‘Daffodils ‘ – Poetry – Verses Inked©

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Poetry

Daffodils

daffodils them pretty things
prettier still how tequila stings
daffodils then, them go rude
you sweat it out like an ice cube
daffodils trampled underfoot
circumscribed with salt and soot
still daffodils burn bedecked
now not grenadine, its triple sec
now daffodil you killing time
quit plating up your spot of lime
you daffodil left to decay
shaken, stirred, as you may
if daffodil still be your name
then i chose to stay what i became

 

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Also Read: 88 Poetry on Verses Inked

Nurse

Artwork: Nurse

Artist: Roy Lichtenstein

Image Source: wikipedia

 

 

We Remember Chris Cornell at Verses Inked

chris cornell

An Obituary to Chris Cornell – Say Hello to Heaven

 

And if I show you my dark side 
Will you still hold me tonight? 
And if I open my heart to you 
And show you my weak side 
What would you do? 
Would you sell your story to Rolling Stone?

-The Final Cut – Rogers Waters

Rolling Stone have got their stories going anyways. We at Verses Inked furnish a humble eulogy. To the student of magic, the moment in time feels like the passing away of the professor of potions. Chris Cornell was the Severus Snape like character. The man who poured out his dark side for the world to see until the world and its darkness got the better of him. Long life to the cause of creation of magic. The man lived and loved and lost. He fought for a cause, established an order- call it Phoenix or Grunge. Yet them demons. Don’t the bible say. You fight them for too long, and you end-up as one of them.

The news of Chris Cornell’s passing away came as a rude awakening to the world, yet only this time the world had got too used to such unfortunate occurrences. Every now and then someone brings it to the point where one should see it coming, yet it is all so comfortable with your eyes closed. Moreover who wants to think about the how – how death shows up – how John Lennon was overcome by multiple bullet wounds, or perhaps how Jhonny Cash passed away in peace, inebriate with grief on the death of his wife June Carter four months before, and diabetes. While Picasso’s heart failed him at the age of ninety one while he and his wife had invited friends over for dinner.

As Chris Cornell would himself sing in, ‘ Like a stone ‘. The second single from the eponymous first album of the American rock-n-roll super-group, Audioslave.

On a cobweb afternoon
In a room full of emptiness
By a freeway I confess
I was lost in the pages
Of a book full of death
Reading how we’ll die alone
And if we’re good, we’ll lay to rest
Anywhere we want to go 

Following the typical octave stretching chorus, the second verse continues as –

“ On my deathbed I will pray
To the gods and the angels
Like a pagan to anyone
Who will take me to heaven
To a place I recall…”

And just before Chris Cornell explodes into the chorus for one last time, the concluding part of the final verse read as; 

“ In dreams until my death

I will wander on…”

And that is to speak of just one song.

chriss cornell like a stone

How much of the prophecy came true is there for everyone to listen and read about. Chris was found dead by Soundgarden bodyguard Martin Kirsten in the bathroom floor of room 1136 of the MGM Grand Hotel & Casino in Detroit Michigan, with a red exercise band around his neck and blood spilled from his mouth. The autopsy report would later confirm that Cornell took his own life.

The stimulant to the action was perhaps an extra dose of Ativan, a prescription medicine administered to control anxiety. Chris would incoherently complain of tiredness to his wife over the phone just moments before he took his own life.

Vicky Cornell, the bereaved widow mourned the passing away of her husband in an open letter. Vicky emotionally speaks of Chris’s “ patience empathy and love..”. The wife mourns the circumstances in which her husband gave away his life, in solitariness. Her disbelief at the event of the suicide clearly shows through in her words. Further in the letter, she hopes of their paths crossing again, like soulmates often do, as Chris would say. She speaks of him finding her again with a promise of nurturing the beautiful babies which they bore.

As would circumstance have it, Chris was at the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino in Detroit after having performed at the Fox Theater in the city with his band Soundgarden. The performance was a homecoming for both Chris as well as the band.

 The Promise, is the last single released by Cornell. The song was composed as the ending credit of a movie by the same name.

