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Table of contents

Well, insofar as I have any idea what the hell is going on here, that sounds more or less all right to me. Other names are, however, sure to crop up in the coming days. Donald Clarke Whingeing about cinema and real life since Donald Clarke Donald. Mon, Apr 4, , On a sheet of ice the chick trying to free itself from its mother's claws Two souls celebrate sailing on flames of white light new millennium The lone hibiscus waits for the sun to bloom: morning's first offering Rain-soaked sun sheds its sultry light-- her bare back Dew drop on a blade of grass rainbow A child's fingers feel the butterfly lying one with yellow leaves Shell -shocked or frozen he stands in tears on hilltop craving nirvana A dead leaf hangs by a spider's thread invisible in sun Staring at each other two fishes in half -filled tank ready for truce All guests gone: after the late party night and I alone Icy bed: moving the pillow closer to hers Only two of us- and a big house with roaming rats and cockroaches Meditation cell phone rings love echoes No god appears in the dark of my closed eyes— dream-image falters The little toddler with her fey appearance: a woodland sprite Seeking good news I watch the lines on my palms taking new turns We meet again in the album ever fresh her memory Tending the hooks she blushes to see the line of jewels The half moon on her neck reminds of love before departure Her trilling laugh on the phone- spring love Chess of love: checkmate before playing the game Falling leaves-- a sheet of autumn in the courtyard They all look for a little more moon coming back from movie Waves of mist shine with sun the day resumes laughter shakes each bough Fearing allergies he misses full moon party savours white light After morning walk the trio gossip each day fresh revelation The holy Ganges tolerates the city's garbage even rape and death Greeting the first rains after months of soaring heat-- the lone mango falls Exploring the world in haiku silence God an event The string of life lost in the knots of small things: living tragedies Sweeping gelled leaves they raise dust in my compound agitate windpipe The lone letter box rusting in rain for years none come to open Prolonged rains keep dahlias from blooming- seeds die again Shining on rose-leaves silken layer of dew drops: gloss of her mauve smile Chilly wind slaps the window panes closed to keep cross-legged couples warm Cloud over cloud darken earth and hide stars: dawn and dust one Red oleander and hibiscus calling morning to Kali Making love she presses with her nails: sparrow sports After lunch stretching legs in cubby-hole: a frog Love tickles with erect pistil: hibiscus Suspended on the spider's web — a hibiscus 3.

