Tuesday, May 1, 2012

The Theatre of Dreams



Here, in the theatre of dreams, you proudly stand
With visions great and ambitions grand
Eager, of course, for the curtains to part
And for the play called Life to quickly start

You are nervous, of course, as you stand on the stage
Wondering whether your audience will truly engage
With the roles you play and the things you say
As the curtains rise each new day.

“Will they applaud?” you are bound to wonder
Or will they heckle should you blunder?
Will you be up to this theatrical task?
These questions, yourself, I am sure you ask.

It is only natural, for the theatre of dreams
Strains the fabric of fancy at its widest seams
As you strut and stride on the stage called Life
Playing diverse roles with the passions rife.

Of glorious entrances, I am sure you yearn
And of deserving exits once you’ve served your turn
Of standing ovations and the applause of praise
That accompany all of your dramatic ways.

And so, I wish you play your part; play it well
That the audience will have a tale to tell
Of your heroic deeds and characters fine
Of how you did, upon this stage, star and shine

Of how, in Seven Ages, you played many parts
And in doing so, stole your viewer’s hearts
With acts astonishing and speeches sublime
With crafty wit and touchingly tuneful rhyme.

So, do go ahead, go … do your best
Put every talent to its most strenuous test
Raise the bar with each new role
And play your part with both, heart and soul

For here, in the Theatre of Dreams, as fancy flies and ambitions roar
You go as high as your aspirations soar
And as the drama unfolds, you will attain and achieve
As long as you do, in your dreams, believe.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Words are all they have...


Words are all they have

The artist has got a brush, canvas, as well as a diverse range of colours and mediums with which to work and produce a piece worthy of marvel in Le Lourve.

The musician has got his sounds, vocal and instrumental, his sense of tone to create rhythms ad lib.

The photographer has lens and light, a fancy device to play with and thus manipulate a ‘thing of beauty’ into print forever.

And the writer, What of him? Where is his palette, how does his work with his instruments and what technology can he avail to creation a masterpiece, to create art that is as deserving of fame, history and memory as those of the artist, musician or photographer?

Alas, he possesses no such tangibles; only words and the amorphousness of imagination.

Yes, only a repository of words and the resourcefulness of a fertile imagination. And they are fuelled by a confident conviction of thought and a fervent desire to etch - with words – the many conundrums of life across age and space, beyond culture and geography, yet within the universal realm of a common, but diverse human experience.

And thus – with imagination and words, with thoughts and questions, the writer produces a work of art that offers us a diverse gamut of landscapes, a painting that captures the multidimensional canvas of our humanity and the sculptures of characters that have been etched in Literature for time immemorial.

And thus – with imagination and words, the writer chooses carefully, sometimes on instinct, sometimes with more careful thought, the words to use and the effect to create, how to arrange his choice of diction on the canvas of mere paper so that the words chosen and their manner of juxtaposition reveal the savageries of war or the debaucheries of youth, throw light on a soul searching for answers or a complex character immersed in thoughtful deliberations or simply prompt questions which propel the minds and the hearts of our humanity.

And thus – with a fertile imagination and choice diction, we are introduced to the staccato of suppressed anger, the pitch of exaggerated excitement, the majestic beat of ambition and the distinctive peals of liberty. Thus, with an imagination that transcends reality and an array of words concocted to question convention, the writer brings to the observant reader and the discerning mind the diverse rhythms that exist in the soulful music of our humanity.

And thus – with virile words and intellectual imagination, we are introduced to a snapshot in time, a colourful image of a landscape lost in history, a bleak picture of present circumstance, a slide of childlike joy or aging misery or an image that mirrors our own. And by doing so, by adjusting the lens of perception, considering the colour of emotion and capturing the essence of an occasion, the writer, with words being all he has, throws light on the vibrant mosaic of our humanity.

And thus – in the writer we have the artist and the musician, the sculptor and the photographer, the caricaturist and the cinematographer - the ultimate artist – the creator of character, the sculptor of emotion, the melodious lyricist, the lampooning humorist, the artist who directs people and places to walk across the territory of our mind and find a special place somewhere within its profound geography.  And, words are all they have…

Sunday, March 11, 2012

With My Thoughts



Alone with my thoughts, I wander
Sometimes aimlessly, at times, with purpose
Often, with thought leading on to thought
Or with action the consequence of mental amblings –

Alone with my thoughts, I wonder
At worlds unseen, the by-lanes of inexperience
Places unexplored, territories yet to be charted
And I amble on, a solitary face amidst a sea of people – 

Alone with my thoughts, I trot along
Studying the nuance in a fellow traveller’s countenance
Ruminating the possible reasons for his expressions
And I pause, hesitant; before I pursue further –

Alone with my thoughts, I cease
Trapped by the shifting tides of nostalgia
With its momentary ebbs and flow, peaks and troughs
And I counter the future, by reaching out for the past –

Alone with my thoughts, I venture
Into a landscape of future possibilities
Into the purposeful realms of ambitious hope
And I surge forward, driven by notions of success –

Alone with my thoughts, I meander
Into caves where monsters grasp and groan
At superstition, perdition, and uncertain horrors
And, I plunge, anxiously into an abyss of anguish –

Alone with my thoughts, I fly
Into and past the nebulous clouds of fancy
Creating worlds and characters, forging inventions
And, I saunter, confidently, into a future I’ve created –

Alone with my thoughts, I am the human itinerant
Probing the possibilities of my existence, and
Crafting my own chance and circumstance
As I wander on,…alone with my thoughts - 

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Thoughts of a student in an examination hall


(This is a stream of consciousness attempt to empathize with students writing a tough Literature exam.)