In his last ever stage performance, Chris Cornell sang a cover of Led Zepplin’s In My Time of Dying for the encore.”…a bellowing vocal flourish” is how Rolling Stone Magazine describes the rendition.

What has the world lost. A singer of unmatched vocal prowess. A voice that would be etched in people’s mind for a lifetime. A voice that had its own little space in the fringes of the realm. A space in terms of voice scales touched by few, surely none with the ease with which Cornell did. A song writer whose lyrics carried in its depth the very soul of grunge. A poet who wrote his darkest thoughts in the cleanest of words. Someone who was still excited about the future, yet as in his last words, too tired to make it happen. A chart topper for best vocalists across genres and sagas. A saga in his own rights. The world mourns the passing away of Chris Cornell. We at Verses Inked humbly join in. Unable to express out grief in eloquent words we quote him. The song written by Chris Cornell for his band Temple of the Dog. Say Hello to Heaven.

He came from an island
and he died from the street
and he hurt so bad like a soul breaking
but he never said nothing to me
So say hello to heaven, heaven, heaven…
So say hello to heaven, heaven, heaven…

Read From Verses Inked Desk:  The Alternate Age of Music Production

Source: rollingstone.com, wikipedia.com

Leonard Cohen – An Obituary – Verses Inked©

cohen obituary

An Obituary to Leonard Cohen :-  A Verses Inked© Composition

 

And summoned now to deal
With your invincible defeat,
You live your life as if it’s real,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

I’m turning tricks, I’m getting fixed,
I’m back on Boogie Street.
You lose your grip, and then you slip
Into the Masterpiece.
And maybe I had miles to drive,
And promises to keep:
You ditch it all to stay alive,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

Lyrics from A Thousand Kisses Deep, from Cohen’s tenth studio album – Ten More Songs. A fitting prelude, in the man’s own word, retrospective of his life and times.

We have Leonard Cohen in our thoughts at Verses Inked. November 7th 2016 saw the passing away of Cohen. A poet, musician, writer and artist. A lifelong observer to orthodox Judaism, a proud Canadian. A personification perhaps, of the resplendent land-locked water-bodies of Canada. A master at rhymes with a voice with strength.

Leonard Cohen, among other personas about whom enough could never be written about, because certain remote yet engaging episodes of such blessed lives would always miss been on print of the finest intentions. For instance this not so interesting fact which Cohen himself accepted on some recorded interview for a certain Scandinavian television. That he once tried to introduce red wine to a Buddhist monk. He for once even convinced his zen teacher to deviate from the path of raw fish and sake and develop a taste for a traditional Jewish chicken soup. The most amusing piece of information, if one may think so.

 

Leonard Cohen – Spiritual Sojourns:

For a period of five years in the neoclassic 90’s Cohen shaved his head clean and lived his days at a monastery atop Mount Baldy at the outskirts of Los Angeles, with Buddhist Monk and Zen teacher Kyozan Hoshu Sasaki. Cohen was eventually consecrated as a Buddhist monk in the mid-90’s. Although his roots to orthodox Judaism remained compellingly strong, with him maintaining lifelong correspondence with Quebec based Orthodox synagogue, Congregation Shaar Hashomayim.

Although still, it was not until meeting Indian spiritual master Ramesh Balsekar, later in the 90’s that Cohen considered his spiritual quest close to fulfillment. In fact many of Cohen’s verses have been accepted to be straight lift ups from Talmudic literature, as they have been from other spiritual text, as well from the works of Fredrico Garcia Lorca, Albert Camus, William Butler Yeats, Walt Whitman and the likes.

The need for constant structure in life, which Leonard Cohen sought through his spiritual experiments, are sure to bring him peace in the life after. Death the ultimate leveller, if ever need be for one. Some wait for it, others have horses for their courses, working their way to extinction, one breath at a time.

 

The Passive Showman:

Leonard Cohen went for it for sure. It did go all ablaze, when doth need make. The Walter White story line played out in exact, albeit in real life. The man lost it all, was insecure of his inheritance to his family. The rest is ‘History’. Speaking objectively of which; Cohen lost most of his previously accumulated fortunes to the underhandlings of a female financial adviser, and been unable to re-collect any money even after winning a legal battle, Cohen, revving on his 70’s, set out on a world tour, after a complete absence from the scene for 15 years. The earnings from the tour were in millions of American bucks.