Without washing hands he touches hibiscus for worship: her frowning glance 4. After little rain lilies smile with hibiscus- the sun in May Too short can't reach the height: hibiscus Chrysanthemum on the mossy roof deeply rooted Too big for its web between two roses- a yellow spider 8. Around falling leaves a lone dreaming flower- mid-February 9. Stands alone in the assembly of flowers- Valentine' s Day Not sad to die blooming after a day's rain- the mushroom A frog in the drain stares at the traffic light turning green December morning — the first roses in the lawn: fragrance in passing Leaves sway to fly like birds free in the sky Waving down a leaf settles between her breasts All night trees wave with roaring winds: autumn in the courtyard Bluebells and hazels lost in rustic kisses: morning stars burn On a lean branch of neem swinging a bulbul The courtyard stormed with dried leaves and tamarind: her frail hands sweeping From tree to courtyard cotton balls blown on the wind- seed in the centre Her scarf — a rainbow of flowers moving in the sky Her visit — a transient painting on holiday's floor Painting mom's smile with broken crayons — smiling Winny Intruding her voice on the phone Switching on the hearing aid: wife's warm soup With her saree hitched up between the legs my wife in bed Raising her saree above the thighs bends to ease and blocks my way Rising early to make tea for everyone the newly wed wife As the duo sit lights go out — sofa springs creaking Dissatisfied with each other the two of us in an empty house In the grey of dusk sway between hope and despair their dream promises Leaning sideways she looks at mango picklt caries ache She repeats my ills to express her anger but I know only her love Basking in the sun files nails in garden chair my wife's friend No joy in lighting the candles this Diwali: both the children away Awaits his son's phone call from the border: dogs and cats wail His son's voice not relayed by wire: tense borders Distance mounts each time he visits home: love's last rites Shadow of age on the wall — second full moon Whiteness of the moon and rocks howl with the wind- December in the veins The sun not yet set but the full moon rises as if in a hurry Enveloping all of the moon at night- white chrysanthemums Setting moon leaves behind sparkle on the waves Noisy birds don't let me sleep: midnight moon Through the window gaze at the moon hid behind cloud after cloud Caressing her pregnant belly — water lily Still night nude kisses in park images haunt Standing behind the window bars observes darkness in shapes Night bombing leaves the garden white as death Vultures waiting for the leftovers of the sacrifice In the ruins searching her photo: evening Rutting dogs sleepless the whole night cries for sex Parents pelt stones at the mating street dogs- nosey children Nothing changes the night's ugliness in the lone bed Alone in a shrunken bed aged love In the well studying her image a woman Knitting silence my wife on the bench after lunch The lone mushroom — a pregnant woman stares out of the window Under the tree in meditation sunken a lone stone Alone on the National Highway Hanuman So many headlights and my myopic vision- walking difficult They walk on red coal matching steps with drum-beats: carnival of ecstasy Keeps him sleepless fireworks and high decibel puja all night Sleeping on the cold floor a mother with child Awaits sunrise to hire an auto safely sits at the bus stand Two women argue over price and weight offish: the hapless huckster Carbon flakes drift high above the flat I cough they widen the roads Burning tap water and seething house in the morning heat wave cripples Chanting mantra with wine in one hand and torch in other Building bridges where there is no river— the politician A mother and child stuck between concrete rubbles: fidayeen attack Setting ablaze Muslim houses and children seekers of Ram White-yellow trail the Mirage on mission: ten souls buried Amidst roaring guns clouds blossom snow lotus: light hilly terrain On the margin of home-to-work-to-home routine — life's achievements Shivering in the cold young boys sell balloons late night- New Year revellers Journeying tries to raise his silence to prayer Never enough the earth's hunger for graves: peace barricaded In measured pace hit for divinity two political golfers Disposable blades one over the other- dusty switchboard Seismic lab a network of cobweb: no earthquake for long No Zen thought — scribbling haiku with gun in hand Staring at the huge stone penis at Shinto shrine- two female lovers With her breasts bobbing up and down she challenges the moon as she walks Sees the eyes in walls as I rise to kiss her Drowned in empty whiteness: love Wiping tears from each other's eyes two souls in love Writing with strands of watery hair on her back a love haiku Love of three decades extinguished in a moment- anger in the mouth Shedding bitterness of the tiff in sex act she and I Moist lips parting on a tea cup promising expectation Bending down to pick up apple she presses piercing embrace She preys the body behind obsidian sheath fatuous flap After burns leaving the body the dead skin Her palms the only lingerie in Fashion Show Crouching out of the bath with hand on the genital his new tenant A pregnant woman bending over the mushroom bloomed under a tree Awaits the bloom of love in her womb: silent action Lovely with hope the glow in her eyes: no need of sun Her body — the night's perfection in dim light Seeing her a liquid sensation between the thighs On a canvas a poet in twilight painting her skin Sensing her presence he stares down the street- lingering perfume A star in making — but an island appears: the palm amuses Sipping gin with lime he says he loves sex each night but hates the smell Bleeding fingers draw new domes of betrayal in windy matrices His tongue between the teeth- sudden sneeze Fed up with my sex she threatens to move to our daughter's room Leaves him alone to escape daily rape in bed his wife The bedroom altar no substitute for temple- sacrifice of sex Winter's chill — sweating under the gown her thighs and breasts Scanning her stooping breasts — the first night Measuring life with ejaculatory rhythm — envies sparrow sports Her thighs — resting place for my head on bed Trying to decipher the complex curves on my palms in the morning rays Fondling her breasts I incite a poem on her body A film of mist between my eyes and her image Locked in her eyes the bright glow of the goddess Melting in the colour of the heart the sun in the west A lizard shrieks before the climax: love making The blood passes through green veins I hear the heart play melody of dews Every breath love in action — fire in the hole No bottom reader but the shape and the lines do tell she can stir the soul The aching limbs and blood dripping between the legs: love-making postponed With his head between the knees he squats and smells the body's sweat Bones rattle to make a song of flesh in the night- togetherness Insomnia blaming her not old age Lies with her in freezing cold: an empty tube Invisible jangles odours presences- twinges in bed Drying on the line pork venison and beef-- the room smells their vests Don't know their tongue — the stars beyond the mountains whisper among themselves While I lie alone shapeless fears rest on my eyes heavier than time Searching salvation a moth flies into the lamp: oily burial Colours sparkle in the morning's dew on the blooms- my breathing changes Nobody cares burial of my dreams in coal dust Besides allergies so many other complaints: sudden weather change Bronchial breathing — the only sound audible in the soulless space Cleaning dusts from the old sandals for a walk: again the same pain Peeling paint from the drawing room- shadows flicker Seeing no image in the mirror of time- foggy blankness Hot bath or no bath — the cough persists unmindful of the New Year's eve Sees in a flash — opening the eyes takes a long time Linked with anxiety my comfort at his home: Ph.

