The Ballads of Gravity

I feel peace, But I feel my peace is compromised And that makes me arrogant, sometimes rough. Imperfection, I see them whom I failed to love. Memories of thy make me soft and Thy remain the best of mine forever and ever, I fail to define, which I hate the most, A mixture of several feelings disembark on the shore  of this transience O, what a beautiful and wonderful life! I live in the soul of life. Yes, “My life is so much more interesting inside my head.” I wish if I could write the feelings of my life into words, No pen can handle it, no words can represent.

I’ll tell you the story of your soul, Mysterious, tantalized by the beauty and love of life From the abyss of life above the firmament, Life comes alive in you.      Keats loved ‘her’ to ruin him, But I love her to live me lively- Love her is to live in her, Live in her is to die in her and She’s miles away, Far across the mountains and waters, Living her vivacity unto the zenith of life, She makes me live. I love myself despite how imperfect I am. I can't help but fall in love with myself over and over again. I sound like a self-obsessed idiot. Like Narcissus loved himself, I love myself, Both my body and soul and celebrate it.      There must be something left incomplete And I do love it.

O, my spirited soul, Take me to the zenith of thy 'spiritedness', No drugs, no flesh; no smokes, no drinks; I live without them, for I need them not, That, thy spirit makes me spirited and vivacious. Lonely, but with the company of an unknown entity of my ‘other’, I stand on the shore of a vast and wide vessel of water. The mysterious hallows hide the secrets of life. The zephyr caresses my face when I close my eyes. I feel like I'm flying. Shelly sings an ‘Ode to the West wind’ and Prays his soul to take him high, Above the daily trifles of humanity And cultural pretensions. Then fall down upon the thorns of his life. I don’t want to fall down on the thorns of my life, Like  Shelly  wanted, and lament on the cultural and Intellectual frameworks of the society which ignored him, I need to be the wind, singing the herald of life and soul, I will kiss the entire world with

We fools live in hopes and future! But I know not what they’re, And I also live in hopes! It’s quite indefinable; It’s a fusion of romance, lost love; Loneliness and something I know not. I’m not lonely when I talk or sing loneliness, I’m, when I feel the absence of my soul with me. I need my soul, to be with me all the time, until The end of my life. Soul, the god of mine and the omnipotent of my ‘self’, I want to fly high and drop myself down, The vivacity of my soul takes me far high from the Misery of the world, Where everyone wears masks and paste a smile.

I love whom I haven’t ever seen or met, I erase her from my memory each time I think of her And I restore each time after. Absurdity! I do it for years and years, Nothing changes or moves, Essentiality of each thing is same; Nothing changes and I love her today more than anything In this world. Whatever I write, everything ends with her memory. Once I erased her from my writings, But I stopped with her name and memory. I wrote again and she came there too, I’m haunted, cursed of memories, But I love them. The beautiful absurdity of life!

I am a man full of life and soul, They need a professional and specialized body. I'm marketized in the  columns, Where boys and girls search for professionally tagged contestants. They win who have higher market value, And I'm also part of this game!  But I fight! I do things which I never wanted to do, For I feel things just happen to me and I become just a subject of certain certainties. Nothing is accidental in this world Where you and me live in hope of good future and Hope. Its written and there is no space for future, For there is no hope since everything is written.

I need to know the secrets- Of life, of love; of events and of 'That'. 'This' is possibly everything I know and 'That' is possibly everything I know not. I need to write, but what would I write? I have no idea. I need to know – Life, love, lust; luxury, poverty, peace; Victory, loss; ‘this’ and ‘that’. I wander here around the professional World of specialization where no one lives, But professional egos and tensions. They make me a product of neo-capitalism, But I fight.   I have a price tag worn around my neck And I am marketized.

I want to sing Tagore, Shelly; Byron, Keats; Browning and Frost,   But my glottal never sounds the tongue. What would I sing? The conceptual slavery of my life or The absurdities of my social life? I’m not yet a human being, I’m something that I fear. I want to be the nature, But I am the culture. Let me get out of here, For I no longer belong here, Let me wander around this bubble like earth And space like universe. 

Who the hell am I? Where the hell do I live? In those certificates or On those online accounts or online avatars? W-H-O  T-H-E  H-E-L-L  A-M  I-? I'm fighting. And I have any idea what they’re, Could be my ‘Others’- you, society; Traditions, customs; practices and 'That'. I’m a product of social clashes and bindings, I bear the dreams and Unfulfilled ambitions of many! Where is mine? 

I’m scared! I’m lost in the midst of these dramas, I search someone, but never near. I want to flee from these cultured pretensions Of social class and status. I flee every time but they catch me each time. I'm in the midst of plenty, but lonely! I envy them, For they walk alone in the woods and deserts. They have the world and What do I have? Academic certificates, Ph.D. ; religion and cast certificates Income certificate, ration card; Election ID, passport; nativity certificate, Phone number; email ID, Facebook account and Blogs or some papers ? 

I envy them, for they wander. They live in deserts and woods, And they wander. They know the language of the desert And of the woods, For they live their lives the way they design. No one calls them back- Home, parents, peers, And no one. They live, they see; they feel, They hear and they do, For they are not captives of their physical bonds. I'm here, Around the unknown languages and figures.

                 Victorian women writing: a work of proto feminism Anand Mathew             The history of England is the history of the male line, not of the female. We know always some fact, some distinction about fathers. But of mothers, nothing remains but tradition. It is true that we know nothing of them except their names and dates of their marriage and the number of offspring they begot. Strange spaces of silence seem to separate one period of activity from another. There was Sappo and a little group of women all writing poetry in a Greek island six hundred years before the birth of Christ. They fell silent. Then about the year thousand we find a certain court lady, the lady Murasaki, writing a very long and beautiful novel in Japan. But in England in the 16 th century, the women were dumb while the dramatists and poets were most active. Later