A voice you can sleep on, a singer and songwriter who understood and addressed the gravest needs of the time. A modest suit and hat gentleman made of love, faith and justice. A fortnight before he peacefully passed away in sleep, Leonard Cohen had released his final studio album. The album; the ever resounding Cohen recorded on a wheelchair and was produced by his Son, Adam Cohen. It was incidentally the first time the choir from the Orthodox Synagogue, Congregation Shaar Hashomayim, to which Cohen had associations all his life, was part of the production crew. Otherwise Cohen’s sound was known to be characteristically dominated by female vocals. This was the first time the father and son were working together. For Cohen senior, it was to be his first moves away from minimalism in the scope of sound. Too bad Curtain Call.

“ a little too weak to get there and boogie, and a little too healthy to die. “, in his own words, Cohen described his condition during his last days.

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References: Macleans Magazine, Wikipedia.

 

The Rum Diary by Hunter Thompson on Verses Inked

The Maverick, the Method, the Madness. The Rum Diary by Hunter Thompson on Verses Inked. All in – One Love

RUM BOTTLE

Hope has seldom been better explained, as understood in the cracking open of a bottle of rum.

Welcome to the world of verses inked, verses explained through ink. Better never, fashionably late, statutory – tending to ambling, as is the piece in discussion. Delightfully laid down, as often was during counter culture era, as also at Verses Inked, we present to the dear readers, this category they should be interested about. Verses Thread. We dive in first, here and how. Hunter S Thompson-The Rum Diaries.

The absolute artificer of Gonzo Journalism, you may rest your spine assure that if Hunter Thompson explains a situation, he would have had, in most accounts gone through it. There is then this iffy relationship which the writer shares with the keyboard. A chemistry which churns out the content. The perceptions in between the known and the unknown.

The Diary is in vein autobiographical. A dedication , as print suggests to Heidi Opheim, Mary Sue Rued and Dana Kennedy.

The following quote precedes the written text:-

My rider of the bright eyes,

What happened to you yesterday.?

I thought you in my heart,

When I bought your fine clothes,

A man the world could not slay.

 

-Dark Eileen O’Connell 1773.

 

Also Read:Who Killed Hunter S Thompson – An Inquiry into the Life and Death of Master of Gonzo 

 

HUNTERSTHOMPSON-PORTRAIT

Hunter Thompson, was a life long aficionado of alcohol, substance and mistake not, fire arms. The author was once a sports journalist at San Juan in Puerto Rico.

The narration of the plot hashes out a plethora of situation, which with overt gestures reflects the author’s time at the island. It remains a matter of more than mere chance that the characters stringing together the circumstances, in this case often radical, also draw inspiration from real life.

There is the all conquering, scrambling through, somehow protagonist, Paul Kemp, who throughout the narration, like almost everybody, almost always, in a drunken stupor, holds his own, as situations come hurling in, swell out of proportion towards the greater conclusion, leaving the reader in a state of wishful trance.

Paul Kemp’s romantic interest, from the very beginning, in fact, since his fateful flight to Puerto Rico, had been this petite blonde girl,Chenault. The situations in between the two always have a tensed, along the fringes of outrageous, knack about them.

There is then The Daily News, headed by an uncertain Ed Lotterman, and run by an entourage of staff. Sala the freelance photographer and a dear confidant to the protagonist; Yeamon, a close friend, also a reporter at the news, as well Chenault’s romantic interest during the former part of the story,until the carnival. The ever resourceful PR guy, Hal Sanderson, hell-raiser Moberg, the sports editor Bill Donovan, of prim and proper disposition, yet all in comparison and according to the situation. There is also a certain Mr. Zimburger, an acquaintance of Sanderson, a former captain at the Corps, still proud,more obsessed, a mean to an end.

The story is set against the back drop of fleeting communist references, the dwindling fortunes of the Daily News, and the influence of rum, which individually is the all encompassing throttle driving the narration ahead.