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Fear of forgetting — car insurance premium paid a month ahead Fears the approach of night with him — twisting tassels In the lone room prefers haiku to yoga drinking scotch Sunday afternoon- waving into gin two drops of lime Difficult to change I am what I have disowned- dressing down salads The bed is short and the covering shorter — crouching alone Unruffled by passions and clamours — Buddha's calm Seeks Buddha's stone bowl to win the bamboo princess: she dwells on moon beams Her heart a thousand doors of oneness Disappears into dust her last photograph Trying to read good news I look at the lines taking new turns on my palms Looking for riches in her left hand shortening days on the pavement They sculpture psyche in the city of dumb dreams: idols sweat in sun Pulling out white hairs she reminds increasing age: time's fragrance unchanged Still a child- embracing a breast sleeps her man Exchanging anger with roses: petals fall They all walk like shadows in night for themselves Lying on his table a few unanswered letters and unrealized dreams A little child chases the painted dreams on butterfly wings Two butterflies racing with each other perch on the wire Sudden rain drops wet the wings of a butterfly lying at the basil Lost my way again asking for direction: a pleasant change Locked between the cracks cockroaches in the alcove dropping their eggs Awaiting their turn to feast on a dead dog crows in a circle A crow hits the scare crow and cracks its earthen head A crow picking at the ripe papaya and another waiting A yellow spider on the blooming marigold weaves tiny webs Two lizards fight to mate on the wall — balancing act After the quake a dog sniffing his master's presence in the rubble Searching Christ's sandals in the pile of shoes at the church's entrance Traffic snails through the water-logged road I feel a manhole cover Dust mites devouring the secrets preserved in my diary Seeing my shadow three fish in the pond look for a safe corner Sitting with its tail coiled round sweets in the box a lizard A hooker hides behind the green letter box: looking for a client Too heavy these man-made machines choking weight Students murmuring over the class test result: the teacher's curved lips In the moving train sleeping on his feet the newspaperman Flowers inviting seeds of love scattered in the perfumed garden Looking for a prey a snake slides through the fence warmth of the sun Safe from sun under nascent leaf a gold fish With sunrise gone to sleep the morning moon Two dreamy eyes await the rising sun through the fogged window A sweating sun after the midnight chill- changing hues of spring The sun conceals aeons of darkness planets mirror in the sky Closing its eyes in the setting sun — the Ganges in autumn He sees art in her wanton dress- crawling curls A butterfly rests on the butterfly tattooed on her sunning back Setting sun leaves behind sparkle on the waves Suddenly rise the sleeping waves from far off- 'quake in the sea Swollen sea boiling over the head- roars increase The sun rolls on the waving Ganges- whitens love-hope On the wave's crest travels a fallen leaf- rot on the bank Couldn't erase the wind's soliloquy from the waves breaking on the shore Travelling back from the waves of bliss a foam-leap On the waves rise shells in accents lie with love — beauty on the shore Bathing in thousands they float lamps on her breast the river sparkles Knee-deep in the pond standing obeisantly nude worshippers Ends with ritual one more morning — sun-worshippers in the pond Awaits the sunrise in the chilly Ganges a nude worshipper Sees visions eating food of gods- mushroom Fills the void with illusions and self- names them god December almost over what new wish to add to Christmas wish list On Christmas eve santa claus takes leave — mist on chairs in pairs Standing between flowers Jesus on the cross Making holes in the wooden cross white ants Colours of envy stick on their colleagues' faces: Holi revelry Krishna offering parijata to Radha: Narada looks on The temple's dome in the flooded Ganga- empty kalash Fermenting spring in the arms of lovers: a secret sin The cherry pink in the spring — a framed nude Embrace suffocates in bed — chill seeps through slit Wintry chill — enters the cold bed: skips morning walk Winter rain bends the roses low- lumbar pain The long night passes sleeplessly I deep -breathe the December chill Alone and sleepless count hours by asthmatic bouts- the long winter nights A part of the night hidden in the morning moon: the sun waves bye bye The first night spots on the sheet: clothes wake up Long wintry night — opening the mail box for a date Vulnerable darkness of the opening: standing erect Seek my haven where the sky arches the sea— a white gull leads Stars mock his drinking alone on the cement bench: moon in the glass Spend our short time together after a long watching the moon Along the road in shanties they shack up — dreams in smoke Seeking smell in cactus flowers: late monsoon Clouds don't rain coldly come and go- icy bed All night rain the gaping roof her shelter Sudden rain on the way home — a peacock After the night's rain the sky's still overcast: wet Christmas today Through thick clouds sees an arc of moon — her belly Brightness straining through the trees: tea in full moon Lonely nights and days of non-stop rains — depression mounts Travelling on the wings of winter ill news Celebrating return of the light and warmth: winter solstice Feels the shadow with wet fingers in the fog Mist surrounds: the steel statue watches few visitors Morning fog: her face invisible even the sun The evening fog: invisible her hand on my shoulder Slowly clears the morning fog — end of the year Swollen fogs ready to make way for the sun Her make-up spoilt in the evening mist: looking for light After dust storm rain alloys with cool colours: rainbow in the west Waxing crescent searches the setting sun worshipped in water Sees beard shining in the mirror: morning on the face In a flash trapping eternity- the camera Post-lunch solitude filled with thoughts that couldn't become even a haiku A sly lover ejaculates poison- sting operation With glittering diamond on the navel swinging an item bomb The phone rings: in the middle he rises — prayers unsaid With a telescope view the lunar eclipse- midnight shadows Out of wood and stone he carves his vision of peace: night's secret visage Suffer animals with a peculiar smell: men in white khadi Crossing the shadows in the Indo-Pak match- thelast ball Drunken with force spreading the century's sore: nine eleven Freedom to kill with faith in divine regime: terrorist's peace Watches the snow rain with finger on the trigger: insurgence in Drass Reaching nowhere — ideas flying from the minds of top echelons Himself doesn't listen but teaches communication Her anger shifts from manure to cellphone: 10 o' clock soap Winking at her in the dark — power cut Two peacocks on a dancing spree: see water Dancing a few muddied crocs: the river returns Nibbling a leaf between her fingers a dragon-fly A small frog leaping on my hand from the pothole Birds crouch in nests along the snowclad path — wheezing silence Away from home — smell of frying fish in the air Swimming afresh in the glass box two gold fish Peace in silence of the heart and body's cells: Buddha's calm Weaving its nest grass blade by grass blade R.

