Narinder Grewal

Yesterday's Best Moment

2009-05-12T04:50:00.000-07:00

A question in one of those irritatingly interesting Facebook forwards which really struck me the other day, asked for "yesterday's best moment". I've become rather fond of the concept! So here are the best moments of some of my recent yester-days...

Monday: making the same jibe in unison with Linda at a choir rehearsal only moments after thinking how similarly expressive her eyes were to my own; then, having a chat with Kieran (a shelf-packer in Coles) about writing a musical, in the middle of doing my groceries.

Sunday: finding out after a long week that there was nothing else on and I could go straight home to 'letharge'!

Saturday: was that when I had my little rant to Sukhpreet about flattery-stalking?

Friday: giving Wilson his second flute lesson (in which he, in yr 4, having never done any music before, predicted the values of crotchets, quavers and semiquavers, asked the meaning of the "suffix" semi- (his words, in relation to 'semibreve'), had taught himself the fingering to low C and could get the sound with tonguing, and his mother offered to pay me extra for going over time); then, finding out that Andy does composition and is friends with others of my friends.

Thursday: being so cheerfully forgiven, first for turning up to rehearsal at the usual time instead of half an hour earlier as arranged, and then for having forgotten not only my baton, but also my scores.

25th March 2009

2009-04-05T07:37:00.000-07:00

Sheltered in shadow of flickering flame,
my muse awaits our dancing game.

Clear the clutter, set the scene,
lay the fire, dull the sheen
of modern life, crisp and clean.

Sheltered in shadow of flickering flame,
my muse awaits our dancing game.

Make a start, spread your wings,
stretch your mind, consider things
that challenge thought or pull heart strings.

Follow fancy's fickle flight
along the lonely trails of night
until you find your guiding light
that leads you to the final site
of inspiration shining bright.

Bite the bullet, grasp the horn,
fight the fast approaching dawn
for now your masterpiece is born.

Sheltered in shadow of flickering flame,
my muse awaits our dancing game.

My Big Black Dog

2009-04-05T06:38:00.000-07:00

Have you seen the K-Dog?
I think he's coming back.
Before he left I heard him say,
"They hate me 'cause I'm black!"

I've heard he's a bit of a joker,
I've heard he's a bit of a clown.
I've heard he can muster a snigger or smirk
from any determined frown.

But I've heard there's more to his story,
that despite his bitter renown,
he's a shit-hot musician, a 'high-IQ',
and nothing can drag him down.

Have you seen the K-Dog?
I think he's coming back.
Before he left I heard him say,
"They hate me 'cause I'm black!"

I've heard he chases chicks,
I've heard that they chase him.
I've heard he's had to chase them off,
though not for being prim!

But maybe that's just hearsay,
and I'm just being dim.
Perhaps such tales are trumped-up truths
of cockiness and whim.

Have you seen the K-Dog?
I think he's coming back.
Before he left I heard him say,
"They hate me 'cause I'm black!"

I've heard he's an under-achiever,
I've heard that he's gone astray.
I've heard that he's not on top of things,
that his life is in disarray.

But whatever the rumours tell you,
whatever people might say,
he's my dickhead brother, I love him to bits
and I might tell him so one day.

Have you seen the K-Dog?
I think he's coming back.
Before he left I heard him say,
"They hate me 'cause I'm black!"

Gem of Solitude - April/May 2007

2009-04-05T06:30:00.000-07:00

Retreating to a place of solitude,
I stumbled on a stone.
I fell. The force of it knocked the wind from me,
and there as I lay prone,

I saw myself reflected,
I found myself augmented,
I felt myself captivated,
I was fascinated
by the facets, gleaming in every hue,
of a precious gem that shone through.

I peered into the polished image
of this cutting crystal conglomerate,
searched inside my soul,
and there I discovered, uncovered,
a wealth of multifarious percipience,
organic gold
compressed into hardened, sharpened diamonds,
and the pearls of tentatious perspicacity
encased in a tarnished mercurial mould.

I saw myself reflected,
I found myself augmented,
I felt myself captivated,
I was fascinated
by the facets, gleaming in every hue,
of this precious gem that rang true.

As I clear the settled sediment
surrounding this glistening, exponential iceberg,
a trove of ordered complexity is revealed;
rich harmonies on smiling ears
open the curtains on a fresh outlook
of carefully reckless, cautious abandon, surreal
in these cold, marble roots
permeated with the glow of morning sunshine
otherwise thoroughly concealed.