Al’s kitchen serving up its indigenous hamburgers and rum, plays host to a number of scenes. There is also the News office, and the sights sounds of Puerto-Rico which puts the novel together. The description of the Carnival at St Thomas, and the immediate events which ensued, is of notable importance to the flow of the time-line. Random watering holes, filled with writers, sailors and compulsive merry makers, that borrowed dilapidated car, that scooter in worse condition, a quiet beach somewhere, angry mobs, police stations, cab drivers, spill overs among innumerable Rum refills and the ever pressing tropical air. That is what makes the book, the odd two hundred pages of substance that it is.

The story concludes in a melting pot of emotions, which is somehow made mellow by the mere mention of Rum, albeit over and over again. The overarching daze seeps into the imagination of the avid reader,with conviction. The newspaper eventually shuts down, the staff are busy, getting the far flung fractals of their lives together. Their belligerence lead to a chaotic, yet successful attempt of assassination at Lotterman. Paul Kemp, has no part to play in the homicide. Yet he could not totally not feel a sense of empathy towards the conspirators. Chenault, armed with a surprise waits for him in New York. More rum and hamburgers, every time served at Al’s by this negro named Sweep.

Protocol, or perhaps belief, that it takes a hundred strikes and more to fashion gold, whereas in case of iron, it takes only a numbered few. So is Thompson’s narration. Perhaps his body of work, to some sentimental, judgmental mind is like the strike of a hammer on iron,one blow at a time. The narration lacks the close knit, yet it all holds together, perhaps as always.

It is not for nothing that the cinematic rendition of the novel has a number of alterations in the screenplay, when compared to the original text. The freakish flamboyance of Yeamon and the drive of Hal Sanderson is moulded into one character, as Sanderson. Besides the whole business deal with Mr Zimburger acts as a prequel to the carnival, and is of little importance after, in the novel. Whereas in the movie, the whole affair draws considerable breadth, and leads to the helter skelter at the conclusion

The film was a brainchild of Bruce Robinson, brought to life by the only Jhonny Depp. It was in fact, Depp’s industry and prolonged acquaintance with the author, that the original text, written in the sixties, was brought to print fourty years later. What more, Thompson calls his house, Owl Farm.

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Wheat field with Crows by Vincent van-Gogh

This is Verses Inked, for now and forever, as much elaborate, as is ambiguous.

To elaborate is to explain, understood. Yet Ambiguous!, about what, still ambiguous. Meet Monsieur Mystery alias Dr Dilemma.Call them indecision, uncertainty, and some more words worth their weight in nibbles of information across some far flung data channel.

As and how suits the drive towards existence, accordingly perhaps, ambiguity as well defines itself . For instance, what drove the ducks elsewhere. Them ducks from central park, NY, of the Catcher in the Rye. The ducks who went some place warm every winter.

Ambiguity lingers on, perhaps like death, or perhaps as would some pagan belief, or a creative expression- a piece of creation, albeit thought have it, like the messengers of death – Crows. Ain’t the Lord made them ambiguous.At least of speech and composition. At least when you judge them like an anthropology nerd. They are indeed everything ambiguous,as is your faith in the judgment. Much like when a body catch a body coming through the rye, and perhaps not merely meet each other.

Explains of a difference in between two potentials, rather than simple serendipity. As would the teenage protagonist of the, ‘prosaic’, piece of literature have it, rather than the ephemeral musings of a troubadour. Ambiguity settles into the minutest of crevices. The thin line in between catch and meet, and an entire universe is set into motion.

George R.R Martin – “ And the crow once called the Raven black. Ambiguity, presides, settles in. This particular case of grays. Who knows black or white, or how much of either and each.

Here we have this very interesting case of, ‘The wheat field with crows’. Excuse the authorship,if you may of the elaboration. In Discourse is not just any humble wheat field, spotted by a murder of crows participating in perhaps some hobbit philosophy. Modest pride, for those who realize it, is what brings to you, this most glorious wheat field, brought to life by the brushwork of the post-impressionist master, the one, the only, Vincent van-Gogh.

