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Wednesday, December 21, 2016

YES

The music of YES has accompanied me from childhood. Heart of The Sunrise carried me away into melody. Jon Andersen's girlish voice suited them perfectly and I had never heard a drummer as different as Bill Bruford. Wakeman stole the show with his Moog synthesizer in Close to the Edge and Steve Howe was also a class apart as an acoustic and lead guitarist, unique. As for Chris Squire, late, he was the only one who played bass like it was like lead. For me Yes started and ended with them, except for Trevor Rabin bringing in a  breezy, welcome, fresh, change of pop air in once. I agree with the Hitler meme video that Yes was them and like how LOTR music should be and produced nothing much of significance after Going for the One but for their classic YES period of five albums meaning Fragile, Close to the Edge, Relayer, Tales from Topographical Oceans and Going for the One they are up there with Genesis, King Crimson, Moody Blues, Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd and secondarily Marillion.  And 90125 makes for a good change from their usual style, as an album.

A White should also be mentioned, of course, as the drummer, but for me he never matched Bruford.

Happy they have been finally inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, at least in 2017.

Yes has had many other members over the years but only Tony Kaye matters to me of them and Peter Banks for nostalgia and sentimentality's sake, as well as Patrick Moraz. Igor Khoroshev needs passing mention.

Something needs to be said about Buggles' Trevor Horn as singer and Geoff Downes on keyboards as well as  DRAMA which is a fine album after the lacklustre TORMATO.

Heart of the Sunrise (FROM FRAGILE)


Finally, there is no Yes without the art of Roger Dean.

The pic is that of Union Yes which has all the members inducted into the HALL OF FAME





The image has Andersen, Wakeman, Bruford and Howe.


AND YOU AND I (FROM CLOSE TO THE EDGE)

For more information on YES line-ups and albums the best page is this one: http://yesworld.com/we-are-yes/


Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Metapfiction

Some other place, somewhere, some other time - a tentative start to a novel that may be renamed later

It must have been so. There, then he might have been a man and treated her cruelly while here, now it is just the opposite. He is still a man but being treated cruelly by her, a woman. This makes it symmetrical, aesthetic, if nothing else and hence, in that way, a matter of satisfaction. This does not lead to any kind of satisfaction, however, such a thought. What matters is not to be treated with cruelty and not treating someone cruelly.  Of course, there are no other lives or planets or universes, it is here itself that they have both been one thing or the other to each other. The blame is equally distributed or apportioned as is the praise. It is only in such encounters that one finds out how much of the worst and the best one can have brought out in one and bring out in the other. Looking at it in that sense such encounters are truly significant as harbingers of self-knowledge, if not worth having or beneficial. Maybe they are that too. Maybe in the long run, they turn entirely poisonous or malignant or entirely benign, like cancer cells, if such a thing is possible.


Metafiction - This won't be there in the final draft probably.

The thing about writing a novel is this: where does one start? The form itself is puzzling in 2016 December. Is it about writing a lakh of words? Or is it about passion and intensity? Is it form and genre, structure, style, language, mood, ambience, atmosphere, plot, story, characters, characterization, settings, details, feelings and emotions, points of  view and all the other things he teaches like exposition, rising action, conflict, confrontation, complication, climax, falling action and resolution? Is it having a giant vocabulary and having an impeccable grasp of grammar and syntax as well as dialects and registers and a feel for the language as it is used now and was and will be later? Using lakh reveals one's nationality. "Where do I begin? To tell the story of how great a love can be?" "Let's start at the very beginning." But where does 'a great love story' begin?  One that is 'older than the sea'? And 'younger than the mountains'? Is he a plagiarist for using all these quotes? No. He puts them in double or single quotation marks and it does not matter in creative writing. Is this going to be just that or something more? Can he roll all three stories he wants to into it plus the story of the nation or nations he has been in to make it what he really wants to, an epic novel like the ones the Russians wrote. The novel had died after them. Tagore's Gora and Bankim Chandra Chatterjee's Anandmath and Lalithamabika Antharjanam with her novel that included Gandhi in it were all written in its heyday in a sense by their getting to know of the greats only later and so they had been still been able to write 'proper' novels. Every great novel after that was proof of its deconstruction, be it Ulysses or Death of Virgil or American extravaganzas like Gravity's Rainbow which he hated and could not finish or Beckett's classics or any other novel that still mattered after the Russians, especially after Anna Karenina. This dissolution of the well-made novel existed even in War and Peace and Doctor Zhivago. It could be seen even in Jude the Obscure and in the fact that Dickens could not finish his last Drood novel.

