Wherever there is water you will find pond heron (also referred to as paddy bird), no water body is too small or too dirty. Sometimes it is a sad sight to see these birds feeding in muck water of city. Pond herons are survivors; they are omnipresent without being all that common. They are mostly seen humped motionless next to water source keeping a keen eye on fish or small vertebrates, though we may mistake it for a laggard but the fact is it is a successful hunter, striking the target most of time. It easily camouflages with muddy surrounding and so tends to bump into passerby, creating a ruckus for being disturbed. This blogger has always had a bad experience with these birds as they shriek out with loud croaks alarming my other pursuits.
Lorca: Even the tiny banquet of a spider is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky
I, poet wit
hout arms, lost
in the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.
Federico Garcia Lorca was one of the widely known Spanish poet, he worked closely with likes of Juan Ramón Jiménez, Pablo Neruda, Salvador Dali. During the Spanish civil war he was captured and shot dead. This from one of his poems
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,
or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,
because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and
freeze you from behind the trees.
It's useless to look for the bend
where night loses its way
and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no
torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,
because even the tiny banquet of a spider
is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky
Lorca stayed inNew York
there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die:
they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,
in mindless games, in fruitless labors.
The light is buried under chains and noises
in the impudent challenge of rootless science.
And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs
as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood
Declaring
Find them a conscience declared in
an absolute casual
sun, find them a feat
declared by the happy
things
Absolute windows, absolute little lives
Always tell a wall, letter throne
stone desk-life, as it may
That which through
a cautious power dwells, accidental and passing 
Lorca: Even the tiny banquet of a spider is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky
I, poet wit
hout arms, lostin the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.
Federico Garcia Lorca was one of the widely known Spanish poet, he worked closely with likes of Juan Ramón Jiménez, Pablo Neruda, Salvador Dali. During the Spanish civil war he was captured and shot dead. This from one of his poems
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,
or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,
because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and
freeze you from behind the trees.
It's useless to look for the bend
where night loses its way
and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no
torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,
because even the tiny banquet of a spider
is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky
Lorca stayed in
there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die:
they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,
in mindless games, in fruitless labors.
The light is buried under chains and noises
in the impudent challenge of rootless science.
And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs
as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood
Declaring
Find them a conscience declared in
an absolute casual
sun, find them a feat
declared by the happy
things
Absolute windows, absolute little lives
Always tell a wall, letter throne
stone desk-life, as it may
That which through
a cautious power dwells, accidental and passing
Fare Well
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The little boy is eating oranges.
(From my balcony I can see him.)
The reaper is harvesting the wheat.
(From my balcony I can hear him.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
Random bets
So what’s your bet, the man behind me in the queue asks
Not decided, say I
But then you are in the queue, he retorted
Will decide at the payment, say I
Aha the random bet
I love random bets
Its guilt free, say he.
When On-money is Board out
‘Thoo’ ‘Eyewash’ ‘Made up’
‘Scoundrels’ ‘bastards’ ‘fuckers’
‘Sons of bitches’
Loosing money is no less painful
than earning.
No.8
‘No.8 is even money’ it is announced
Wonder whether the horse know about it, think I
(very much influenced by Charles Bukowski)