Atop the produce, is this flock of birds. These crows, in flight, some in their mutual arrangement of their travel together are more nigh to a bevy of migrating swans, than any species of their own kind.The freedom in expression, that creation demands,if you may say so. Rather thank god so, the authorship agrees. Yet ambiguity prevails, as some credible van-Gogh critic would have had rather visualized the birds, in flight, in disarray. The authorship laments, and thus chooses not to contemplate over the intellectual projections of the road, or the simmering tumult waiting to explode, from within the very breasts of the sky.

The piece as a whole , including all accounts is and must be considered an emblematic creation, of the the post impressionist influence. Similar brush strokes constitute the wind sweeping over the wheat crops, as well as the mysteries within the depths of the sky. The objective of the post impressionists,as we must believe, was to move on ahead from under the shadow of the impressionism and its obsession with reality. In that glorious case dear readers, the rest as we know it as, is just history, and heroine. Taking it all the way down to the bone yard. Thus while imagined slightly skewed on the horizontal plane, the crows assuredly appear to be in array like the swans, albeit slightly messy. Ambiguity somewhat abates. There is no questioning a mind fried on opiates.

Yet ambiguity reigns supreme, as the piece in discussion is sighted by some to be the last painting to have graced the artist’s lifespan. The list of contenders is long when it comes to be exclusively anointed as the last painting of the master. Time is all we have, and we rather choose to be ambiguous, and thus conclude this particular discussion without any prior notice. Until next time.

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unnamed

False Flags, by Massive Attack

new-dark-age
New Dark Age, by Nikola Jankovic

We going way back to 2009, Febuary when this track hits the box office. Composed of Regular resounding chords, more overlapping, like the ringing of echoes, crosfeeding  the silence, which otherwise would have all been the verses, an honest bargain, verses resplendent as the spring itself. Warm sun and beer, somehow managed to avoid the grease stains, camouflaged under self assumed glamour, like life is a monkey chasing business, for the ace at shooting the sling.

 

There is perhaps even an uptempo, bass heavy version to the song, gratefully justifying the depth that is contained in the lyrics, which by all means, in no small measure manifest the title. False flags. The way perhaps even nature demonstrates itself. The calm before the storm. The harvest after the drought, like an enduring autumn, like the grease stains in spring. The way it was always,  strike, spark and you know when a wish comes true. The way how mankind adapts and evolves,contradicting and misinforming itself. 

The complete piece perhaps better understood whilst given a quick glance over, rather than listened to as a piece of audio with musical accompaniments. Yet there is no harm that a bit of looping could do to the song, or the listener.

autumn-in-my-heart
Autumn in My Heart, By Ana Mutavdzic

The video to the original, slower version to the song, with great elaborations demonstrates from the lighting of a flame with an aristocratic cigarette lighter, to the passing of the flame onto the wick of a molotov cocktail. A good part of the entire composition constitutes of the conclusion where the chords and the notes play out their predestined, fading, simmering symphony. While the video plays out the hurling motion of that piece of creation of chemistry and patience. Botteled fuel,soaked, lit, momentary motives fulfilled. An emblematic vision the whole arrangements A sight of the human expression of violent rage, plated with soothing ambient sounds. The video to the uptempo version to the song at its best artfully depicts the exploits of the band through the ages.Of which it dates back to the year 1988. Hailing  from Bristol, England is Massive Attack and what they got for you is trip hop.

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Part 4- Love, laughter, luxury: the metamorphosed Delhi

Dear Qi,

It has been long I know. Ever since I boarded that fateful flight on July 6, I haven’t had a second to reminisce. The earlier plan was to stop, see, go but Delhi enamoured me, most unexpectedly. As soon as I landed in all my hippiedom, the leviathan on my back, the daunting red stroller at my heel, I was gathered and buried deep in the arms of lush green & earthy brown.

The city after seven years looked like it had been manicured into a model for lavish living. Each red brick and cream coloured dome was breathing new history, writing a new future. If kindness could be measured, I’d be drowning. From renewing old sinews to weaving new wreaths, from the newly renovated “non-smoking” India Coffee House in Connaught Place to the mushrooming liberal East side.