Singh Sad and dull his backyard poultry- fears of bird flu Mooching about a rose petal in the sun- a butterfly An orgasmic view from behind the car's window the Taj Mahal Perches nervously on the fence a squirrel nibbling its luck Wintry evening — my grandson toddling round room to room Sudden screech of tyres: a frog from the pothole perches on the car Selling tea a mustachioed Mizo in shanty Awaits the train in November night — insects all around Truce between two lizards inside the light fixture Ten fish in the tank rising in twos threes or fours to the bait atop Hiding in the shade of toilet brush in the bath a frightened mouse Awaits a rickshaw under the gulmohar tree a girl with lilac Jumped over the head a sticky frog on the ground- stoning to death Alone the cellphone on her bed rings In the changing hues of rainbow in the east: sun and lightning Flashing a rainbow at the dining table her diamond nose-pin Sunlight behind the temple cloud's edge Glued to the rock feeling the river's cold flame my hands and feet Sun rising late slow arrival of winter feverish warmth Fallen tea drops reminding me of the guests last evening Empty shells about the quadrangle: English teacher Children return home splashing through the pool on road school bags on their heads Moving between the fingers of a toddler the first winter rain 8.

Emitting a mouldy smell her blouse Before parting she slips to the floor- raindrops fall From the edge jumps into the pond a green frog Inhales sun through the foggy morning a leaping frog A mass of cloud floating below the plane: my son's balloon Flying over the rose tattooed on her back a butterfly Abandoned her mother on the wall fading streaks Their first dating: with inverted reflection walk out of the bar Awaiting welcome midst the same old worries the new Samvat Stench of burning leaves mounts with smoke in the evening: asthmatic breathing Then they did not watch over this man.

Who knows? Sire, we have all been blind, and the minister of police has shared the general blindness, that is all. Will your majesty deign to excuse me? The mountaineers are Bonapartists, sire. And how many men had he with him?

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Have you neglected to obtain information on that point? The minister bowed his head, and while a deep color overspread his cheeks, he stammered out:. A miracle of heaven replaced me on the throne of my fathers after five-and-twenty years of exile. I have, during those five-and-twenty years, spared no pains to understand the people of France and the interests which were confided to me; and now, when I see the fruition of my wishes almost within reach, the power I hold in my hands bursts and shatters me to atoms!

We have learnt nothing, forgotten nothing! If I were betrayed as he was, I would console myself; but to be in the midst of persons elevated by myself to places of honor, who ought to watch over me more carefully than over themselves,—for my fortune is theirs—before me they were nothing—after me they will be nothing, and perish miserably from incapacity—ineptitude!

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Oh, yes, sir, you are right—it is fatality! The minister quailed before this outburst of sarcasm. Villefort smiled within himself, for he felt his increased importance. Ridicule, sir—why, you know not its power in France, and yet you ought to know it! Yes—that is a great word, sir. Unfortunately, there are great words, as there are great men; I have measured them.

Really impossible for a minister who has an office, agents, spies, and fifteen hundred thousand francs for secret service money, to know what is going on at sixty leagues from the coast of France! Well, then, see, here is a gentleman who had none of these resources at his disposal—a gentleman, only a simple magistrate, who learned more than you with all your police, and who would have saved my crown, if, like you, he had the power of directing a telegraph. Any other than yourself would have considered the disclosure of M.

Realizing this, Villefort came to the rescue of the crest-fallen minister, instead of aiding to crush him. Do not attribute to me more than I deserve, sire, that your majesty may never have occasion to recall the first opinion you have been pleased to form of me. Yet, speaking of reports, baron, what have you learned with regard to the affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques?

General Quesnel, it appears, had just left a Bonapartist club when he disappeared. The king looked towards him.

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He is a man of from fifty to fifty-two years of age, dark, with black eyes covered with shaggy eyebrows, and a thick moustache. He was dressed in a blue frock-coat, buttoned up to the chin, and wore at his button-hole the rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honor. I will no longer detain you, M.