I saw myself reflected,
I found myself augmented,
I felt myself captivated,
I was fascinated
by the facets, gleaming in every hue,
of the precious gem that that is you.

Old Poetry - 18th March 2007

2009-04-05T06:28:00.000-07:00

Ivory and alabaster,
creamy decadence,
opulence.
Rich ripples of mirth
resonating in reckless abandon.

Glowing - February/March 2007

2009-04-05T06:13:00.000-07:00

I want to dance, I want to sing,
I want to whirl, I want to spin,
I want to stir up everything,
I want to leap out of my skin!

I'm glowing with elation
and intense anticipation,
as the friends I have adore me
and the whole world lies before me.

I was always idealistic,
with a somewhat optimistic
faith in people's better nature
and the thoughts behind their deeds.

But a certain realism
laced these thoughts with cynicism,
so they failed to meet my standards
and planted bitter seeds.

Still I held this shining theory,
though its absence made me weary
and I felt the disappointment
of my unenacted dreams;

I just persevered inflated
with my fervour unabated,
and undertook myself
to implement my own regimes.

I want to dance, I want to sing,
I want to whirl, I want to spin,
I want to stir up everything,
I want to leap out of my skin!

I'm glowing with elation
and intense anticipation,
as the friends I have adore me
and the whole world lies before me.

A silver lining glimmered
through the haziness, it shimmered
like a light without a tunnel,
like the current pasture green.

Was it tentative or vivacious,
was it tenuous or tenacious,
this hope of something precious
that only I had seen?

I thought I saw it clearly;
I believed in it sincerely,
so I gave my heart and soul
in order that its fate be sealed,

But a tunnel formed about me
and the pasture grew without me,
and at last the cloud sank low
so that its darkness was revealed.

It happened very slowly,
but I hung my head more lowly
and shrank within my soul
as I began my cold retreat.

I'd lost the polished sheen
of inner light, the spark unseen
that gives a voice to bursting song
and the fire to passion's heat.

Yet somehow there remained
a part of me that was unchanged,
uncompromised by tarnishes
of disrespect and spite.

Beneath the sooty smears
around the essence of my years
still glowed the everlasting embers
of my endless will to fight.

I want to dance, I want to sing,
I want to whirl, I want to spin,
I want to stir up everything,
I want to leap out of my skin!

I'm glowing with elation
and intense anticipation,
as the friends I have adore me
and the whole world lies before me.

Long it was before awareness
dawned on me of this unfairness,
when at last the dream was shattered
and lucidity ensued.

Thus it was that I emerged
intact from where my thoughts converged
in murky depths of troubled sleep
with vital strength renewed.

I regained the vigour of youth
from the hitherto hidden truth
that seemed to have dispersed
along with all that I held dear.

I woke from hibernation
with the poignant realisation
that all that might have been yet might be;
the way forward was clear.

I want to dance, I want to sing,
I want to whirl, I want to spin,
I want to stir up everything,
I want to leap out of my skin!

I'm glowing with elation
and intense anticipation,
as the friends I have adore me
and the whole world lies before me.

Old Poetry - 19th February 2007

2009-04-05T06:06:00.000-07:00

In response to "please leave a limerick containing the meaning of life after the beep"...

Contemplating the meaning of life
causes many young people such strife!
They don't know what to do
with the number 42,
so they end it all with a knife.

Having acquiesced now to your request,
I shall insert my own little jest -
just so long as you can
try to please understand;
it was all at your own behest.

Your mission at this point in time
is to see past the humour of rhyme,
and detect on your own
who it is on the phone,
as forgetting a friend is a crime!

If you haven't a clue at all,
you'll just have to work up the gall:
double nine four zero
four seven two zero
is the number for you to call!

Old Poetry - 25th August 2006

2009-04-05T06:04:00.000-07:00

There's no falling here, only welcome.
You can see the light in the distance, glistening.
It tastes clear, and it smells fresh.
It sounds erratic, but here it is warm and dry.

Old Poetry - 6th July 2006

2009-04-05T06:01:00.000-07:00

I want to overstate!
I need to understate.
Somehow exaggerate my state,
but I anticipate the weight
of my distaste at this display,
so I prevaricate.

