90% OF US SOLDIER DEATHS IN VIETNAM WAS DUE TO SOUL SHATTERED YOUNG SOLDIERS (WHOSE WIVES/ GIRLFRIENDS DUMPED THEM BY THE "DEAR JOHN LETTERS") PUTTING THEIR LIVES IN EXTREME DANGER DELIBERATELY..
somebody called me up and cried
you wrote a post on the “art of writing”
we know that you only reveal 20%, as “ the planet cannot handle it”
but tell us some more pleajje —chaatne ke vaaste/ gala gheela karne ke vaaste
a good poet imagines he is making love while writing .. he sometimes shares his relevant thoughts only to those who deserve..
i have never collected my poems.. . a true poet involves his soul and fills the paper with soul whispers.. this is why he can twang heart strings..
once someone starts reading his poem, he cannot stop.. he flows along with the torrent.. after reading the poem he will be silent for a while..
because the melody of the words lingers.. he will feel something inside his heart . he wants to read the poem once more..
if you wanna rhyme the last word of every line, it is not poetry.. it becomes puerile plastic..
poetry is the flow of intense thoughts— otherwise it is not poetry.
love and nostalgia take very little effort to make poetic impact. the poet must be able to penetrate even simple lcd minds,..
he can hold a mirror to society . a true poet can trigger a silent revolution.. he is the real alchemist..
an unfinished poem carried humongous intrigue..
intentions become emotions which become become thoughts and then words.. intentions are scalar, emotions are magnetic, thoughts are electric.
poetry is flow of energy.. energy is transformed seamlessly. poetry involves telling the naked truth, without be politically correct..
some poets weigh every word .. they cannot survive a misprint.. in the case of vadakayil he never weighed anything.. he just wrote like a river flow in spate. misprints be damned..
if you are not a poet, you cannot write.. a true poet leaves many things unsaid.. intellectuals whose minds are unbridled can glean this and get a mental orgasm.
the deepest truth must refuse to be written..
i have not seen a good poet till today..
poetry is not meant to be swallowed like the cat who swallowed all ze cream.
poetry is a painting.. there is great joy in passionate words.. far greater than a song or a painting..
every empty bottle is filled with stories.. like every slash scar on the wrist. the poet can express untold stories.
a true poet can never sit down to write.. writing is a craft, not an art..
the art of writing is the most miraculous thing man has discovered. we indians were the first on the planet to write poetry when the white man was running aound naked doing grunt grunt for words.
and now they dare call us heathen savages ??.
watch the song below.. mix of love and nostalgia. there is hardly a burra memsahib woman in the audience not creaming between the legs- dry for ages.
############## on her street, so many of my evenings have passed - even if if she gave me a passing glance once in a while, i was content with that much -- i tried a hundred ways, but i just couldn't muster the courage to convey that i have hung out my heart for her – many times i just sat there all night hoping for a glimpse, unaware how time flew by -- when i pass close to her, my heart pounds-- i forget everything, time stands still when her eyes burn into mine - if i see her on the way now, maybe i'll stop her, and ask what lies hidden in her heart-- but alas, she does not live there anymore - i have heard that she's left and gone far away and i have this deep emptiness within me i still go there, and go through the motions— i dream- I hope-- maybe she will be back some day.. ############
nostalgia is a seductive lair.
it is a intense yearning for bliss at a place, time, situation of the past. i still drive my 22 year old baleno , because it has nostalgia attached. the car had converted priceless moments into sweet pain.
it is an aching realization that you cannot travel back in time. there is no rewind and pause buttons.
so so so—why does vadakayil not care for his poems to be published.
you think peer review cunts of rothschild’s publishing houses can understand what i write?
A GOOD POET LEAVES CRITICAL THINGS UNSAID.. THESE ARE BETWEEN THE LINES.
IT BLOWS IN THE WIND
ABOVE: MY CREW MADE ME SING THIS SON DURING PARTIES-- AND THERE WOULD BE SILENCE AND MELANCHOLY
that evening was pregnant with enigma
this evening too
she was close by me then
she's even now
somewhere in those demure eyes
nestled a thought of me
something in that hushed laughter
brought a glow to her rosy cheeks
and it seemed
as if my name was lingering on her lips
don't know why it felt
as if she was beaming a smile at me
i think thoughts of me
are still ensconced in that
lowered gaze of hers
a smile must still bloom
in that stifled desire
i know that my name
still lingers on her lips
and i think
she's still here with me
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capt ajit vadakayil
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