Noirtier are not on the best terms possible, and that is another sacrifice made to the royal cause, and for which you should be recompensed. Blacas, let it be your care to see that the brevet is made out and sent to M. Baron, send for the minister of war. Blacas, remain.

One passed at the moment, which he hailed; he gave his address to the driver, and springing in, threw himself on the seat, and gave loose to dreams of ambition. Ten minutes afterwards Villefort reached his hotel, ordered horses to be ready in two hours, and asked to have his breakfast brought to him. He was about to begin his repast when the sound of the bell rang sharp and loud.

The valet opened the door, and Villefort heard someone speak his name. Is it the custom in Marseilles for sons to keep their fathers waiting in their anterooms? The servant quitted the apartment with evident signs of astonishment. Noirtier—for it was, indeed, he who entered—looked after the servant until the door was closed, and then, fearing, no doubt, that he might be overheard in the antechamber, he opened the door again, nor was the precaution useless, as appeared from the rapid retreat of Germain, who proved that he was not exempt from the sin which ruined our first parents.

Noirtier then took the trouble to close and bolt the antechamber door, then that of the bedchamber, and then extended his hand to Villefort, who had followed all his motions with surprise which he could not conceal. Noirtier, stretching himself out at his ease in the chair. But go on, what about the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques? Yes, I heard this news, and knew it even before you could; for three days ago I posted from Marseilles to Paris with all possible speed, half-desperate at the enforced delay. Had that letter fallen into the hands of another, you, my dear father, would probably ere this have been shot.

Shot, my dear boy? What an idea! Where is the letter you speak of? I know you too well to suppose you would allow such a thing to pass you. But I have nothing to fear while I have you to protect me. Why, really, the thing becomes more and more dramatic—explain yourself.

When the police is at fault, it declares that it is on the track; and the government patiently awaits the day when it comes to say, with a sneaking air, that the track is lost. People are found every day in the Seine, having thrown themselves in, or having been drowned from not knowing how to swim.

No, no, do not be deceived; this was murder in every sense of the word. I thought he was philosopher enough to allow that there was no murder in politics. In politics, my dear fellow, you know, as well as I do, there are no men, but ideas—no feelings, but interests; in politics we do not kill a man, we only remove an obstacle, that is all.

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Would you like to know how matters have progressed? Well, I will tell you. It was thought reliance might be placed in General Quesnel; he was recommended to us from the Island of Elba; one of us went to him, and invited him to the Rue Saint-Jacques, where he would find some friends.

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He came there, and the plan was unfolded to him for leaving Elba, the projected landing, etc. When he had heard and comprehended all to the fullest extent, he replied that he was a royalist. Then all looked at each other,—he was made to take an oath, and did so, but with such an ill grace that it was really tempting Providence to swear thus, and yet, in spite of that, the general was allowed to depart free—perfectly free.

Yet he did not return home. What could that mean? A murder? You, a deputy procureur, to found an accusation on such bad premises! He is pursued.


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You do not know at all, and in this way they will chase him to Paris, without drawing a trigger. Believe me, we are as well informed as you, and our police are as good as your own. Would you like a proof of it? You gave your direction to no one but your postilion, yet I have your address, and in proof I am here the very instant you are going to sit at table. Ring, then, if you please, for a second knife, fork, and plate, and we will dine together.

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You who are in power have only the means that money produces—we who are in expectation, have those which devotion prompts. Villefort caught his arm. And what may be that description? Villefort watched him with alarm not devoid of admiration. You think he is tracked, pursued, captured; he is advancing as rapidly as his own eagles. The soldiers you believe to be dying with hunger, worn out with fatigue, ready to desert, gather like atoms of snow about the rolling ball as it hastens onward. Sire, go, leave France to its real master, to him who acquired it, not by purchase, but by right of conquest; go, sire, not that you incur any risk, for your adversary is powerful enough to show you mercy, but because it would be humiliating for a grandson of Saint Louis to owe his life to the man of Arcola, Marengo, Austerlitz.