सोपी-दिनचर्या dept.

उठणे, आवरणे
युनिफॉर्म घालणे
चालत/सायकलनी/रिक्षानी/बसनी
शाळेत जाणे

असेंब्लीत ताटकळणे
हजेरी देणे
सरकार-प्रमाणित, पौष्टीक शिक्षण
ग्रहण करणे

टवाळकी करणे
घरी येणे, जेवणे
आईच्या ट्युशनवाल्यांशी खिदळत
होमवर्क करणे

खेळायला जाणे
भांडणे, भडकणे ई.ई.
दिवसातल्या रन्स/विकेट्स मोजून
नमूद करणे

हातपाय धुणे
शुभंकरोती म्हण्णे
जेवताना ९ ची सिरीयल, कुणाचे
न ऐकता बघणे

झोपणे.

fall-2007 dept.



असा गाफिल होऊन चालू नकोस
हे बघ, फक्त रंग बदलतायेत
माहितीये झाडांचे कसे पारे उडालेत
वाटतं पार कायापालट झालाय

असलं हे नेहमीचंच बरं-का
चांगलं हिरवं भरलं रान असतांना
रुसून सन्‍यासाची करायची सोंगं
मिरवायचे जरा भगवे-तांबडे कपडे

मग बर्फांचे फवारे लागले
थंडीनी चांगली जरब आणली
की येईल जरा डोकं ठिकाणावर
हळूच चढेल पुन्हा खराखुरा रंग

अरे सोंगं कधी टिकत नाहीत
मी कधीच फसलो नाही, सांगतो
तू ही जास्तं भाव देऊ नकोस
त्याचं हे असं नेहमीचंच आहे...

poetic-routing dept.

Algorhyme


I think that I shall never see
A graph more lovely than a tree
A tree whose crucial property
Is loop-free connectivity
A tree which must be sure to span
So packets can reach every LAN
First the Root must be selected
By ID it is elected
Least cost paths from Root are traced
In the tree these paths are placed
A mesh is made by folks like me
Then bridges find a spanning tree

-- Radia Perlman.

Extract from her paper on the Spanning Tree Protocol.

karla dept.

Climb up on a hill, through winding narrow stone stairs
Feel the mingling of the sweat and the swearing
Under the breath, and the silence of a million thoughts
Overlaid by the thousand unsparing voices

Ashamed to add your own, out of place.

Fear the smell, foreign and unknown even in daylight
And the strange lingering expanse that preys on itself
You can hear the clamor and feel the gaudy lines
Stretching finitely before your eyes in ecstatic motion

That is not your destination.

Your destination is a hole in the wall behind it all.
Deserted by those who carved their souls into
heartless rock, Treaded by the curious soles of
those who feel lost, and yet find their way

Here, within these stone walls.

could've-been-verse dept.

This is a great poem I came across long ago while watching the Mel-Gibson-directed movie The Man Without A Face. The poem was written by a nineteen-year-old American Pilot named John Gillespie Magee, Jr. during World War II, only a few months before he died in a plane crash.

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

गावठी कविता dept.

मन वढाय वढाय
उभ्या पीकातलं ढोर
किती हाकला हाकला
फिरी येतं पिकांवर

मन मोकाट मोकाट
त्याले ठायी ठायी वाटा
जशा वार्यानं चालल्या
पानावर्हल्यारे लाटा

मन लहरी लहरी
त्याले हाती धरे कोन?
उंडारलं उंडारलं
जसं वारा वाहादन

मन जह्यरी जह्यरी
याचं न्यारं रे तंतर
आरे, इचू, साप बरा
त्याले उतारे मंतर!

मन पाखरू पाखरू
त्याची काय सांगू मात?
आता व्हतं भुईवर
गेलं गेलं आभायात

मन चप्पय चप्पय
त्याले नही जरा धीर
तठे व्हयीसनी ईज
आलं आलं धर्तीवर

मन एवढं एवढं
जसा खाकसचा दाना
मन केवढं केवढं?
आभायात बी मायेना

देवा, कसं देलं मन
आसं नही दुनियात!
आसा कसा रे तू योगी
काय तुझी करामत!

