hoskote, HAve You Visited Kashmir Recently?For Anyone Who Bleeds
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Sleepers by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/SleepersLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
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Vincent Van Gogh, possibly the loneliest man in history, once said - “A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke.” We are so much, and so little at the same time. As we transverse our fulfilments and relationships, seeing one flourish, and the other flounder. And we struggle to understand why. We find that we are that person who is loved outside as also the person agonizing over the one he loves the most. So much of us lies unidentified. Why - we struggle to know ourselves! As we see ourselves in other people's eyes and are astonished that they see someone else altogether than the one we thought we knew. Until the realization comes that we are illusions trying to find our own realities. And we transverse the world through the dream version of our lives. And we encounter strife and pain. Things start unravelling. And with dread within our hearts we know we are less than ideal. And we find ourselves alone. With space to not find someone else but to find ourselves. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on loneliness and aloneness - Elegante SolitudeSometimes We Remember So HardThose Days of a Lost Summer
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Rising Sun by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/Rising_SunLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
Too often, only too often, couples live lives of quiet despair. Without knowing that's not ordinary, that's not what coupledon is all about, that we can't have lifetimes compromised to the extent that an entirety passes by and there's nothing to show for it. Life is valuable and nobody, no relationship, has a right to take away from the preciousness of each moment. Because we have too few in the entirety of a lifetime to be in a position to even lose a single one of them. We need quick reparation, priority conversations, time to sort things out, to sit down with the intent of resolution, to come halfway - if not whole - to mend.But that's easier said than done. For the simple reason that hurts are deep-seated, more cavernous than ego. And fault lines once created are like deep crevasses. The solution is not bandaid, neither surgery because the scars which remain still hurt. It's only massive change and a change of attitude that will act as the silt to fill those fissures - a flood of gratefulness which would leave its residue behind, a continuous level of self-awareness of how our inadequacies are compensated by the other's presence. Couples are a team, and much more than the centripetal forces of differences, it's the pre-assumption of intent which destroys. Close relationships have to start with gratefulness, take each other as gifts and stay in the moment, to find real joy.Zen is not a strategy for love, it is the first principle. Nothing is impossible if intent and awareness are the emotions which lead. Ordinary lives are then haloed in quiet beautiful ways. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the struggles which mark coupledom - Before Bruises Become WoundsWhat is Loss, She Asked MeGrief Strikes Where Love Struck First
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Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Evacuation by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/EvacuationLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
Summer is late in the city I stay in. There are discussions about it but no conclusions. Some say - enjoy the extended spring. Nobody minds, as there are high winds coming in from the south-west, and windows rattle. There is more time to get the air conditioners serviced. But the intimations of summer have not ceased. Much before the papers announced the hot days ahead, the mornings had started to get more humid. Joggers knew. Windows in cars started being closed and the air conditioning cranked up. Summer bushes along walking paths started flowering. Pink Bougainvillea, red frangipanis, yellow elders. Flower beds had amaranths, salvias and hollyhocks nodding away delightedly. And as I went to office, Red Road and the Victoria Memorial complex was strewn with gorgeous gulmohur and amaltas, the golden yellow shower tree, the purple jacaranda and the flaming royal poinciana. My drives every morning were ablaze with colour. And I knew though it was a welcome, things would unravel in different ways.The tar on the roads would start to melt, as would the barely hidden anger on the edges of side streets. People would tend to get tired faster and more irritated. Fuses would ignite and punches landed. Relationships would begin to unravel and truths told in harsh tones. People would fall into lust more than they fell in love. And there would be too many misdemeanours conducted by common people in commonplace ways. But legendarily people understand. Even as they fight and argue, they understand that the heat is a character in every situation. People make plans to go to the hills but some refuse. Summers are when they reveal themselves to their own. They write their most honest poetry. And understand the enormity of their misdemeanours- and do not hesitate to ask for forgiveness. Springs just make you glad, happy to be alive, perky without reason. Autumns are for deep depression, to think of the worst life has every given as just desserts: it's the time for seeking redemption. Winters are to freeze inside, to not reveal oneself. Everyone is too embroiled in one's own battles of seeking succour and warmth, to be able to think of being benevolent. But summer is when we allow everything to fall apart. Our clothes, our defences, our truths, our untruths. Even as the most iridescent flowers burst uncontrollably in colours which sometimes hurt the eyes, something soft inside wants to tell truths. It seems easier to give in then rebel, or wallow in stories with long lives. It's good to be ordinary and open. Summers are the time for both passions and truths to find their own paths of destruction or redemption. Whilst other seasons are one dimensional, summers are when the roads get forked, ready to form - or destroy you. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the the seasons of our world and lives - Those Days of a Lost SummerIn the Winter of Our RelationshipsThe Passing of Autumn