I witnessed the urban underbelly in the graffiti adorned subway selling Tribal handicraft, I tasted Korea in their cuisine, soju (Korean vodka) & graphic novels in the seedy by lanes of garish “Punjabi” Pahadganj. I found an isolated English cabin called Sakleys in the midst of concrete buildings. As my friends kindly awarded me with the title of “cloud carrier”, we revelled on roads mirroring generous dark clouds.

There were pleasant incidents & experiences, then there were events that wringed my heart with regret for ever doubting the Dil (heart) in Dilli (Delhi).

My friend and I fixed an appointed hour to meet at The Monkey Bar in South Delhi. With my obsession for arriving on time, I was there early waiting for her.

A pleasantly smiling young man in the restaurant uniform walked up to me,”Do you play the guitar?”

I glanced at the tall black cover standing erect behind my chair, “I’m still training on my own”.

“I used to perform in a band in Manipur. I had to migrate to Delhi for money,” wistful glint of a smile.

“Would you like to play?” I offered. He jumped at the opportunity and played a local love song. His colleagues thronged to our table, lavishing attention & conversation as I waited for my friend to arrive. Next thing I know, word had spread far & wide till it reached the owner, coincidentally a friend’s acquaintance and I was on my way to getting pampered fancifully at their premium eatery!

After a brief stay with this friend in Gurgaon, I set out to brave the potholed, monsoon frothing streets. An eager cab driver pulled close, it was an Easy Cab with an aged, smiling face behind the wheel. I propped in with no knowledge of a cheaper means of commute.

 

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“How much would it cost me from here to East Delhi?”

“Roughly Rs.1100”, he said calculating quickly.

Sensing my disappointment, he offered, “I could drop you till the next metro station, it would be cheaper & quicker.”

He looked genuinely willing, but the skeptic in me wanted to smell a motive.

I smiled instead, “thank you”, the wheels set in motion.

“Are you not from Delhi?”

I decided to be honest, pushing my boundaries, “No I’m from Bombay.”

As though a switch flicked, “You’re from outside? Let me show you around Gurgaon”. Before I could protest he’d wheeled us into a less crowded lane which looked safe but desolate. There he began waxing eloquent of the skeletal structures which would soon turn into architectural marvels. He insisted I stop at a popular eatery for their unmatched Biryani. Had I not been attending to anxious friends I would’ve indulged.

“I’ll drop you to the nearest Delhi metro station. The station in Gurgaon is always crowded.”

I mutely agreed mentally calculating the money in my wallet.

After myriad stories of Assamese tradition (Did you know Assamese people add Tsri before their name to signify that the person is alive and Tsargiya for the dead?), his hometown in Assam & his 25 years of driving on Delhi streets, we finally arrived at Chhatarpur station.

“How much is it?” I enquired, partly pleading in my head to not exceed the currency in my wallet.

He chuckled, “I turned the meter off long back madamji. You are a guest here, you need not pay.”

How would you react if you were in my shoes? I was simply dumbfounded, even partly relieved. I still insisted to pay something for I had run out of words to acknowledge the goodness of his heart. He accepted a hundred rupee note and began to hand me back lose change.

I guiltily resisted but he politely insisted,”Keep it. You’ll need it at the metro counter.”

lisbeth

I thanked him profusely and walked up to the counter. He was right! The change was more than sufficient, he had returned a lot more than the metro fare.

Over that one hour metro ride, I couldn’t stop smiling. Each time I felt there was a hint of a wayward glance or a wanton comment, I battled it inwardly with the strength of his kindness. It was like my Petronus charm.

I fall back upon your wisdom Qi. The world is a mirror, a reflection of your fiercest fears and brightest beliefs. I hadn’t just survived the city, I had conquered it. I allowed Delhi to cradle me to its bosom and in return, I’d found a new home.

My friend says kindness is like a boomerang, you put it out in the world and it finds you, no matter where you are. I promise to put it out without inhibition, I promise to harness the wisdom of affection, silently, unendingly. I promise to spread your legacy.

Until the next turn in the road,

PC

Priyanka Charan

 

 


magic
Magic

 

lisbeth
Lisabeth

                                                     Artwork By Judit Szakter