My first Haiku

Live music is so cool

So European, so streetsy.

That is, if it's any good.

Hi, shut the noise, neighbours!

Err..

I simply have no clue what to write.

You see I have undertaken to write this post, so helpfully titled 'Err', in the same spirit as one might sit down to do an English Composition Exercise.

There's a chap called Edward Lear. He has written a book called The Complete Book of Nonsense, and one suspects he did so under the same circumstances as mine. I own, I am quite sure, the only copy he ever sold.

Well, I got that out finally.

What next?

One can hear some birds right now. And whooshing cars.

If I turn my head by approx. 85 degrees, I can see a pale blue sky and a row of pretty houses. If I could have extended my neck out of the window, I would have seen a road disappearing into the sky.

The birds are sounding so happy.

Hmm, Yawn, Yabbidy-yoo.

Maybe some other time, then.

Crime and Punishment

The whole point of writing this post is to

get the last one out of sight.

That last post-check it out- it has this one unwholesome pic of one shoe perched on one dead leaf and the gravel around it is turning grey in protest.

Or you could be wiser, and help your cursor migrate to the top-left where it's screaming for.

I know.

Way too much free time and all that porky stuff. But fine reader, your having made it till here speaks a lot about your intrepid attitude and mettle and also shines some light on your having nothing else to do. Same boat, lovely reader, same boat.

Happy Hols.

Dawn Treader

One fine day, the idea of hunting up one's camera may crop into a head. Heads, especially temporarily insomniac ones, often have such fudgy ideas that turn out to be surprisingly good.

After steadily prising one's eyes open and appealing to shaky knees for co-operation, it is time to set off. There is something about the possession of a camera and having breathtaking nature around that makes one feel one is living the National Geographic life. It is still dawn, that mostly unseen hour of the day,by the time the morning ceremonies are resolved and one has stepped out.

Pale light peeps groggily through the treetops. Not many people are about and the buildings around quiver helplessly as you break into a merciless rendition of Everywhere you go, always take the weather with you.

At this point, several milkmen, newspapermen and restless hens are bound to exchange glances with each other. This is because this peaceful time of the day belongs, by an ancient, never-questioned dogma, solely to them and to keep them in humor, one must never overdo civilian acts of the noontime, like shout too much or throw plastic on the road.

" Hello there!" cry out bright poppies to passing early-birds.

No wonder the legions of milkmen, newspapermen and hens unite to keep out trespassers. They just cannot bear the thought of wasting Hello's on others.

Meanwhile the changing light dances all across the sky in a seance of its own, transforming everything on which it falls into a thing of magic and wonder.

The Library looks good in the morning, the Senate looks quite captivating too ( I have an opinion on how the Notre Dam might look in the morning too, but let's stick to the R-land campus). But the prettiest place here has to be the path leading up to the Baddy Court.

No wonder they blame poets ( who are most active at this time of the day)for sounding so completely loopy. It is tough not to be loopy when flowers beam back at you, and if there's a breeze about, wave as well.

"So what?", an interlocutor on the behalf of the 8 am waking party may interject.

"All that is very well, but sacrifice those final, sweetest moments of sleep that come to one from 6 am to 8 am- you must be mad! "

It is impossible to bristle at that dim-witted objection if one has partaken anything from the peace of the early morn. Other problems might prevent you from speaking up eloquently about the beauty of the glorious hour like an alarmingly high rate of yawns.

The day from then on transpires mostly like this: smile a smile of peace at your suspicious newspaperman, stifle another yawn, sets off for class, change mind mid-way, return and proceed to hit the sack.