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Sehnsucht by Sascha EndeSummer Dream Instrumental by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/SehssuchtLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/Summer_dream_instrumentalLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
The riches of our lives, even when we are not searching for it, is like the journey of Santiago, the young Andalusian shepherd boy in Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist. The treasure is always nearby, always close. We just don't have the eyes for it. The treasure is often our search for meaning, sometimes it is the clarity we seek of what the fulcrum of our life is, so often it is our despair to put together the disparate parts of our lives into one knowing compass. Most often it is our search for a person who gives meaning to our lives. And we have to wander through our days and our dullness, the inequities and confusions, the seemingly directionless pull of our lives, the cornucopia of choices, or the dearth of choice. And we return home, tired, our ties crunched, our spirits defeated. No balm, no gentle commiseration, no time with the closest to us, seems to make a difference. And we keep searching, keep looking outwards, keep wondering what will give solace, give intent, bring significance. Who would be the compass and the companion, the commiserater and the catcher in the rye? And in our search for an adult cradle, even as we lie curled on the lap of someone we care for, laying bare our existential issues, we forget that possibly, this is the person who is both the destination and the means, the person who could hold us and lead us, the one who both understands and scolds, the one who is the wind beneath our wings and the first step of beauty in our lives. And in that realization, lies the gorgeous reconciliation of our search, as we realize that who we thought of as an accessory, a necessity, a cultural perk, a socio-economic order, a social necessity, often a burden, an enforced liability in the form of a gift, is actually purpose and direction, succour and signal, a parachute and a mattress. And in that realization we are like the prodigal son. Our return becomes then just a realization. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on elusive love - Before Bruises Become WoundsOld Poems for Old LovesBella's Meadow
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Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Der Kristall Ending by Sascha EndeDer Kristall the Glade by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/der-kristall-endingLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/der-kristall-the-gladeLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
Aloneness is forced, solitude is a choice. Loneliness forces me unwillingly to be with myself. But solitude, as the great Montaigne said, gives me a chance to know how to belong to myself. A mental stand - and an entire outlook changes. But, of course, it is not so simple! Ironically in our worlds, we have to forcefully claim our aloneness, often to fight for it. It is antithetical, nay, antisocial, to voluntarily eschew company, and be alone. In its own way, it's a rejection of social norms, company, to say that 'hey I prefer myself to you.' We are all meant to be social animals, and nothing should deviate from that. If you seek droplets of solitude - that is acceptable. We need 'me-time'. That's hip. It's new age, recommended. But to deliberately and pointedly eschew company - to travel alone, to go to a film on one's own, to decline an invitation to a party for no reason whatsoever - is anathema, non-understandable, hence, well, 'unacceptable'! Because nobody can understand solitude. How can I explain its texture, its ability to embrace like a warm comforting room, to give the feeling of teetering on the edge and of being held at the same time, of getting the feeling of being with a stranger you know well, of discovering the undefinable in the person who's definition you thought you had down pat, of having the full force of freedom with oneself and of pulling oneself back all the time, of being excited because you've just said yes to something which all company would have abhorred. And one discovers what the great Soraya once said - "Sometimes being surrounded by everyone is the loneliest, because you’ll realize you have no one to turn to.” If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the loneliness - Sometimes We Remember So HardI Can Sense Her LonelinessThe Art of the Lonely Good Deed
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Time Is Now by Sascha EndeColossus by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/Time-Is-NowLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/ColossusLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
Coming back, when you've slammed the door behind you, is not easy. Literally or metaphorically. There is too much history to deal with, to have it hit us again like hale. Fresh starts are rarely as heroic as in fiction, and there is too much pus oozing out of the pores of common history for it to be a conjoinment without terror or distress.We do not always desire recall, because rewinds bring with them memories of unbearable pain. But often there's a knock on the door which we cannot ignore. And we are forced to reach in to rediscover not the agony but the good times, we reluctantly revisit the residue of love, to seek the part of our heart and memory which our best selves house. And once the trickle begins, the flood is not far behind. There's nothing right or wrong, there's nothing good or bad. It's our life, and it's our best or flawed self finding its apogee or its nadir. In our search for happiness, we are ready to let hope triumph experience, to be reductive in our pessimism and let our beings be flooded with possibilities. Because intrinsically we are good people. What works and what doesn't is a matter of chance and opportunity, of desire and purpose, of intent and attitude. But to know we've given ourselves and the universe a chance for redemption is a simple acknowledgment that we are flawed, our lives are flawed, and we recognize that, and are ready to forgive and rise above the wallow of bitter memory. We are gorgeous because - unlike a lotus - we can float with the pelf inside us, not below. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on second chances in life - TenderlyThe Happiest Couple You Will Ever SeeThat Ordinary Lie