देवा, आसं कसं मन?
आसं कसं रे घडलं
कुठे जागेपनी तूले
असं सपनं पडलं!

-- बहिणाबाई चौधरी

सगळीकडे-मराठीच-मराठी dept.

विंदा करंदीकरांना ज्ञानपीठ पुरस्कार काल जाहीर झाला. हे एक बरेच झाले. सरकार-दरबारी मराठी माणूस आपला शिरकाव करू शकत नाही हा सिद्धांत अखेर खोटा ठरला. ज्ञानपीठ पुरस्कार हा देखिल आमच्या कंपनीच्या Employee of the Quarter Award सारखा rotationने दिला जातो हे ऐकून बरे वाटले.

शाळेत असतांना एकदा विंदांच्या कवितेवर once-more व पहिले बक्षीस मिळवले होते. त्या वेळेस अजाणतेपणामुळे त्यांचा उल्लेख 'कवयित्री विंदा' असा केल्याबद्दल, उशिरा का होईना, मी इथे दिलगिरी व्यक्त करू ईच्छीतो. विंदा ऋषीतुल्य वगैरे आहेत असे आज पेपरमधे आल्यामुळे ही एक गफलत ते माफ करतीलच अशी माझी मनापासून खात्री आहे.

माफ केले नाहीच, तर आम्ही त्यांचेच शब्द त्यांच्यावरच उलटवू:

घेता

देणार्याने देत जावे;
घेणार्याने घेत जावे.

हिरव्यापिवळ्या माळावरून
हिरवीपिवळी शाल घ्यावी,
सह्याद्रीच्या कड्याकडून
छातीसाठी ढाल घ्यावी.

वेड्यापिशा ढगाकडून
वेडेपिसे आकार घ्यावे;
रक्तामधल्या प्रश्नांसाठी
प्रुथ्वीकडून होकार घ्यावे.

उसळलेल्या दर्याकडून
पिसाळलेली आयाळ घ्यावी;
भरलेल्याश्या भीमेकडून
तुकोबाची माळ घ्यावी

देणार्याने देत जावे;
घेणार्याने घेत जावे;
घेता घेता एक दिवस
देणार्याचे हात घ्यावे !

भाव(खाऊ)सरगम dept.

काल थोडासा ताप होता. तरी tickets काढले होते म्हणून ह्रदयनाथ मंगेशकरांच्या कार्यक्रमाला गेलो. या आधी दोनदा बघून झाला होता, पण पुण्यात नव्हे. एकदा बँकॅाक मधे, आणि एकदा नासिकला. बँकॅाकला वडीलांनी 'ती गेली तेंव्हा' ची फर्माईश केली होती. पंडीतजींनी ती स्वीकारली, पण "या कवितेचा अर्थ बाकीच्या लोकांना कळेल का?", असा टोमणा वर मारलाच.

वास्तवीक अशा खऊटपणाला काहीच कारण नव्हते. कदाचित आपण पुण्यात आहोत असे पळभर त्यांना वाटले असेल.

ही कविता माणिक गोडघाटे ऊर्फ कवी 'ग्रेस' यांची आहे. त्यांच्या कवितेवर अनेक लोक दुर्बोधतेचा आरोप करतात. वास्तवीक हा आरोप चुकीचा आहे. खरं म्हणजे, कष्ट केले तर त्यांच्या काही कवितांना अर्थ असावा असे भासते. ईतकेच काय, त्यात काही-काहींचा तर संदर्भांसकट अर्थ देखिल लागतो. त्यातलीच ही 'ती गेली तेंव्हा'. बाकीच्या कविता अगदीच NP-complete आहेत. प्रस्तुत कवितेचा अर्थ सांगणार्यास Millenium Prize देखिल सहज मिळू शकेल.

उखाणा

शुभ्र अस्थींच्या धुक्यांत
खोल दिठींतली वेणा
निळ्या आकाश-रेषेंत
जळे भगवी वासना.