He is that rare phenomenon, a great writer stuck in the past in a world that no longer cares for such a gigantic misnomer or freak and he wants to write a novel, this one - part of a trilogy but starting with the last one first and not yet knowing how to go about it but feeling his way.

It makes for good reading, though, as it always did.

One could start with repetition. That is how one always starts. The first woman he loved was his mother. Then his sister. After Freud, no such statements are possible without admitting that it is all incest, too, of some kind or the other. Oedipus complex. What is the word for sister love complex? He does not know. There must be one. Sibling love, probably. Interesting. Must google it or look it up. Musil was the one who dealt with it in his classic incomplete novel. Diotima and Ulrich. The novel had killed him or he had died while writing it. Would this one kill him too?

GSA, it seems.

'Roll call of names. Names fly in the wind.' He has written of it in Anamika too and thus in a diary ages back and was now writing it here again. This would not do, one does not talk of love by listing out the names of every girl or woman he had ever had a crush on as if it was a poem or a shopping or laundry list. That does not lead to the novel - what would lead to it is planning, research, preparation, writing, perfect execution - the things he blamed Modi of not doing regarding demonetisation.

So where does one begin?

Humour?

Some other place, somewhere, some other time - a tentative start to a novel that may be renamed later

It must have been so. There, then he might have been a man and treated her cruelly while here, now it is just the opposite. He is still a man but being treated cruelly by her, a woman. This makes it symmetrical, aesthetic, if nothing else and hence, in that way, a matter of satisfaction. This does not lead to any kind of satisfaction, however, such a thought. What matters is not to be treated with cruelty and not treating someone cruelly.  Of course, there are no other lives or planets or universes, it is here itself that they have both been one thing or the other to each other. The blame is equally distributed or apportioned as is the praise. It is only in such encounters that one finds out how much of the worst and the best one can have brought out in one and bring out in the other. Looking at it in that sense such encounters are truly significant as harbingers of self-knowledge, if not worth having or beneficial. Maybe they are that too. Maybe in the long run, they turn entirely poisonous or malignant or entirely benign, like cancer cells, if such a thing is possible.

Monday, December 19, 2016

I gave you my everything, finally
Because I never will, again
When you finally get really, really hurt
it ceases to matter if it was meant or not
if to hurt was the intention from the other side
or it was only the ignorance of selfishness
There's just the shock of getting hurt
of knowing something this time got broken
and that it cannot be repaired
There's only the tears you never shed
There's only the blood you never bled, in this place
The lonely room and the empty space
When you really get hurt, hurt, hurt.

A couplet

I would of have been glad to stay
If only you had not driven me away

Goodbye.

It was a dead end
(but) even dead ends (reach their) end
It (too/finally) did

It was a one-way street
a one-way ticket
That is why since day before I gave it my all
after understanding just who you were and I looked like to all
It was my farewell gift
after understanding how well you are able to make me die
and fall
You did not hear the terrible thud
it made
when
I killed (y)our love
as it ended
the music
dying in my room
of my love for you
a sound softer than the sound of a dying fall
If you had you would have wept
as the one that died, it's true, lost
but nothing as much as to what you lost
compared
to what you would have got
in the many years still left to it
if you had not done this (at) all.

God and I + you and I

Only God
can create or make
something out of
nothing

Only God
can let people never die
make them drink of the fountain of everlasting youth
reverse or halt aging or disease
heal in a second and fully, miraculously
make people live forever
Only God
the philosopher's stone

overcomes death
brings back people from the dead
can be in two places at the same time
and travel into the past and the future, melt time


If I was God
having loved you
I would
unmake and remake you
as what I want you to be
from or out of thin air
give you youth and beauty
eternal
never let you die
bring you back from death if you did
let you always be with me
invisible to  others if and when needed 
and also in the past and the future
just in case there are other lives
or were
and to go one better than Him
would prove to this clone of yours
that by granting you or her
and not me
all this
it still would be 
as hopeless
as my love for the other, earlier you
again.