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Sehnsucht by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/sehnsuchtLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
You have to say it first. You have to do it first. You have to use the words. You have to acknowledge what is burning inside you. You don't have to find a reason. You don't have to wait for an apposite season. Lack of Reciprocation, fear of rejection, the vulnerability of putting one's heart (one's ego?) on line. Life is a hurdle race and love is strewn with obstacles. In the magnificent tapestry we create of our own scars and wounds, a bulk of them - unmentioned, hushed - are self- inflicted. But they are also an atlas of our journey through the landscapes of angularities and anguish. They are markers of our journeys from which we can learn, recalibrate, reignite. Because - where's the time? We have to love in a hurry. Before anything else claims our time, mind, heart. Because nothing would be worth the wait. Just as, in the selfsame vein, we need to forgive first. We can't wait for the 'who's-right-or-who's-wrong' of it all. The moment regret visits our heart, we need to walk across, or pick up the phone, and say that most difficult of words - sorry. Because asking for forgiveness is a major component of love, going unrecognized because it is construed as compromise, a shame, a capitulation, when actually it is a show of strength, vulnerability masquerading as compromise, understanding standing with a hangdog expression asking for a rewind. Every moment is a vacuum. Waiting for us to fill it with what we feel is important. If we choose not to do anything, the universe rushes in - with its offerings, its insistences, its random temptations. The reason why we need love to be a driver for our life is because we can then choose it every minute, every time. Even if it feels premature or inchoate, and there's no stardust falling on us, we would have walked through the evolution of our own truths. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the confusions and insistences of love - TenderlyLove Actually (more & mess)Perpetrators & Victims of Love
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Dreamsphere2 by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/Dreamsphere2Licence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
I read about the famous economist Daniel Kahneman, author of 'Thinking fast and slow', opting to end ha life through assisted suicide, euthanasia. He went to Switzerland, and died. A friend and I were talking about it. And I remembered what Tanu and I have often discussed -Not to live if we become a permanent burden on someone. I told my friend, I was quite clear - I get to decide when I will end my life. But he asked a simple question - is your life only yours? And it made me pause. And as is my wont, I started writing to clear my head. First I wrote from the perspective of the one who has decided to end his life, and followed it with the feelings of the one who is left behind. And it wasn't an easy decision any longer. It's easy to say that our breath, our life, is a gift to us - and after that it's our decision as to what we want to do with it. But that also started sounding glib. Because the fact is that our breath, our life, is also a collective. We are made of the efforts, the hope springs, the heart carvings, the soul bindings, the body cravings, the thought mouldings of all who love and care for us. We start being someone and then are slowly changed and created out of what others see us as. What might start as an opinion, an illusion, starts getting recreated. We then are what we make of ourselves, but are also deeply vented and grooved by what our world thinks of us. No, we no longer remain our own. If our presence makes a difference to the lives of someone else, we are not only our own. If our mere breath gives solace to someone else, we are not our own. If mere presence, without words, without effort, makes someone's life feel complete, then our life is not merely ours. And that, if nothing else, needs to give us pause, before we decide to go to the next realm. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on deaths and similar journeys - I Heard That You Just Set Off on a JourneyBirthday Musings of an Ageing ManI Will Leave The Last Line For You to Fill
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Movie extract by Sascha EndeA Sad Toy Story by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/movie-extractLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/a-sad-toy-storyLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
I often feel that as a poet I am destined to live through the infliction, the gain and the loss, the incandescence and the darkness, of a continuing bruise. I have to confront too many truths, and make sense of them, I have to face the world with too much honesty, and to crack open too many of my lies and illusions. I feel alone, trying to tell the story so I camouflage the truth, to iron up to rebuffs and to the reality of losing space. To know that I am both a mirror and a weapon, though I profess I'm just an agent of stories whose words sometimes seem like a lunging sabre. When all I do is to sit on a desk alone, with a single bulb throwing shadows on my notebook, a pen which makes a scraping noise as I write, shovelling out the detritus of memory, scraping my heart and soul for revelations, which would help me unravel my own mystery. Why do I do what I do, why does the universe pull me towards disaster and then helps me flee, why do I rebuff destiny, why do I run away from sanctuary? And then I stop in my heels, and realize that I know. I'm merely being the poet that I am. No more, no less. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the absolute glory of being a poet - Old Poems for Old LovesHow a Poem Finds ItselfI Don't Think Poetry Will Save us. And yet, and yet....