पुढे मिटला काळोख --
झाली देऊळ पापणी;
आतां हळूच टाकीन
मऊ सशाचा उखाणा.

तरी, मैफल चांगलीच रंगली. ताप विसरलो. सकाळी २ वा. घरी परततांना हुडहुडी भरून ताप परत आला. आजचा दिवस झोपून आहे.

धनुष्य-बाण dept.

बाप गेला घाम गाळूनी
जगाचं पडलं बाभळ-रान
हरेक गुंगला आपुल्या नादी
मग त्याचे का ना विरेल भान?

भणंग शिकारी सुगंध शोधे
रान पालथे करूनी, आज
तरी ते सावज मात देतसे
सवंगतेच्या अंधारात.

गळेल घाम अन् निशा अंथरेल
संथ मंतरेल दृष्टीपथात
तरी तो कालचा डाव न रोकेल
उचलेलच कोणी धनुष्य-बाण.

alone-in-office-on-a-bleedin'-saturday dept.

It is deathly silent here
Silent as a lonely grave
Quiet as the still, watchful waters
That stealthily but surely tread

Black, grey, stoic, surrounding walls?
Guards beneath a deceptive veil
The cold, unceasing metallic hum --
No warm footfall -- whispers "all is well"

It is deathly silent here
No voice to break the music dead
No living laughing working now:
A cold, penetrating, eternal haze

पिरतीची कीरत dept.

पिरतीची कीरत समद्याहुनी लई न्यारी ।।

ही पिरत जडली रामाला, शीतेसाटी यडा परभू जाला ।
मग पुसं झाडापाखराला, कुनी दावा पिरत माझी प्यारी ।।

हीनं जनीला यडं क्येलं, हीनं नाम्याला घायळ क्येलं ।
हीनं तुक्याचं मन भारलं, सार्या सृष्टीत रमले नर-नारी ।।

अशी झळंबी कितीका बिजली, कितीकांची जीवजोत इजली ।
पर जीचावर मती हिची रिझली, त्यानं साधिल्या मुक्ती चारी ।।

पिरतीची कीरत समद्याहुनी लई न्यारी ।।

- कवी गिरीश.

analytical-poetry dept.

This just in. Maybe this is a crazy thought. But the mathematical analogue of poetry is really -- a digital signature. What is poetry but a condensation of a sensation or the rounding off of experience? In terse and simple words, the poet seeks to capture pain, rapture or equanimity in equal measure. A digital signature or message digest is of course, a lossy method for summarizing data content i.e. a digital signal. Now, Messrs. Shannon, Nyquist et al tell us, that downsampling a signal (effectively, trying to compress it beyond what its base information content allows) may cause us to lose information during the process, if the downsampled result is too terse.

From our hypothesis that poetry is the analogue of signal compression applied to linguistic expression, the same effect of ambiguity should apply.

At this point, it may be beneficial to introduce the notion of a well-intentioned poem, which we define as follows:

A poem written with a specific meaning in mind by the poet, with the clear intention of letting the readers of the poem be able to decipher the intended meaning.

Unfortunately, the available corpus of poetry that can be classified under this heading, is as we know, quite sparse.

Agreed? Shall we move on? Alright then, if we would have to demarcate good, skillfully-written poetry, it would now be reasonable to assume that such poems would be well-intentioned poems whose informational analysis would leave them hovering somewhere near the boundary where compression begins to become lossy.

Hmmm...can this intuition then, be encoded into a versification algorithm? Is poetry, as we know it, doomed to become the domain of cold-hearted automatons? Is there really no hope in this world for all those ugly people out there looking to get laid (well, actually, there's always beer)?

For answers to these and many other equally vexing questions, tune in next time...

since-we-are-in-verse-mode dept.

I can see the world turning in its haste to engulf itself
I do not see myself segregated from it; I am It, it is Me
I am but a little eddy in a heady whirl of unheard voices
A little furl of cloth in the violent seas, merrily riding on

I have been a criminal, a liar, deeply have I offended
(I have even felt softly rising, the pangs of remorse)
I have walked upon this earth, on my own feet, jaded
And declared: none was like me, nor will there be another

one-before-i-turn-in dept.

