–noun, plural -dies.
1.musical sounds in agreeable succession or arrangement.
-a.the succession of single tones in musical compositions, as distinguished from harmony and rhythm.
-b.the principal part in a harmonic composition; the air.
-c.a rhythmical succession of single tones producing a distinct musical phrase or idea.
3.a poem suitable for singing.
4.intonation, as of a segment of connected speech.
5. The absolutely yummilicious chocolate candy treat available at the grocers. 😉
Just a moon beam
Over her nakedness.
Hands reached higher
The mind’s azure.
On a high.
A lone mirror
Against the wall.
Reflecting a blurred image
When she gazed
Blinded by lust.
He pinned her against
Her mirror image.
The angel and the demon,
She let go the earth
beneath her feet.
And snacked his flesh
With her teeth.
Swayed in the balcony.
But to their ears it struck
A perfect melody.
pit pat pit pat
Pitter Patter, Pitter PATTER, PITTER PATTER
Mesmerized she stared out of the window.
Tingong Tingtong (door bell)
Creeeaaak. The door opens
He: “Honey I’ve got samosas. Quickly get some tea. We’ll have this year’s first rain party”
By the time she came back from the kitchen with two steaming cups of tea, the CD player was on and Lata was crooning “ Yeh Raat Bheegi Bheegi”
She stood there listening to nature’s melody and Lata’s magic… yeh mast fiza…..Boom, pitter patter…dheere wo chand…PITTER PATTER..kyo aag”
Who says life doesn’t have a background tune. This perfect moment had the perfect melody infused in her life.
Mystical Mortal (119)
Pristine raindrops, pelting on my window,
tell a story of an unuttered sorrow,
languishing in the dungeon of memories for long,
like a magnificent palace in ruins and forlorn..
Clasped by tenacious grip of agony,
came to life the night he gave up on me,
Walking in the shadows of insecurity,
I fell in the infinite void of envy.
He was so united and I, fragmented,
the strength to pull myself together, debilitated,
and what a spectacle I was as I tried to camouflage,
the cacophony of his departing words with your melody,
Pristine raindrops! you emanate from the clouds
that loomed over him,
I am tempted to ask, if he sent a message
although the hope is dim.
GYPSI: The forlorn (MY Dog)
She had cursed the winter & now she felt ashamed
The hot June sun, why could seasons not be tamed
How many more pages were there to unfold
Sometimes it was hot, sometimes it was cold
Memories of the time when she was born
In her mother’s cuddle there were no thorns
But now she was gone leaving her forlorn
To fight the world to fight the storm
A bang, a noise sent shivers down her spine
Running for shelter she left a long whine
Drops of water soon followed
Harsh wind with water freely flowed
Her black fur was now fully wet
Melody of the rains had the tune set
Sarang Mahajan (119)
One funny day, when the Sun popped up high,
There was not a sound in the sky
Nor the chirping of birds,
Not the tinkle of a brook running by
Sunny Sun tossed an eyebrow and said, ‘Why o why?’
It’s boring not to hear the wag-tails run their throat dry
And the knocking of the woodpeckers, when to break a tree they try
Plumpy, chubby Sun gasped out a sigh
Then scratched his head and said, ‘There’s only one thing I can try!’
He went back in the sea and popped up once more
And unplugged his ears and smiled reassured
For what he rose everyday was back already
The lovely music of the woods, the sweet melody!
Gradually the road vanished, so did the car. Din of the crowded road died away. Ride became smoother as if I was floating. The place looked like my college canteen. Meenu was chatting with her friends at the next table. She was looking so cute, just like she did thirty years ago. I was sitting on the corner table, staring at her, the usual dark coffee in my hand. I was humming a song.
“And when I touch you I feel happy inside………………………
……………………………………I wanna hold your hand!”
“That was Beatles on Old Melodies. Our next number is……..”
“Saab, we’re home!”
The car was parked in the porch. My daily trip to nostalgia with old melodies once again ended abruptly.
It was show time. Strumming his guitar, Johnson tried to stop her invading his thoughts –her face, that heartbreaking smile, mischief dancing in her eyes, her laughter ringing in his ears and their harmonious lovemaking. He tried to focus on the song as he heard his partner tune the piano. The next song was her favorite and had to be perfect. The last time he played it had earned him a mind numbing kiss. He wanted to block out the pain, the sorrow, the heartbreak and concentrate on his guitar. As the song faded out, a gentleman approached him. “You were amazing. This is my fiancé’s favorite. You must play at our wedding. What do you think Melody?
A note to follow sew
Notes strung in needles, viola eyes and a singing sage,
All when glued to another life,
made music, like rain
dough shaped pain
rustling shirts and aging cigarettes.
brown birds and flailing nymphets.
“You look pierced darling…”
That song on the window sill, traces of a
tune that is only eight now.
What was that?
I can’t remember.
Was it a chord between that wound and
G- minor? A flight of solos?
The infinite timbre of a whistle I could never save.
Cello fights and a gruesome guitarlike gaze,
My endless strumming; your pantomime face.
Memories of a vaudeville summer
Life was an incredible lie
Kunal Sen (120+7)
“A Middle Eight in an Olive Town”
Today no one enters these ruins that once housed laughter and the unquenchable strains of our first composition. That tune wasn’t original. It came from a beautiful woman called Shiuli from behind post office, New Jalpaiguri. I remember I was playing a riff right here, inspired by her; when Ritujoy started doing a Baul improvisation, and suddenly it all came together, became our first number. For years after Joy’s death, I was terrified of playing ‘Shiuli’ until Akshay joined and we sang it from Jadavpur University’s rooftop to screaming multitudes below. At first I was euphoric, for it meant we could still play without him. But then I realized that it also meant it didn’t matter, who lived or died.
And last but not the least,
Sprinkles of Chatter (166)
The whistle of a kettle,
clinking cups and saucers
and a hot pot of tea.
The music is cloaked-
amongst numerous tones
and a child’s laughing shriek.
A group of seven
huddles on a table for four.
He looks on lovingly
as she talks to his mother-
stealing glances, smiling…
they’re conversing silently.
heaving and groaning
under the constant assault.
The loud, rambunctious crowd
falls silent temporarily-
there’s a tinkle at the door
as more people join in.
The rains dance sedately
on a makeshift tin roof.
Twirling along to a tune unknown,
a few tiny droplets trip along;
trickling into the tea.
Swirled around with a spoon
they taste the tea with me.
On a sandy dusty road
old newspapers flutter about;
and in the veranda nearby-
Chitter chatter and chinwag
suddenly stills for a moment….
as a distant cloud rumbles by
and electricity streaks the sky.
While the evening fades into the night; this melody warms my insides…