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Sleepers by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/sleepersLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
So much of life is of journeys, just the way death is the final one. Of course, I'm not only talking of trapezing around the world, country to country, city to city, in innumerable trips. I am also referring to metaphorical and metaphysical journeys. The ones which reveal the greatest of mysteries - of what we truly are. The journey inside. Because that's where the truth of our sighs and lights resides, of what haunts us in the night and of what drives us in the morn. Of what irritates us, what irrigates us, what parches us, what floods us. We learn to recognize people who freeze us, and the ones who free us. How at times we become blithe spirits when alone, and how we are completely imprisoned even as we move around in company. Who are we if not responses to our own stimuli? Who are we if not found persons, dug out of our own excavations and discoveries? Because in life and in death, however many our encounters, accidents or conjoinments, we finally keep meeting ourselves. And, without comparison, it is the greatest unravelling. Because journeys help us shed skin, help us become raw and open, vulnerable to our own revelations, to see our deeper fears, and what we are but also what we can be. In the world of circumstances, we are both the greatest possibility and the meanest retraction. Inside us, our wings are tightly-folded. And there's no need to fly in the crowds, as there is enough space to hide, from people and from ourselves. But, journeys give us a chance to unfold those unused wings, renew our promise to the universe, and to slowly, timidly, then surely, learn how to fly again. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on different kinds of journeys - Adventures in Two WorldsIn Search of GodOn Growing up (that haze of sunshine & dust)
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Der Kristall Ending by Sascha EndeDer Kristall the Glade by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/der-kristall-endingLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/der-kristall-the-gladeLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
What are we if not the ones who crave for second chances. And what is this world if not a place which is spatially abundant but trajectorily linear. An opportunity lost, a call not made, an apology kept back, a feedback reined, a love abandoned. Life is a compulsive giver. It's we who are blindsided with the cornucopia of choice - mistakenly thinking that life will keep giving. That we will keep rebuffing its generosity, with impatience, with disdain, with ego, and we will keep getting what we want. But even the universe gets tired. When it sees its largesse being rejected, being thrown asunder with impunity, of being taken for granted, it just takes its plentitude elsewhere.That's why trying to get back what we've lost, trying to bring back whom we've lost, are often exercises in futility. Apart from the context being changed, the dominoes having shifted, the reference points getting lost, the heat and light which accompanies first crushes and initial rushes simply do not find any resonance when time shifts reference points. When time and tide bring other people and more contexts which are eager to adopt the universe's gifts, the munificence shifts. Our rejection of the other then leaves us bereft and alone. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the touchy-feelness of departures - Sometimes We Remember So HardDeparturesI Heard That You Just Set Off on a Journey
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Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Pullman City Hard by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/pullman-city-hardLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
Love they sayIs the mess you invite,The mess you makeAnd the mess you leave behind.) It's a flash, it's a paint,It's basil in the soup.It's a kite which finds the skyBecause its cut loose. It's a shore being tugged by the sea,It's the moon staying on in the morn,It's the sunshade in a roadside cafe,It's the chef's apron he can't take off. It's the brownie you crave,It's a drink you like strong,It's a glass too many in a pub,It's a staid party and you want to pole-dance. It's the chilly flake on your pizza,It's a fondue too hot,It's the tandoor crispening your roti,It's the buttered part of the toast. It's the street which you love,It's the bend in the lane,It's the view which you searchWhen the highway is long. It's the blood you give in a campThough you don't know its journey's end.It's the ticket which you getWhen you park too long. It's the sock which you wear,It's the inner to keep you warm,It's the tattered shirt on the hanger,The torn jeans you don't mind. It's as warm as worn-out slippers,A curtain which can't be still,It's a dream which won't let go,It's when you're awake though long-gone. It's your song sung in a foreign tongue,It's a glimpse you get in a throng,It's the thong you see on a mannequin,It's when you are hungry in a rich repast. It's the sigh of a dream unfinished,It's breathlessness after you run a mile,It's a vein blocked in your body,It's your heart going still, at first light. When was love ever tea sipped alone?When was it ever just dawn's first shine?It's the hale which cracks the wind-shield,It's when its clear and you're snow-bound. It's your semen in a condom,It's a baby you might not want.But when you hold it uncertainlyIt's, finally, the world you find in your arms. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the gorgeous mystery of love - Punctuation for LoversComing to Your Side of the BedChanging Your Address (on marrying & moving homes)
