Some poems could be hailed by critics but you just wont find the greatness in them;
Some would be considered classics but you wont be able to appreciate them;
Some would not even turn heads but you would love them;
Some would be downed as rubbish but you would revere them;
However, some poems have none of the above,
Though they hit the arrow straight to the heart,
Reflecting your thoughts in the most elegant and succinct manner,
Making you wonder if the poet actually went into your mind.

The poem below by psyphycom is one of them:

A Picture

At some point you’ve to walk away,
Reality paints the picture in a hazy may,
Round about, but farther from her,
It’s not a choice, but the rule here.

When cheeks feel the sense of stream,
It’s indefinite, the mirage of extreme,
Beneath the sorrrow, the pain of relief,
The about turn of that instinctive belief.

As wind blows chiding your hair,
Your listless motion of permanant impair,
The unfettered moment of resolve,
Beleaguered triumph of momentary avow.

The moment that made you history,
Memories that now overlay your story,
If only you could escape the mystery,
It’s moments that shape thy destiny.


The Italian

Watched a lovely Russian movie yesterday. The synopsis as given my Cathay:

For every Russian orphan, the chance to be adopted is a dream come true and freedom from hopeless poverty. Six-year-old Vanya Solntsev earns the envy of his peers at the orphanage when a wealthy Italian couple decides to adopt him. Serene life under the Mediterranean sun awaits him, but the boy has other hopes. After discovering that his mother is still alive, Vanya embarks on a perilous and unknown journey to find his kin. Pursued by orphanage staff and the police, the determined runaway must find courage in the sliver of hope and face the most difficult challenge of his young life. This incredible story is inspired by true events.

The movie is touching but not sentimental, humorous but not crude, realistic but not vulgar. It’s a very well taken movie where the watcher is not expected to leave his brains back but is expected to use them to deduce and infer various small plots and themes.

It also shows what exactly happens in orphanages, and I am sure this is not peculiar to Russia. The rightful guardians of the children end up being exploitive or just highly incompetent. The actual guardians are more often than not kids who have grown old in the orphanage and have taken up the role of protector for the younger one. Kolyan here does exactly that. Harsh he is and strict in his demands, but endearing, the scene where he gives money to get the kids new boots; his gentle response to Vanya’s break-in at the office where instead of whipping him alive, he actually shows the paper and proves that there is nothing there show the more mature and fatherly side of Vanya. The same goes for Irka and Seri, the two older girls in the orphanage. Come to think of it, they are the only girls I saw as part of the orphanage. It did make me wonder if this was a boy’s home and if so, then how did the girls end up here?

A lovely movie in the end and one well worth watching 🙂 As one of the reviews said:

“The Italian” does a remarkable job in exploring social issues such as illegal child adoption and juvenile delinquency, mostly in cases of children left to fend for themselves. The film also seems to take a dig at the failures of the systems set up by adults. The Headmaster is an alcoholic and the Madam appears to be driven by greed, while the local police are incompetent and corrupt.

However, not all is gloom and doom. Vanya encounters good deeds along the way from the most surprising sources, illustrating that benevolence and compassion do exist in people after all.


More than the wealth, more than the voyeurism, more than the travels, its the elegance of a man which is noticeable and catches you off guard, his ability to have an intelligent conversation, his ability to stick to his stand, his ability to be introspective and his ability to be quiet and know when to do so and the last, his simple but refined taste in his selections. This man seems to have it. In writing at least.


The recent article here, here and here about a 72 yr old grandpa agreeing to donate sperms to create a family for his son had gotten me aghast.

I mean, strictly speaking, scientifically that is, and there is nothing wrong. There may be some complications as the man is already 72 years old and this may affect the child in terms of disability etc but then medical technology is advanced enough to detect such a thing and modern world cruel enough to end the pregnancy if the parents so wish.

The UK ethics committee etc has passed the case and blah blah blah but is it correct? What about the poor kid? If I grow up and found out that my grandfather is my father and my father is my step-brother but my grandmom is my grandmom and my mom is my mom. Gosh!