This is tough …this word…insidious
What does it mean? Let me think…
Ah! Think? That is what I have been doing
Thinking…thinking…thinking for the last two weeks

Thinking…using my imagination
For that last English paper
Now, tell me, why would I need to write a story
If I am going to study medicine.
Think…imagine!

Thinking…using my memory
To remember that math formula
Now, tell me, is memory the sign of intelligence?
Oh no! My poor memory now hides a discerning mind.
Memory…forgotten!

Thinking…using my reason
To formulate that economics essay
I remember discussing this concept so vividly in class
But now, my writing skills….they belittle such discussion
Demand…supply!

Thinking…using my luck
Guessing the possible answer
To those tricky multiple choice questions
Where all the choices seemed the right answer
Guess? Right?

Right? Write!
O my god! See what this one word has done!
Gradually taking me on treacherous thoughts
Insidious? My mind is blank…
Let’s continue this essay anyway…Write!

Yeah, everyone seems to be writing
And look…look at that moron staring
At all of us with that smirk on his face
I wonder if he knew ‘insidious’ when he was my age
Wait! I wonder if he knows it NOW!

Anyway, that is my fate…
A future shackled by ‘marksism’
An intelligence deranged by memory
A rationale let down by writing
And choices hinging on luck.

A futile attempt this…another failure
On examining – trying to – an examination!

Thursday, November 17, 2011

The Elves' Song


We are Santa’s little helpers, here today
To bring a little Christmas along your way
It’s time for cheer and for Santa, you know
Time for a little, “Ho, ho, ho!”

We are Santa’s little helpers, and here we sing
As reindeer fly and the sleigh bells ring
And we hope that wherever we sing and go
We’ll leave behind a little “Ho, ho, ho!”

We are Santa’s little helpers, with toys we come
To bring a little Christmas cheer and fun
To bring some gifts and tell you to pause
And spend some time with Santa Claus

Ho, ho, ho, little gifts we bear
Our time with you we’d like to share
Ho, ho, ho, let this Christmas be
A time of joy for you and me!

Ho, ho, ho, here’s Santa Claus
Let’s clap for him, hear the applause
For, he is, indeed, the symbol of joy
Found in the heart of every Christmas toy.


Monday, October 17, 2011

Christmas Glee


It’s not Santa Claus, his deer and sleigh
That make a great Christmas day
It’s not wrapped presents under a Christmas tree
That fill hearts with warmth and glee
It’s not a lovely cake or a glass of wine
That makes Christmas morning shine

It’s you and I, the things we do
That make Christmas sing right and true
It’s you and I, the things we share
The love we have, our trust and care
           
It’s you and I, the things we do
That makes another Christmas shining new
It’s you and I, the love we feel
That cause Christmas bells to chime and peal

It’s you and I, your actions and mine
That fill our hearts with feelings fine
It’s you and I, what you see in me
That make Christmas so full of glee

It’s you and I, the moments we share
Trusting each other with emotions bare
It’s you and I, in our work and play
That make it a great Christmas day.

It’s not just Santa Claus, or a Christmas tree
But you and I, that make Christmas glee!


Thursday, October 13, 2011

THE TWIN IMPOSTORS




Victory is not simply a trophy in the cabinet
It is the recognition received for achieving one’s potential.
Victory is not just a medal around one’s neck.
It is the pride that comes from recognition received.
Victory is not simply a certificate in one’s hands.
It is the satisfaction gained from knowing one’s worth.
Victory is not just a plaque on the wall.
It is the knowledge that efforts exercised were worth it all.

Defeat in not the end of the road.
It is the origin for ventures new.
Defeat is not disaster in the making.
It is an assessment of what comes next.
Defeat is not wallowing in despair.
It is a test of our strength and depth of character.
Defeat is not about giving up.
It is about going on despite dull disappointment. 


Be it the victory we savour
Or defeat we bitterly endure
May we learn lessons for life
And rules for living
From these “twin impostors”

May they create character and destroy doubt
May they teach us what the journey of life is all about. 

Monday, September 26, 2011

What's without?



I watch you walk, with a cheerful grin
But does it truly reflect what’s within?

You seem to saunter, a relaxed stroll
But does it truly reflect a smiling soul?

Your grin, your laugh, that lively smile
Are they meant to mask intentions vile?

Your words, your actions, that confident pose
Are they meant to mask secret woes?

Yet, what’s within, and not without
Isn’t that what we are all about?

