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Reasons For Waiting

What a sight for my eyes
to see you in sleep.
Could it stop the sun rise
hearing you weep?
You're not seen, you're not heard
but I stand by my word.
Came a thousand miles
just to catch you while you're smiling.

What a day for laughter
and walking at night.
Me following after, your hand holding tight.
And the memory stays clear with the song that you hear.
If I can but make
the words awake the feeling.

What a reason for waiting
and dreaming of dreams.
So here's hoping you've faith in impossible schemes,
that are born in the sigh of the wind blowing by
while the dimming light brings the end to a night of loving.

-- Ian Anderson
(I was just listening to U2's With or Without you and this poem captures the same feeling)
posted by Rahul Mangharam at Monday, September 17, 2001

if

If you end up walking your date all the way home across town, and, once there, decide to go get a cup of tea; if you talk into the wee hours of the morning; if she's planning your next date before this one is over; if she memorizes your mom's name, your birthdate, your favourite this and that; if you embark on mutual personal confessions that culminate with what you each like to do, travel, live and retire; if she finds every inanity you utter charming and finishes off your sentences; if she stares into your eyes wide-eyed or stares at your mouth when you talk; if she lean forward a lot; touches your arm, knee, hair; if she sits with her body taut like a ship's proud bow, rack and rump sticking out; if she runs her fingers through yours and hugs you before you part or slips you her tongue; if you find a message on your answering machine when you return home saying how much she enjoyed your date.
posted by Rahul Mangharam at Wednesday, September 05, 2001

Seven Ages of Man

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then, the whiling schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover ,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Madew to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide,
Fir his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

- William Shakespeare

posted by Rahul Mangharam at Tuesday, September 04, 2001

Nothing happens while you live.

The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that is all. There are no beginnings, days are tacked onto days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition. From the time to time you make a semitotal: You say, "I have been traveling for three years and yet I have been in Bouville in three years". Neither is there any end: you never leave a woman, a friend, a city, in one go. And then everything looks alike: Shanghi, Moscow, Algiers, everything is the same after two weeks. There are momens, rarely, when you make a landmark, you realize that you are going with a woman, in some messy business. The time of a flash. After that the procession starts again, you begin to add up hours and days: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. April, May, June. 1924, 1925, 1926.
posted by Rahul Mangharam at Thursday, August 30, 2001

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pen