Gaurav Sagar > Recent Status Updates

CORNERSTONE

I cannot speak with my voice, but I speak with my voices.

Those eyes were the entrance to the temple, for me, a wanderer who loves and dies- I would've sung until merging with the night, until dissolving naked at the opening of time

CORNERSTONE

I cannot speak with my voice, but I speak with my voices.

Those eyes were the entrance to the temple, for me, a wanderer who loves and dies- I would've sung until merging with the night, until dissolving naked at the opening of time.

PATHS OF THE MIRROR

XV.
The pleasure of losing yourself in the image foreseen. I rose from my body and went out in search of who I am. A pilgrim of my self, I have gone to the one who sleeps in the winds of her country.
....
................

XVII.
Something falling in the silence. My final words was I, but by this I meant the luminous dawn.

BEING

You keep watch from this room
where the ominous shadow is your own.

No silence here,
only phrases you try not to hear.

Signs on the high walls
tell of a beautiful distance.

(Don't let me die
without seeing you again.)

SHADOW FROM DAYS TO COME

Tomorrow
they'll dress me in ash for the sunrise,
they'll fill my mouth with flowers.
I'll learn to sleep
inside the memory of a wall,
on the breath
of a dreaming animal.

It's my voices that are singing
so the others can't sing
those figures gagged grey in the dawn
those dressed in the rain like desolate birds.

There is, in this waiting
a rumor of breaking lilac
And there is, when the day arrives
a division of the sun into the smaller black suns
And at nights, always
a tribe of mutilated words
looks for refuge in my throat
so that they won't sing
the ill-fated, the owners of silence.

WHEN EAGERNESS CIRCLES IN

When it does arrive my eyes will gleam
with the light of the one I mourn for
meanwhile it breathes a rumor of flight
into the heart of all things.

POEM

You choose the site of the wound
where we speak our silence.
You make of my life
this ceremony that's much too pure.

POEM

You choose the site if the wound
where we speak our silence.
You make of my life
this ceremony that's much too pure.

At this my fear was somewhat quieted;
for though the night of sorrow I had spent,
the lake within my heart felt terror present.

And just as he who, with exhausted breath,
having escaped from sea to shore, turns back
to watch dangerous waters he has quit,

so did my spirit, still a fugitive,
turn back to look intently at the pass
that never has let any man survive.

At this my fear was somewhat quieted;
for though the night of sorrow I had spent,
the lake within my heart felt terror present.

And just as he who, with exhausted breath,
having escaped from sea to shore, turns back
to watch dangerous waters he has quit,

so did my spirit, still a fugitive,
turn back to look intently at the pass
that never has let any man survive.

At this my fear was somewhat quieted;
for though the night of sorrow I had spent,
the lake within my heart felt terror present.

And just as he who, with exhausted breath,
having escaped from sea to shore, turns back
to watch dangerous waters he has quit,

so did my spirit, still a fugitive,
turn back to look intently at the pass
that never has let any man survive.

At this my fear was somewhat quieted;
for though the night of sorrow I had spent,
the lake within my heart felt terror present.

And just as he who, with exhausted breath,
having escaped from sea to shore, turns back
to watch dangerous waters he has quit,

so did my spirit, still a fugitive,
turn back to look intently at the pass
that never has let any man survive.

It's not the shoes, though, that make the girl look so strangely, so weirdly dressed. No, it's the fact that she's wearing a man's flat brimmed hat, a brownish-pink fedora with a broad black ribbon.
The crucial ambiguity of the image lies in the hat.

I often think of the image only I can see now, and of which I've never spoken. It's always there, in the same silence, amazing. It's the only image of myself I like, the only one in which I recognize myself, in which I delight.

Heaven be praised for solitude. Let me be alone. Let me cast and throw away this veil of being, this cloud that changes with last breath, night and day, and all night and all day. While I sat here I have been changing.......................................Heaven be praised for solitude that has removed the pressure of the eye, the solicitation of the body, and all need of lies and phrases.

What was fiery and furtive like a fling of grain cast into the air and blown hither and thither by wild gusts of life from every quarter is now methodical and orderly and fling with a purpose- so it seems.

The tree alone resisted our eternal flux. For I changed and changed; was Hamlet; was Shelley, was the hero, whose name I now forget, of a novel by Dostoevsky; was for a whole term, incredibly, Napoleon; but was Byron chiefly.

We are only bodies jogging along side by side. I exist only in the soles of my feet and in tired muscles of my thighs. We have been walking for hours it seems. But where? I cannot remember. I am like a log slipping smoothly over some waterfall.

My little boat bobs unsteadily upon the chopped and tossing waves. There is no panacea against the shock of meeting.

Philomel- The Nightingale of absurd

O Philomel
the nightingale of sorrow
the melody of agony
the song of suffering
you cry your heart out.

The fools around you
fools who always doused
in follies of their ineptitude
fools who celebrate
your wretchedness.

The gods
who transformed you
the shallow gods
who are not capable to help themselves
how could they assuage you.

You are you. That is what consoles me for the lack of many things- I am ugly, I am weak- and the depravity of the world, and the flight of youth and Percival's death, and bitterness and rancour and envies innumerable.

I am like a worm that has eaten its way through the wood of a very old beam.

Alas, life in this world was a perpetual struggle !

He was in an enigmatic state, brimming with inward pleasure; every nerve in his body was awake, he perceived music in his blood, sensed a kinship with all of nature, with the sun and the mountains and all the rest, felt enveloped by his own sense of self as it came back to him from trees and tussocks and blades of grass. His soul grew big and rich, like the sound of an organ inside him,....

The greatest one is the great terrorist, a towering magnitude, an unheard- of universal jack that balances planets.

The greatest one is the great terrorist, a towering magnitude, an unheard- of universal jack that balances planets.

I'm not going to humor you anymore for the sake of that coat, I'm a human being, after all.

To everybody's amusement, he had baptized the puppy Jakobsen, regardless of the fact that it was a female.

A picture in which the color scheme offered only blue or red would be far from the truth and would fatigue the eye.