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Rising Sun by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/rising-sunLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
So much of life is about forked roads and where we choose to lead ourselves.If we are vigorous about living, we would give little time to ourselves to reconsider or think back to our choices. We ensure that our lives overflow, each minute tumbling into another almost breathlessly, with little time left for reflection or regret. But oftentimes, on a tired evening, when a passing strain of hopelessness seeps into us, and nothing seems to be right - the ones who are closest seem far away, and circumstances weigh us down in the name of destiny - we try to fathom the mystery of choices, and think back to the forked road. And think about lost chances, of what might have been, of what we could be, of who we could have been with. Memories come rushing in - words ignored, questions answered wrongly, those we professed to love taken for granted. It could all have happened aeons ago, but it suddenly seems like yesterday. And we try to think of where the lost ones might be, what could they be doing, who they might be with - and whether, in some balmy sighing night, they think of us. And what would it be like to be called again, or what would they say if we call them? Whether their number would be the same, whether they would recognise our voices, whether their voices would suddenly flood with emotion. Or just remain neutral, unfeeling, silent. Whether at all they ever think of us, the way we are thinking of them? And we wonder that though we might not go back to having the luxury of changing our choice, but whether there is ever a future for a remembered past? If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on loss and regret - Before Bruises Become WoundsOld FriendsWhat I Miss is the Tender Moment
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -About Moments by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/about-momentsLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
I fear disuse. I fear lack of purpose. Not necessarily in terms of conclusions but more in terms of direction. Whatever I do, I feel good to think it adds something somewhere. No, I'm not thinking of increasing the national GDP or my fame or fulfill a spouse's desire. I think of it more in terms of experience. Where nothing goes waste. It could be anything - a film which knocks the daylight out of me, music which haunts me through the day, a shadow I see lengthening as I lay in the winter sun, the unceasing drip of an incurable tap as I sit reading, of sitting silently with my dad as he nods off to sleep, of letting my mum tell a story from her childhood a millionth time because old experiences are her mainstay now. But I grow older, and have started to forget. What gives me sustenance are traces of the life I have lived and am living. Because that is what experience does - it makes you alive in the moment - and the moment consequently never ends. I am keenly aware, with each passing day, of how life seems long but days turn out to be so short. And before I know months have gone by, and then years. And I have nothing to show for them. Not in memories, not in the senses. And I ask myself - 'what have I got this life for?' And I battle for a full day, and consequently a full life. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on embracing life - Those Days of a Lost SummerHer Breasts as ShelterAnd the Crowds Roared as the Music Rose
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Flucht Romeo's Erne by Sascha EndeChildhood by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/Flucht Romeo's ErneLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/ChildhoodLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
We are all strangers singularly and a brotherhood en masse. With a seamless earth and a sky being shared between us, in spite of boundaries - of homes, cities, countries, continents, hearts, colour - we cannot but be similar, looking out for each other and being there lending a hand when we see the other struggle. The tragedy of borders is their illusion of easy divisibility. But a line drawn is a slash on a heart which in spite of divisions seeks conjoinment. In thought, religion, spirit or opinion.How can we be anything less than a whole? If a million stars can be a galaxy, and adorn the skies with their synergetic beauty, how can millions of us be merely individuals, concentrating on differences, trying to find our fulfilments alone, and not strive for connections? I love the idea of all of us solitary as a reality, but being part of a collective as a necessity. It could be the way our parents are the nurturers and the caregivers, to the way we marry and start our own broods, seeking and getting succor and shoulders. It's not a case of quid pro quo but a primordial need. We are not meant to be alone - however much we might do a Thoreau. And if we can be at one with a partner why can't it be with a collective, a mass, a country, across countries? In the hullabaloo of our own egos and existences, we forget we are lesser alone, as soon enough we start to struggle with the minutiae of our solitary existences, wondering where time went, wondering why we are not what we can really be. In the schemata of life's design, we are made independent by body, but are never enough in brain or brawn to pull the entirety of our existence alone. It is my firm belief that it is the universe's strategy, its design, that we are made adequate, but lesser - so we can reach out, join hands and find both the strength and the comfort of being in each other's company and support. We are more because we are more, lesser when we are less. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the need for being solitary and together - I Heard That You Just Set Off On a JourneyI Can Sense Her LonelinessThe Art of the Lonely Good Deed
