Sunday: A L'il Contemplation And The Perfect Cup Of Filter Kappi

Today, like most sundays in my life so far , was spent absolutely unproductively. But what makes it different from your average , equally unproductive weekday , is that i don't feel so guilty. Sunday is meant for rest. Or so i'd like to believe. Rest from what? The guilt that accumalates as a result of an unproductive week.

Well, anyway, I went to church today after two weeks (my failing faith and all that..) and as usual i sort of switched off as soon as the sermon began , slipped into my own tiny , self-involved world. But for once the priest happened to read out something that happened to reach out and pull me out of my reverie. I've just been looking for that poem , it is particularly religious and i have just found that the entire sermon is available online. God! priests don't even come up with their own sermons these days. But i suppose they hardly expect for us to happen upon the sermon they deliver as their own on the internet. And here i was thinking , "Not bad, the guy has actually thought about what he's saying."

Well , i suppose plaguarism is alright , if you are plaguarising something sensible.A lot of people don't even do that. Well,anyway the first part of what he read out particularly appealed to me. It's not profound. But It is so very true.

A poem by Joseph Nolan :

We wait all day long,
For planes and buses,
For a dates and appointments,
For 5 o’clock and for Friday.

Some of us wait for a second coming,
For God in a whirlwind.
Paratrooper Christ.
All around us people are waiting

A child, for attention.
A spouse, for a conversation.
A parent, for a letter or a call.
The prisoner waits for freedom,
And the exile to come home.
The hungry for food,
And the lonely for a friend,
The whole earth’s a waiting room!

The savior will see you now.
Is what we expect to hear at the end.
Maybe we should raise our expectations.
The savior might see us now if we know how to find him.
Could it be that Jesus too is waiting
For us to know that He is around?

Towards the end , it shifts from being philosophical to religious. but i think that's just the way the poet chose to look at it . I chose to ignore that part , although i guess once , not too far back , it might have appealed to me as well.

I was never ashamed of my faith in god. I learnt rather early , to compartmentalize that aspect of my life and keep it separate from what i try normally to be : Logical , Rational and if I can manage it , Scientific. And since i cannot support my faith with logic , i just leave it at that and put it down as something that works for me, of which i have no real understanding. But for perhaps a year or more now , my faith has dwindled. It bothered me a lot , because over and above everything else , i recognized that my faith in god provided me with solace and hope.

(I should say that although i had a deep faith in god , i was never religious. I guess that's a result of being the product of an inter-religious marriage. Both my parents are deeply religious and yet have managed , and i think this makes them pretty cool people, to maintain their own identity , while respecting each other's and conveying to their children a sense of faith in god rather than indicating a particular religion to follow or not. )

So, everytime i go to church or the temple , do i feel hypocritical ? Absolutely! But i've resigned myself to that now, i'm hoping that someday it'll sort of just miraculously come back . One part of me questions whether my life is very different now as compared to then, but since obviously i do miss it , it must have done something for me.

Well anyway , getting back to the poem , as i sat there listening to this being read out , i sort of felt that it was meant for me...some sort of divine message , (if u still believe in that, my mind whispered.) telling me to get up and get going not keep waiting for something to materialise out of thin air. Ok so this is common sense, why the religious context. well the priest meant for it to be religious. But it applies to my life in such a practical way.

And it occurred to me , that there was such a universality in the act of waiting. like the poem tries to convey, we spend so much thought and time and energy in ANTICIPATION of something or the other. It's pitiful how much passes us by while we wait. Especially for things , we know , deep inside , might probably never happen. Or things like waiting for the weekend, when we know pretty well we have to back to the week very soon.

Ok well, apart from this rather contemplative reflection, my sunday went as usual. The absolute highlight of the day was that i think had an almost PERFECT cup of traditional south indian filter coffee (or as they say here filter kappi). It was awesome. Just the right amount of bitter. Like a friend of mine says " T'was Groovy!" Surprisingly, it was at a nice restaurant , usually the best coffee is to be got at smaller kadais (shops) or atleast so is my experience. Anyway , Baristas and the Coffee Days of the world are all very fine , but nowhere near the league of what i had today. (Although i think i paid as much for it as i do there).

Ok it's about 2:30 and i've to get up early tomorrow for college...So if i have rambled , attribute it to the late hour.Especially 'cos i'm not a nocturnal person.

One More Poem...And Some More Rambling

I sort of decided that i would'nt post anymore poetry for a while , but for the last one and a half weeks or so i have been reading so much poetry and i have found so much of it so beautiful and romantic and awesome , that i can't help myself. That is , however , what i expected. what i did'nt ,though , was to be entertained and amused.(like the following poem actually made me ,and several people i read it out to, laugh..)

I guess i'm going through a phase where i devour poetry with a sort of frenzy that reminds me of when i read Irving stone's Lust for life. (which btw..is about vincent van gogh and impressionism). I think , back then i spent 3 whole weeks in a trance. I read Depths of glory almost immidiately (also about impressionism) and several other non-fiction books on impressionism and art in france.I must have spent hours searching to see the paintings online.

Well anyway, here's the poem i liked.. and no i don't just read poems that are slightly dirty(for lack of a better word) . I just put up those that i think are different from what i usually come across.

E.E Cummings

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she


(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she


(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)


may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she


may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she


but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she


(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she


(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

....i really like all of it except the last line...it makes women seem clingy and possesive!! which i resent.. ok maybe some of us are... but not all... ok maybe all...but not all the time..lol.. ok maybe i should just let it go!

The Imperfect Enjoyment

I found the following poem in the compilation i'm reading...and i loved it..so i thought i'd put it up 'cos i'm pretty sure most of my friends have'nt come across this kind of stuff considering most of the poetry they read was in school!!! ...and yet..it is definitely worth reading...

If however, you have'nt read too much poetry and don't enjoy it much...then nows the time to navigate away.
This poem is long but definitely not difficult to read..and it is really , to say the least , priceless!!! Tt actually manages to be BAWDY and LEWD and at the same time quite EROTIC , but somehow the poem left me feeling quite amused at the end of it and a little pity for the guy. well read it...you'll see what i mean.. .

well anyway here goes:

The Imperfect Enjoyment

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm and, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.

Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?"
She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"

But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart -
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where'er it pierced, a cunt it found or made -
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.

Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore
Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking-post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt,
May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.

And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

Lord John Wilmot , Earl Of Rochester.

p.s: this poem was written in the 1600's . did'nt realise the words Cunt, Fuck etc. existed then!! lol...trivia for the interested! also if you like this.. u should try reading some of his other poetry...quite as bawdy,just as amusing and not as long! although sometimes perhaps a little too much !!

here's a description of the poet that i found somewhere on the net:

John Wilmot,

the second Earl of Rochester,(1647-1680)

"Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,
May drink and love still reign,
With wine I wash away my cares,
And then to cunt again."

-- a lyric poet, satirist, and a leading member of the group of "court wits" surrounding Charles II. A libertine, he lived out a promiscuous lifestyle reflected in his writing style and subject matter. He wrote scurrilous lampoons, translations of classical authors, and several autobiographical poems. A predecessor to the Marquis De Sade, he wrote more frankly about sex than anyone in English before the 20th Century.

Interesting! to say the least!