Here's a diversion. They call it humour.
It'll captivate attention
and subvert the third dimension
such that everything you mention,
though the subject causes tension,
seems mere whimsical invention
of your wit, and sparks no rumour.

Old Poetry - 14th November 2006

2009-04-05T05:57:00.000-07:00

Out of the darkness came a sound,
faint at first, but soon I found
that all around me whispers swept
of every secret ever kept.

All at once I pricked an ear,
strained to gather something clear
from all the muttered discontent,
intrigue and enlightenment.

Piece by piece I then unravelled
the very path each fact had travelled,
traced it to its very source
through alterations grown or forced.

I hoped that such tenacity
would bestow on me sagacity
and wisdom, but to my dismay,
it did not turn out that way.

As I gradually discerned
the nature of what I had learned,
the realisation came to me
that all it meant was let it be.

Old Poetry - 1st August 1999

2009-04-05T05:42:00.000-07:00

Thousands of stars
cannot be seen
for the invasive glare
of city lights.

Escape the mechanical monotony,
slip free of superficial cares
and from the distance you will see
their shining detail.

What is it to them
if we do not notice?
Caught up with concerns in our own insignificance
we but prevent our own happiness.

Here are our worries.
There is their glory.

Shine.

Old Poetry - 14th June 1999

2009-04-05T05:38:00.000-07:00

Solve for "x" equals human,
in the general case.
Mind;
everyone is an exception
to:
the rule.

Male or female?
Check.
Age?
Check.
Appearance?
Check.
Other?
(income, family, status etc)

NOTE:
For personality, interests and attitude,
please see
appendix 42.

Tick a box.

Now answer the questions.

Old Poetry - 4th May 1999

2009-04-05T05:35:00.000-07:00

Excuse me please,
may I have your shoulder?
I cannot reach my own
and I do not like to ask,
however otherwise
nobody but nobody
will ever know,
it seems, that I need one.

Understand me please,
have you aught to ask of me?
I cannot keep my own
and I do so like to help,
however as it is
nobody but nobody
will ever need,
it seems, what I can give.

Old Poetry - 3rd May 1999

2009-04-05T05:34:00.000-07:00

Seeking understanding:
demeaned, dismissed;
discouraged.
Seeking help:
unheard, unnoticed;
unloved.

Isolated

by an accident
of forced independence.

Old Poetry - 3rd May 1999

2009-04-05T05:33:00.001-07:00

Debilitating sting of icy heat,
lances of shattered teacup;
gifts of feeling

deadened.

Old Poetry - 1st May 1999

2009-04-05T05:32:00.001-07:00

Something-
I was bursting to give.
Accepted.

Nothing;
I needed to live.
Rejected.

Something-
I ought to reclaim.
Connected.

Nothing;
I think quite the same.
Suspected.

Old Poetry - 16th April 1999

2009-04-05T05:25:00.000-07:00

My nose lies
in my face.
It is always clear
except when
it has something
to spit out.

Old Poetry - 13th April 1999

2009-04-05T05:24:00.001-07:00

I am not nobody
but
Nobody is myself.
I knew that.

Old Poetry - 12th April 1999

2009-04-05T05:19:00.000-07:00

Spring was...
six months ago.
The time
for cleaning
is not past,
but overdue.

I must sort through
my belongings,
I must throw away
my rubbish,
I must set aside
my needs,
And show all
my beautiful things.

Something of mine
is missing.
I know vaguely where it is -
I gave it away.
But for all
my blood
I cannot be
an Indian giver.

I have not
forgotten,
but I had...
Memories.
What
shall I do
with
my memories?

Fusty boxes with jammed lids,
move on
Snap shots across years,
move on
Wounds and failures in whirling pools,
move on
Joy:
pure and simple
Move on...

Pack my bags
for a journey
of an unknown
duration
to an unknown
destination.
What
shall I take
I know not
where?

Old Poetry - 11th April 1999

2009-04-05T05:16:00.000-07:00

With a fairy friend
I was blessed.
She was so fantastic!
My fairy friend gave
so much magic,
to me.
O, when we were together!
With her, I flew...

but I dragged
her down.
My fairy friend,
her shoulders were straining.
She took off her wings
but I did not see.
I just kept taking -
her magic was draining
but she went on giving,
to me.

I
stept on
my fairy friend's
wings
because I was
careless
and was not
looking.

How can
my dear fairy friend
ever
forgive me?

