QuoteSechoeD

            … and blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled That they are not a pipe for fortune’s finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave and I will wear him In my heart’s core—aye, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Hamlet’s words for his friend and raisonneur, Horatio. As I miss the character of Hamlet today, I know the play calls for another reading which I suppose will get tended to soon. But let me first dedicate this post and its quote to all those who could relate to the position of Hamlet, reading these lines. The presence of a calm friend who listens when it is needed the most is a measure of great strength indeed.

This is in response to my friend's beautiful postcard-pictures to inspire and create something in return. http://sonamdema.blogspot.com/2011/06/in-love-again.html And so I have; come up with a spontaneous verse I hope to have justified with the effort spent behind the camera. The title of the poem is not mine; for it got 'inspired'.          In love again Is it the breeze that instills Rustling wind of the reeds, Or nature's light which fills My prism'd heart, a vibrance of beads. I do not quite know What it brings on its wings. But my vision is worth the glow Astride a pathless trail when it sings. Sings it the song I once loved at school.. Brings it along the wonders that belong. Fills it forevermore the fields we then thronged.. Sees it I imagine once again my lost jewel. Through the stone-streets have I walked. Treaded many a witness to the fields. But lo! the hut calls me thither again, 'Blue of the sky' is what

On the first death anniversary of José Saramago, I can't help but remember and reminisce the worlds of words he so perseveringly weaved into narratives which, to me, are blessed with the author's literary voice that has forever become a part of my understanding of human existence. Replete foremostly with human emotion and an ever so patient motherly touch in such unforgettable characters like Blimunda, Lydia and Death, each book of his I have picked and read so far, has made me feel more rooted into the ground we all need to stand upon. Abound with astounding imagination, Saramago's writing could easily be credited with playing a conscious role of constantly contesting 'our' sense of reality (as well as illusion).      The run-on sentence with an aural felicity beckons a reader's delight (provided the reader is able to give in wholly to the perspectival imagination of the written word). Challenging the notions of the world we inhabit, Saramago's books ca