This is why I am not God
This is why it is clear
I am
only a lover
a failure
and that you are not anywhere in the picture
in the first scenario
or the second.

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Adverb poem - Brightly

Brightly the fire burns in the hearth, of the home 
where the children are sleeping quietly.
Brightly the moon shines in the night, above the loam
where the grass is soughing in the wind gently.
Brightly the cat’s eye glows yellow at night.
Before it winks shut, it turns green slowly.
Brightly  and  spread out are the city’s lights
that look like fireflies shimmering softly. 
Brightly the sun sends its blessings from its heights
to the land down below, and then blazes hotly.
Brightly the stars glint before sleep closes one's eyes
and dreams come to chase us in its meadows, playfully.

©  Koshy AV

Adverb poem - Brightly

Brightly the fire burns in the hearth of the home
Brightly the moon shines in the night above the loam
Brightly the cat’s eyes glow yellow at night
Brightly  and  spread out are the city’s lights
Brightly the sun sends its blessings from  its heights

Brightly the stars glint,  before sleep  closes one’s eyes

Copyright, Koshy AV

Thursday, August 04, 2016

SHAMAN


You take the half-grown python, with no teeth, from its receptacle
She waits, naked, to be imbued with power to procreate
You write runes on the parchment
Make her fertile
Bind sterility's curse
Initiate, bring new life to her womb


The symbol, most potent; the most ancient one, stirs
(You are fully at ease
Born to do this
Awake, alive!)
You hold the snake firmly, make its cloven tongue kiss
Her eyes, her eyelids closed
Then move it over her face
To her lips, circle it down to her breasts
To make it flick-lick her nipples
Circle both her areola
And her breasts
Down, further
Rhythmically
Past her soft, flat stomach and belly button
Making a bee-line...
She
Complies
Reclining, lying down, opening...
Certain
You know what you're doing

The living mortar pestles
The Milky Way
Entering, head first, entirely, its entirety
Through the dense underhung
Tangled black
Worming, being pushed in, squirming...

The engorged passage
Makes curds and whey
You, the medium of the Absolute
At-one with the Spirit
The snake, yours
She, a willing vessel
You, the snake and she - One
With the silent universe
Dark as your hand
Lit with the veins on its skin
The pattern on the snake
Stars blossom, black and white, burst and fall
In the deeps of inner space

Her breathing
Becomes peaceful
Still

Like yours

The snake
Curls up

Meat. Dead beat.
(c) KOSHY AV 8.5.2016

SHAMAN


You take the half-grown python, with no teeth, out from its receptacle
She waits, naked, to be imbued with power to procreate
You write the magic runes on the parchment
That will make her fertile
Bind the curse of sterility
Initiate her & bring about new life in her womb
The symbol, most potent, the most ancient and powerful one, awaits
(You are fully at ease
Born to do this
Awake, alive - You!)
You hold the snake firmly and make its cloven tongue kiss
Her eyes, her eyelids closed
Then move it down over her face
To her lips, then circle it down to her breasts
To make it flick-lick her nipples
Circle both her areola
And her breasts
Move down, further
Rhythmically
Past her soft, flat stomach and belly button
As she
Complies
Lying down, reclining, opening up
Certain
You know what you are doing

The living mortar pestles
The Milky Way
Entering, head first, entirely in, in entirety
Through the dense underhung
Tangled black
Worming its way
The engorged passage
Makes whey
You become the medium of the Absolute
Totally at-one with the Spirit
The snake, yours
She, the willing vessel
You, the snake and she become One
In the ritual
With the silent universe
Dark as your hand
Lit with the veins on its skin
The pattern on the snake's skin
Stars blossom, burst and fall in the deeps of the inner space of the cosmos