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Epic Intro 2017 by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/epic-intro-2017Licence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
I sometimes wonder if there is anything comparable to the generosity of a morning? Once you force yourself up, the cornucopia of the universe is laid out for our delectation. The sun is at its most benevolent, the birds are full-throated, the flowers are sleepy and demure, the air is soft even as it bites, the leaves are brittle, letting themselves to be crunched to a satisfying exuberance. The trees above are in a state of measured chaos. Bushes which have grown thick have deep caverns and shadows, inviting exploration. The smaller bushes are like poodles itching to run away. My walking path has a large amoeba-shaped pond, which suddenly appears as you take a turn, and it bares its shimmering heart to the red of dawn. And the canopy of trees is a filter for light, throwing dimples and moving tapestries as I walk. And I enter this treasure room, as an auberge of hope, a safe place to replenish, an energy drink to jumpstart one's nerves. A morning is a kriya, a dawn is a kripa, as we walk purposefully for a life, which is nothing but an opportunity to find meaning in everything we find beauty in. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the whispers of mornings - Dawn in HampiRecalibrating DawnsMusings As I Step Into The Morning (leaving a lover sleeping)
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows - Medieval Tabletop Session by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/lonely-fishLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Immersion by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/childhoodLicence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license -
Our lives are a collage of a thousand scraps of random, and often irreconcilable, happenstances and mistakes and decisions thrown onto a canvas of existence. Love is often the most decisive happening of our lives, often trooping in unannounced and more often than not, grossly disrupting our lives - and mostly overstaying beyond our comprehension. We are both perpetrators and victims of love, even as we are the helpless receptacles, seeing ourselves change - beyond our own comprehension. All because we are in love. Love makes us reactive, even as we grow generous, imaginative, fiery, beautiful and gentle. It is the only thing in the world which shows us the good and the bad we are perfectly capable of. We become both warriors and gentle creatures. Meek to suggestion, fiery to defend. Beyond ambition, beyond our need for fulfilment, love gives us justification. The question then is never of right or wrong, of the ethics of choice or decision, it's of direction. The question is of being consumed, of being in the shadows and the sunlight. Unbehest to our senses, when love enters our lives, our stars immediately realign - we are then not ourselves but of our destiny. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the quiet advent of love - An Ordinary Poem on LoveQuietly YoursOld Poems for Old Loves
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows - Medieval Tabletop Session by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/medieval-tabletop-sessionLicence: https://filmmusic.io/song/medieval-tabletop-session Immersion by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/immersionLicence: https://filmmusic.io/song/immersion -
It's basic good manners they say, possibly one of the first things taught to a child, the most primal form of grace. The importance of, nay, the necessity of saying 'thank you'. But ever so often, we are taught the semantics but not the emotion which needs to go along with it. And there lies the crunch. Because we start noticing the gap, the inadequacy of a formal thank you, particularly in the closest of close relationships. One theory says (in the form of twisting an immortal line) that "Love means never having to say thank you". The other end of the spectrum says that you can't take love for granted - and every little thing done is to be observed, embraced and acknowledged. And I struggle with my thank yous. So I substitute the verbal with the act. A deed for a deed. Maybe immediately - likely not - maybe later. But I keep the memory like a blessing laid on my door - to be embraced, taken home, nurtured, never forgotten. It's not a question of equalising a favour and then moving on as if a debt has been repaid. It's more like a flame, to ensure it keeps on burning in some form or the other - as a 'pay-it-forward', as a habit, as a friend-in-need, as as a karmic credit, as a sign of being the person that I really am. Folded deep in the warm embrace of a thank you, in word or deed, is the gift of accepting that we are complete only with each other, that alone, we are exactly that - alone. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the absolute glory of kindness and ordinariness - A Legacy of KindnessThat Ordinary LieAn Ordinary Poem on Love
Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup.
Get in touch with me on [email protected] The details of the music used in this episode are as follows -Dreamsphere 7 by Sascha EndeLink: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/458-dreamsphere-7Licence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license - Mostrar mais
