Does confusion make things 'clearer?

"Until you are willing to be confused about what you already know, what you know will never become wider, bigger or deeper." --Milton Erikson, an American psychiatrist and writer, apparently referring to the "Confusion Technique" used in hypnosis.

Is poetry inconsequential?

Organic life beneath the shoreless waves
Was born and nurs'd in ocean's pearly caves;
First forms minute, unseen by spheric glass,
Move on the mud, or pierce the watery mass;
These, as successive generations bloom,
New powers acquire and larger limbs assume;
Whence countless groups of vegetation spring,
And breathing realms of fin and feet and wing.

Excerpt, The Temple of Nature, Erasmus Darwin, grandfather of Charles Darwin.


A physician by profession and one of the earliest thinkers and proponents of evolution theories, namely, "The inheritance of acquired characteristics", Erasmus Darwin never got credit for his revolutionary ideas, presumably because of his medium of expression, which was poetry! Verses came easily to him and he preferred discussing evolution in long form. His known works of poetry're Zoonomia and The Temple of Nature.

Source: Darwin and Evolution, Kristan Lawson

Just curious to know what you'd do!

Our local gallery has a monthly theme contest and it's such a treat, only to be a part of it. I'd been working on this piece, supposedly my entry, for over two weeks now (taking into account the drying time too, as it's oil on canvas). I'd an image of a woman feeding birds and I sort of tried to replicate it but now thanks to my little man, CR, the purple berries on her extended palm, is all over the left side of the canvas (thankfully, not on her face or silhouette). My head was on fire the moment I discovered the newly born mishmash/ collage/_________. Okay, I smacked him once (Promise!) and am now (right now as you read, that is!) wondering how to salvage the piece. Chulbuli says, "It's a challenge, mom! You can prob'ly work with it." Yeah right! I wish it could've been easier!


What'd you do, in a similar situation?

A quote that caught my fancy!

"You can tell whether a man is clever by his answers. You can tell whether a man is wise by his questions."

- Naguib Mahfouz, Egyptian writer, 1988 Nobel Prize winner for literature

Update!

It's always an honor to be published, and more so, in a reputed journal which also happens to host poems by Tammy Ho Laiming, a renowned poet and editor, also a blogger friend who puts up interesting updates at her blog, and acclaimed author and Pushcart Prize nominee, Jee Leong Koh.


Foundling Review is a relatively new literary journal "where simple pleasures are corralled into folds of finely finessed sentences" with intriguing cover photographs. I'm especially humbled by these words from the poetry editor, "Very poignant, we loved its richness in style and depth" about "I've lived past the years". Feedback helps, and more! Or rather, feedback is 'survival'!

Thank you, Kim!

Y'know, some people're so blessed with the art of sharing that you can effortlessly call them your friend, even though you've hardly met them. Well, Kim happens to own that art in truckloads, really! I relish reading her posts for the genuine, young motherly voice. So when she passed on this award to yours truly, I've to say that I was blown away! Doesn't she look so downright fab? Thank you Kim!





Five least favorite things?

- Weather in Chicago. Such a beautiful downtown with tons of activities but the weather's a damper.

- When the stroller makes that squeaky noise, and the world knows I'm such a lousy mom. Eeks!!!

- My undying appetite for nails (mine, who else's?!).

- When the calling card doesn't work. I love cross- connections though. It's fun to listen to two people having a heated discussion in a foreign language.

- Calling medical insurance, going through the zillions of instructions and finally getting to talk to a live agent, who says, "I'm sorry but that's the Company policy. Is there anything else I can do for you?"


I love reading all of the blogs on my blogroll and more... but the one blog that has continued to sustain my fleeting attention and fascination, has to be Kavi's Musings. I hope this lady stands tall, in your page, Kavi!

An amnesiac's job?

The sun knocks at the glass door
and I don't open. The curtains swished shut,
I peek outside to catch a glimmer
and let in the sun, but not so fast. I
wonder what the arrhythmic taps mean, and I
forget. For a fleeting second, I try to make
sense of analogs, the faint rumblings that
make my day and poof! That's what an amnesiac
is good at. She forgets and wishes she hadn't
forgotten so easily at least. I pick up a
sharpened pencil from my daughter's treasure
box, to make a grocery list, my son snatches
it, pulls me to the living room. He wants me
to sing ring- around- the- roses. I oblige,
it's not just a coincidence that he
adorns the plaque of 'mamma's boy, isn't
he so cute?', he joins and it's fun. I forget
about the pencil (that's what amnesiac's are
good at in case I haven't told you before)
until I open the fridge to grab a salad pack
and realize it's over. Finito! I toss uncooked
rice in the microwave, setting the
cooking time to three hours instead of thirty
minutes. Again, a conflict with the digits.
The bowl is tarred like charcoal, smells
of burnt plastic, of course.I chop up
luscious broccoli and drop it in the pancake
batter instead of sweetened strawberries
and begin to write a poem which starts
to look more and more like prose and
sounds like a weasel, only arranged a bit
quixotic. I'm now introduced to the possibilities
of the birth and evolution of the genre of prose
poems. As the critics argue about how to
categorize the genre, I join a long line of
amnesiacs. I note it down on a fine piece of
paper that'd be blown away in a second as
the wind seeps in along with the sun. In
Chicagoland, they're inseparable, fraternal
twins. I remember to open the door and welcome
them in. I hear them chuckle and raise my
eyebrows, here's an amnesiac at work.