Old Poetry - 11th April 1999

2009-04-05T05:12:00.000-07:00

An unknown child with a balloon
Come, play with me...
lifts the heart.
It trembles,
but nothing is there to feel it.
How does something so heavy
fly
float
fall...
And will it return?

Take my hands
Hold them, and
spin me
till we
are giddy,
Blur the world and
Focus
now
where are you...
And where am I?

They feel it
later
on the other side of the world,
this secondary tremor
from far away.
Where
did it happen,
How
did it happen...
And what has it done?

to the people I love.

Old Poetry - 10th April 1999

2009-04-05T04:58:00.000-07:00

It is a simple procedure to go along
doing
what you believe
is right.
What you believe
is wrong.

The patient: one is suffering
complications,
DOCTOR!
Will somebody please assess the damage -
what has been broken?
what may be repaired?
what must be sacrificed?
what hope-
quickly, we're losing blood.

Superior, this wing is a mess! O
how easy it would be, to run away
from it all... et al
(to stretch the hurt so far and wide
to thin it to transparency...)
how wrong
for something so dear and valued
is worth the troubled heart-aching effort
to pursue
recover
repair.
Superior, I cleanse the wounds, slowly,
remove the grit; they are coming clean. But
how ever are these bones to be set?
who ever should it be to set them?
Superior, I cannot find the heart!
How is this sweet so bitter?
Oh look! this ugly beauty is so very
black... and
blue...
Recussitate this vegetable!

Stranger, does this bone belong to you?
Stranger: oh, 'tis but a trifling shattered fragment
not the real thing,
it is of no use to anyone.
Strange. Where then lie the missing pieces?

What will I find at the end of this oil-slicked rainbow?

Old Poetry - 20th February 1999

2009-04-05T04:55:00.001-07:00

I cannot see what lies
before my eyes;
beneath my cries,
for the steam from the shower
pounding smart upon my back.

Yet, I cannot feel
the casing heat
The steady beat
of this clenched heart is ice,
so flows to fingertips not numb but cold.

Old Poetry - October 1997

2009-04-05T04:49:00.000-07:00

A fire of iced fury explodes;
suppressed anger, accumulated emotion.
It burns through thought with murderous intent,
venting frustrations of cornered hurt:
accusations, destruction, abominations,
tyranny, taunts, lies...

Humiliated and demoralised, ensnared by seething injustice,
blinded by rage and the tears,
coursing unchecked down a stricken face,
like spontaneous streams of persistent rain.

Control forsaken, the kaleidoscope of baseless taunts cut
with knife-edge precision,
and pulsing revenge obliterates sense
with a vicious will to strike back.

The bait is seized, the trap sprung;
a startled retreat ensues from the backlash of consequences.

Shame is bitter company.

Old Poetry - October 1997

2009-04-05T04:40:00.000-07:00

Claustrophobic heat consumes commuters in the confines of a crowded carriage.
A wisp of fresh air dissipates in the stale ocean of recycled breath,
as compressed bodies sway with the motion of the train.
A wound through the milling masses is instantly healed,
but the departing locomotive goes unnoticed,
lost in a barrage of the senses.

A sweet freshness heralds the approaching rain,
backed by a rumble and flash in the leaden sky.
Innumerable fragrances swirl in a sea of scents,
mingling as they grapple for dominance.

A chirrup of protest turns to welcome
as the first drops begin to fall
and the dome of humidity is burst
by the accompanying spring breeze.

The green canvass in all its shades,
with its splotches of bright colour,
is shrouded in a silvery veil within moments,
all a glistening blur.

With thrashing boughs and streaking lightning
the elements build to a climactic peak.
And as the the pattering droplets fade to a whisper,
the gusting wind parts the clouds

just in time for the lemon-apple dusk.

Old Poetry - Late 1994

2009-04-05T04:34:00.000-07:00

My mother's a horrible bitch,
as a person she's worse than a witch.
If I try to say ever
something important, never
does she listen, but scream out of pitch.

My father is almost as bad,
and most people would call him mad.
He comes home and screams
then he drinks, sleeps and dreams.
Do you wonder why I hate my dad?

My brother is just an arsehole,
who's uglier than cockroach or mole.
He farts and he stinks even more than he blinks,
and he slurps, burps and gulps from the bowl.

My family, as you can see,
is why I am such a bad me.
If you were related
to people you hated,
you'd go crazy as anyone can be!