Secondly, if we start allowing such things, where will it end? Already, British regulators have approved the breeding or creating of hybrid humans , which basically means genetically mixing and matching human genes with any animal genes to create Frankensteinian species. What next? Mix and match plants and animals to allow animals to generate their own food? Hmm…….sounds interesting, and lovely in sci-fi but in real life? I think it will be more freaky than anything else.


Read a recent review on a friend’s blog about the movie Pride and Prejudice, an adaptation of Jane Austen’s book of the same name.

It brought to memories the various books I have read and the infinite influence they have had over me.

One of the first series of book I read was the children’s thriller series, The Three Investigators by Enid Blyton.

Though I do not remember the character names, the stories and the personality of each character is as vivid in my mind as if I read them yesterday. The constant rebelliousness and inquisitiveness of the leader of the group, the mischievousness of the youngest boy and the wittiness of the middle boy are experiences which I still have not forgotten.

After that came the ‘classics’ Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Victor Hugo, Virgil etc, basically all the authors I could lay hands on. I usually looked out for the penguin classic series as I trusted them to choose good books to be in that collection.

Following that entire knowledge overload, I decided to try the modern authors who were so revered by various aspects of society. I tried Grisham, Sheldon etc and found them to be sorely lacking in what might justifiably be my biased tastes.

I am by no means an author of any right. It takes me more than a week to come up with an intelligent and coherent post for my blog, post which I hope are good enough for the general public to read. Writing anything without the help of a spell checker is unheard of in my world. I am also equally bad at remembering quotes, or sentences or authors, titles, character names etc, memories which are crucial for usage in any conversation.

However, having read a decent amount of books in my lifetime, I find the modern authors sorely lacking. If they have a good story, their usage of grammar and vocabulary are woefully inadequate. If the language is good then the story is bad. Either way, something or another is always lacking in them.

Having said that, there are undoubtedly brilliant modern authors who are just as good in the art of novel writing as any of the classic authors I know and its been a real pleasure reading them. Forsyth is such an author who springs to mind. His first book, The Day of the Jackal is a masterpiece in its own right and I love the way he transports me from my couch to his character’s world with ease and nonchalance.

That’s all till now. Presently, I am in a midst of having reader’s block. I just finished Fountainhead by Ayn Rand, another brilliant book which must be read a second time to completely comprehend what the author is trying to say. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to be interested in reading anything, let alone spend time reading heavy stuff or stuff worth reading, though I do hope to bypass this soon enough.


Came across an interesting word and consequently, an interesting article. The word is “gelding” and the article on, you guessed it, gelding.

Gelding is procedure where the sexual organ in a male horse is removed, especially horses which are meant for racing. They do this coz the higher testosterone level makes a male horse more aggressive, stubborn, mind-only-on-one-thing and unmanageable (similarities there?)

The article explains in detail how the procedure is carried out. Some thing I don’t understand though:

  1. How do they decide? What if their decisions about this horse being a good racing horse turns out to be wrong? What happens to the horse?
  2. They kept talking about drainage, what drainage are they talking about? This question stems more from my absolute lack of biology of any kind than common sense I suppose
  3. The article seems to imply that the sexual urge to mate is forever suppressed. Does it mean that the nerves originating such urges are not in the brain but in the organs? Is it the same for humans? How about ‘visual’ excitement then? After all, most p0rn depends this feature in humans.
  4. How about mares? Do they ever race? If so, then how are their urges suppressed? Since gelding is obviously for males only.


A mare is a female horse who has reached puberty while filly is a young female horse. Interesting eh?

Mares do not race in the derby and the horse racing tournaments. But they are classified as ‘racing’ breed according to their canter, style etc. This is more for breeding purposes than anything else.

Look Out

Restless to the core,
Waiting for nothing,
What gives rise to this bore?
Which seems everlasting?

Pinpointing the source,
Seems so morose.
For neither is there a point,
Nor is there any hope.

Shaking sinews,
Sleepless mind.
Dreams that flee,
Nightmares that stay.

Do they have a meaning?
Do they have a say?
In the way life’s fleeing?
Or the direction it takes?