With every aching bone, and a tired mind,
embrace the night; welcoming, knowing
Shoved around in the bustle outside
for you, the gift: the joy of forgetting

Going to Sleep

Now that day wearies me,
My yearning desire,
will receive more kindly,
like a tired child, the starry night

Hands, leave off your deeds
mind, forget all thoughts;
All of my forces
yearn only to sink into sleep.

And my soul, unguarded,
would soar on widespread wings,
to live in night's magical sphere
More profoundly, more variously.

-- Hermann Hesse

Fading star, memories of those that were,
With the eye, firm, beholding the new light
The coldness within, will stay awhile, awhile
Softly, the wind blows, the day arrives.

Cold, cold heart, indulge me some more
Partake of this, the unstained warm delight
No sun waits for the the dew drop's shiver
No pain falters , a leaf is not that shall not wither

still-life-with-boredom dept.

We are all vain, fickle animals. How cruelly do we so casually spurn the affections of those that love us, and yet squander our lives over merciless infidels? Surely it must amuse the all-merciful, in his omniscience, to watch us weave our tangled webs of self-deception and deceit. Perhaps, 'Al-Nawaz', in one of his sombre moods, lamenting his lost love, caught a glimpse of the infinite, and trying desperately with his (at the time) limited vocabulary to distill the essence of his experience, wrote down this:

In the courtyard, the flowers bloom, the Indian rose, dispels all gloom
The insects swarm, and plunder it all; and beauty thus, begets its doom

There was a house, in the lane, where I lament my lover's reign
She gave me joy, and infinite pain; sweet pain, alas, taken too soon

All around, the call resounds, the faithfull crouch and bow their heads
For some the crowd is divine; to some, beckons the solitude of their rooms

The priest offers heavenly bliss, yet frowns upon the brimming glass
Peace, sheikh, for we are the anointed ones, who sorrow's dregs consume

Love was not all unkind, 'Nawaz', she offered her right, reassuring hand
Cursed was I, I yearned for all; vain desire led me to my doom

crazy-li'l-thing dept.

The poetry of Persian poet Al-Nawaz can still be heard at street corners in the towns of Khorasan. A new English translation by Engelbart Fitzwater of his lovelorn poetry can now be found in the neighbourhood Crossword's. Al-Nawaz lived almost four centuries ago in the dusty and disease ridden neighbourhoods of the cities of Khorasan, but his desires and unrequited passion still resonate today. One of the earliest known master of what was to become the 'ghazal', his keen insight sometimes is overshadowed by the unmitigated intensity of his unconnsummated love.

The target of his lustful affections, unfortunately, is lost to us in the mists of history. But the intensity of his feelings still live on in these ghazals, even though we can only speculate as to the identity of his muse.

It is my intention to serialize some extracts from the book here, to trace the growth of his poetry from the transparently obvious to the deep mysticism and unforced, unpretentious maturity of his later work.

So, to begin with, a simple offering:

Like an earnest field, I waited for a mass of grey
When only a twinkling of a drop would wash me away

The dull night and the silence, dear friend
Only your heartbeat keeps oblivion at bay

'Tis verse for the heart we recite, not holy writ
Things yet unwritten, one still has to say

Some things are born and crawl, others perish
You are the one that willingly lost his way

Gaze at the moon, 'Al-Nawaz', savour its contours
For she must set, night too gives in to day

jai-mardhekarki dept.

In the water-drum, drown the hapless mice
Necks broken, and by no strangler's hands
Lip falls on lip, and without a struggle,
Their still heads , lifeless, hang

Their's, a pitiful lot -- survival in a hole
and death in a drum, with a hiccup
and the day spills down over their eyes
and washes their impotent genitals

Life is an obligation, here
And death -- an obligation too.

The gift of despondency:
A poison sight; glaring through glass eyes
Even the beeswax mildewed on their lips
Is cheap bakelite, bakelite

And again, they meet, lip touches lip
the drowning mice, bathing in the dip

-- Bal Sitaram Mardhekar

(with my sincere apologies to the deceased)