Yet, it’s what without that tells the story
While what’s within shares the glory

Of the many diverse roles we play
With their uniquely distinct shades of gray

As we strut within the grand theatre of life
And shout out lines that run riotously rife

With the tales of our inhumanity
While we don the mask of humanity. 

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Another Mother and Child


He takes her in his arms, looks her in the eye 
Whispers in her ear, lays her down with a sigh 
He then sits down beside her, tickles her toes 
As he caresses a brow that has absolutely no woes 
Innocence-laden, she breaks into a sweet, little smile 
That seems to ask, “Dad will you be quite a while?” 
He then moves to the door, gives his wife a little kiss 
And thus completes this picture of pure domestic bliss. 

Now in his shed, a few quiet blocks away 
On a makeshift table, all his equipment lay 
Polished and ready for his mission that night 
For the role he would play in his cause, his fight 
Which would ignite a panic, so chaotic and wild
That would engulf the lives of another mother and child.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

The Tazara

I am sitting here on a beach in Dar-es-Salaam, working on a school project with the lapping of the waves a rhythmic stimulant for rapidly evolving thoughts. However, should I need a break, a momentary thoughtful pause away from my laptop, there is another source of inspiration, distraction, sorry: a glowing sunrise from across the Indian Ocean!
For Simba school is soon forgotten and my camera tries to capture the full glory of Phobeus’ diurnal blessings upon us mere mortals. And as I try different angles, hoping innovation might make up for the limitations of my camera, the mind churns again and I recall how, when and why I got here far away from a Ndola that is somnambulantly getting through yet another August.
With a family steeped in the culture of the railways, albeit Indian, with a wife whose adventurousness is definitely not worthy of derailment by mere travel sickness, with a son who enjoys all forms of transport (but has a special affinity for Thomas the tank engine), with daily stimulants from the travel channel and with an innate spirit of intrepid adventure, Mr and Mrs and Master Renaux, accompanied by stand-by babysitter, Miss Renaux, decided to take the Tazara from Kapiri Mposhi to Dar-Es-Salaam.
My regular travel agent shrieked at my suggested itinerary, a former resident of Zambia gave me the thumbs down on Facebook and a present student suggested that I might be the only one on the train. Looking back, I smile at such universal misconception and disdain for Zambian infrastructure!
Yes, the toilets had no running water – even in first class, but there were staff at hand to ensure that there was always a bucketful around to do the job. In fact, our first class coupe – compartment on the Tazara – was spacious, clean and each berth was provided with two blankets, a sheet and a pillow. The mandatory bottle of mineral water that had been allocated to each berth did not pitch up, but that did not prevent us from sorting out or packed meals and readying ourselves for a long but comfortable journey. Yes, the train did shriek to halts and jerk to starts and it did give us some bouncy moments, but it also inspired little Calvin to come up with a ditty titled, “Bouncy, bouncy train.” It also offered us stunning views of undulating mountains and we even spotted giraffe, wildebeest, elephant and antelope as we chugged through the Selous game reserve in southern Tanzania. Yes, a forty-two hour journey eventually lasted forty-nine hours, thanks to a local strike in Mbeya, but we took that opportunity to chat to strangers from different corners of the world and to learn a bit of Swahili as well. The delay also meant I could digest another Safari or two before we entered the chaotic hustle and bustle of yet another commercial capital – and experience anarchy on the roads of Dar es Salaam.
But most of all the Tazara will also be an enjoyable memory because on it, we exchanged gifts and even ‘adorned’ our coupe on the occasion of our fourth wedding anniversary. And, no matter which corner of the world we might find ourselves many years from now, we can always say we had a truly interesting African adventure.

Monday, July 18, 2011

FAMILY INFORMED

A sheet of paper; a telephone call
Family informed.

Breaking news; MOD confirms
Family informed.

Anonymity uncovered; soldier named
Family informed.

One happy life ends, a sad one begins:
Family deformed.

An old room is emptied, a new grave now filled:
Family deformed.

A soul rests in peace; a parent, the spectre of torment:
Family deformed.

Family informed:
Casual: rather matter of fact, indeed.

Family deformed:
Reality: the fact of the matter, in deed!

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

MY HUMANITY

A time machine
You took me to another day, another age
Where I mingled with kings and rode into battle
A time and place where the sun beat down
On jungles as yet unspoilt by man.

A stamp on my passport
You allowed me entry to diverse countries
Where I could trek mountains pristine with snow
To lands remote and neighbouring where the moon rose
To an ambiance of delicious delights.

A chord on my conscience
You played tunes I had never before heard
While I grappled with feelings that you slowly stirred
As the music of humanity passed me by
While I stood alone in a crowd of faces

And held you in my band
- The anthology of a humanity I despise -

A tutor to my intellect
You explored the contours of my mind
While I analysed tenets that you dared me question
As the messages of past generations beckoned me
While I stood in museums that told the story of man

And pored over your bounty
- The treasury of a humanity I admire –


And held you in my hand
And pored over your bounty

As I enjoyed the vicarious pleasures that only you can offer

A book

To which I owe my humanity.