Her breathing
Becomes peaceful and still

So does yours

The snake is returned
(c) KOSHY AV 8.5.2016

Shaman


You take the half grown python, with no teeth, out from its receptacle
She waits, naked, to be imbued with the power to reproduce and procreate
You have written the magic runes on the parchment
That will help to make her fertile
Bind the curse of sterility
Initiate her and bring about new life in her womb
The symbol, the most potent, the most ancient and powerful one, awaits
you
(You are fully at ease
Born to do this
Awake, alive - You!)
Ready to be used
The ritual starts
You hold the snake firmly and make its cloven tongue kiss
Her eyes, her eyelids closed
Then move down over her face
To her lips, then circle down to her breasts
To make it flicker over her nipples
Circle both her areola
And her breasts
Move down further
Rhythmically
Past her soft, flat stomach and belly button
As she
Complies
Lying down, reclining fully, opening up wholly
In the certainty
That you know and are sure of what you are doing
In control, and will not harm her
The living mortar pestles
The Milky Way
Entering entirely
Through the dense growth in the jungle
The black forest of the night
The engorged passage of Life
Makes whey
You have become the medium of the Absolute
Totally at-one with The Spirit's force
The snake is yours
She, the willing vessel
You, the snake and she become One
In the sacred ritual
With the silent universe
Black as your hand
Lit with the veins on its skin
The patterns on the skin of the snake
Stars blossom, burst and fall in the deeps of the inner space of the cosmos
And her breathing
Becomes peaceful and still

So does yours
(c) KOSHY AV 8.5.2016

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Anniversary

https://harivarasanam.wordpress.com/2015/09/01/the-contributors-having-their-say-the-significant-anthology/

Sunday, July 03, 2016

Too many love poems

"There are too many love poems in the world."
"Yes."
"It gets boring after some time. Or maybe there aren't enough."
"I don't write love poems. Mine are more like love poems that are hate poems.They have a bite."
"Yes."
"Like we can't write without being inspired by women and we can't write unless we are free from them?"
"Yes"

A "story" someone told me today.

He is this young chap I know from on Facebook. We talk off and on, for some strange reason. Dylan is a connect and so is Cohen and I surprise him at times by writing something he considers way out, on par with Kerouac and others. He writes rhyming poems that all read like Dylan during his best years, to a large extent. But they are good in themselves and very readable. He also writes good fiction. He has a dad and he does weed. He is a college dropout. He periodically posts saying he is in some asylum or the other. We always have extremely sane conversations, though. He has a grandmother. I told him of my son today and he told me that his dad said he was autistic, but we are both not I told him. He agrees.
I said that we always have sane conversations but today it turned bizarre. He said he had jumped off a bridge once and it was because of Dylan. When I asked him which song and which line of Dylan's made him do it he said, no, I met him.
He told me he had once been admitted in some place in Warwickshire for doing weed and was on rehab mode but it was there he had met D. His name also begins with D. Anyway he told Bob that he wrote fine songs and asked him where he could get some acid. He says the trip turned sour on him then,  there and he was "Sectioned." It ended with the bridge thing, I guess. He says he knows "what really happened". Despite it being 'written of in the papers and things as something else.'
I asked him if I could steal his story
What for, he asked.
To write as a story or poem, I said.
Sure if you don't use my name, he said.
I haven't.
Wish he hadn't danced with Mr D.
No song finer than Idiot Wind which he, his dad and I all like. The fist line in it seems to have got into his jugular.
Fifty years on, since Blonde on Blonde, and Visions of Johanna.
My son has a lot of very small pots on the balcony of my rented house that he takes and removes the plants from, then pours the mud out into his hands and pours it back. The plants die. They are weeds mad Mary brings. More about her some other time. The pots empty. I  say nothing. I have a video of it but do not know how  to transfer it from Whatsapp or my mobile phone to here.
That is something that "really happened."
Wish my friend becomes alright.

Saturday, July 02, 2016

Introspection.

I am thirteen books into writing now or fourteen or fifteen or sixteen depending on how I look at it.
Plus I have tonnes of published material and uncollected material etcetera lying around. Of my books,  "Art of Poetry," the most popular one that I had a hundred copies of, has only two copies left (I think) and  "The Significant Anthology," edited by me, Reena Prasad and Michele Baron has also sold out its first edition. "Wake Up, India: Essays for our Times," that was co -authored with Dr Bina Biswas sells. My first officially published solo collection of poems "Allusions to Simplicity" is also selling.

However it is time to think, not of taking a break from writing but of where it is all heading. Have quit at the peak of my game just when it is beginning to pay off as writing needs not just one being prolific but one being quality conscious too, eventually. My books so far were all above average and not mediocre, according to me, but that is not enough for me, as I desire something more.

I am working on an anthology of short stories, along with Michele Baron, and my own collection of short stories and a long poem with notes next, as well as planning to collect all my published and unpublished stuff and perhaps revamp and re-edit what has already been brought out. These are ambitious plans and time may not permit it.

I came across several or many prolific writers on Facebook, like Neelam Saxena Chandra, Mahesh Dattani, Chitra Lele, Dr Santosh Bakaya, Santosh Alex as a translator, Dr Bina Biswas, Dr Sayantan Gupta, Pramila Khadun and many others, all with books running into more than ten or many to their names, anyway.

I recently read an article that says it is the one who collects rejections most and/or who writes prolifically who becomes good. There is some truth in this.

I also read one on Bad Writing and some sentences struck me particularly.

"Bad writing is almost always a love poem addressed by the self to the self. The person who will admire it first and last and most is the writer herself."

"...good writing is a way of making the self as vulnerable as possible."

"Conversely, bad writers often write in order to forward a cause or enlarge other people’s understanding of a contemporary social issue. Any attempt to write fiction in order to make the world a better, fairer place is almost certain to fail. Holding any value as more important than learning to be a good writer is dangerous. Put very simply, your characters must be alive before they seek justice."


"To go from being a competent writer to being a great writer, I think you have to risk being – or risk being seen as – a bad writer. Competence is deadly because it prevents the writer risking the humiliation that they will need to risk before they pass beyond competence. To write competently is to do a few magic tricks for friends and family; to write well is to run away to join the circus."
"Your friends and family will love your tricks, because they love you. But try busking those tricks on the street. Try busking them alongside a magician who has been doing it for 10 years, earning their living. When they are watching a magician, people don’t want to say, “Well done.” They want to say, “Wow.”
Writing on Facebook for so many years has both helped me and hindered me, by making me both raise my standards in one sense, the competitive one of trying to create or carve a niche for myself, and drop them in another sense, in the one of being forced to be nice to writers who are often only novices and beginners as part of my teaching approach, from doing what I love most in life and do well, it also being the only thing I know how to do in a way, which is to write.
Taking a break from it, meaning writing on Facebook, will help me to focus on what I really do again which is to write properly till I burn out and produce something great on the way that others will not willingly let die.
The quotes are from: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/may/20/what-makes-bad-writing-bad-toby-litt

I have been critic, collaborator, poet, editor, co-editor, anthologist, compiler, co-author, writer, author, book maker, book producer - and so many more things in such a short time but am still dissatisfied as I have evaded the main question which is of how to be all this in such a way that I am not one of the better writers just because we live in a mediocre age but as my writing is truly timeless and universal. Blogging is probably the way out as here with no audience I can write what I want, and re-invent myself,  relearn, keep learning. That is the way forward.

There are other questions to tackle too. Should I be a critic or a poet or both? These are my strengths, and in that order. Explore fiction and drama too? I feel these issues sort themselves out naturally. The challenge for me is fiction, the short story and the novel and the novella or novelette.

Or should I work for autism and at encouraging other writers to come up, especially not forgetting ones in my own family. And my friends. And what about spirituality and my job?

It is all worth thinking about.







Has my poem read by Harish Bhatia in there. Played at New York at Ink Spot by Indigo Soul or S Dot Hope
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/wordemup/2016/07/02/the-ink-spot-radio-showopen-mic-nite

Saturday, April 30, 2016

A Digression | Sanskrit, Dravidian, Indian and Grecian Literary Criticism

A Digression | Sanskrit, Dravidian, Indian and Grecian Literary Criticism: This article compares and uses Sanskrit and Dravidian Indian literary criticism with Grecian criticism on English text with examples from India mixed in too.

Tuesday, March 08, 2016

Notes On Literary Criticism by Dr A V Koshy - Learning and Creativity

Notes On Literary Criticism by Dr A V Koshy - Learning and Creativity: The whole concept of literary criticism arises, maybe, out of a question: On what basis do we judge a book/text as being better than another book/text?

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