Lessons, near forgotten, guided my fingers:
at the back of the neck, a tense spot,
was that a murmur, or a sigh, or sheer comfort?
Down the spine, at the sides, up to the front,
a kiss here and there, a nibble once in a while.
How she loves it, certainly not an act;
her nipples rising to the touch, selfish ones,
forever seeking attention, ebb and flow of the tides;
down below, further and further, her eyes close.
Relax, relax, relax. Whispered words,
caressing touches, sucking, tasting, going on.
“My masseur”, call me that I tell her,
but she does not wish to speak, not bothered.
In her mind, I suspect, thoughts far from that I wish;
In my mind, if she knew, she would cry rape.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
from Thinking about the future (1983)
Thinking about the future
Not knowing what will happen
Waiting for something to happen.
Lying and wasting
Precious time.
Something is bound to happen
Something exciting
Something interesting.
With pleasant thoughts
Of the future
Thinking of great things
That is not
Going to happen.
Just thinking about the future
What a waste of time.
Not knowing what will happen
Waiting for something to happen.
Lying and wasting
Precious time.
Something is bound to happen
Something exciting
Something interesting.
With pleasant thoughts
Of the future
Thinking of great things
That is not
Going to happen.
Just thinking about the future
What a waste of time.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Going Insane (1991)
See the star and the fire within.
A drum
With no drumsticks
But throbbing beat.
Tearing me down.
How long does it go on
As long as the stars
Or just
Till
Death…
A drum
With no drumsticks
But throbbing beat.
Tearing me down.
How long does it go on
As long as the stars
Or just
Till
Death…
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Integrity & Responsibility In Scientific Research: What Are The Basic Rules?
Are phrases such as “a code for integrity and responsibility in research” and “the basic rules of good scientific practice” mere platitudes? Even at the start of this millenium, scientific organizations were trying hard to correct the situation[1]. Fabricating data (fantastical and low-level) is definitely a heinous scientific sin.
To prevent fraud, preservation of data and records of the investigations are especially relevant for large-scale (experimental or computational) projects since the verification of results require resources and time beyond the scope of the majority. Such projects are properly done when the supervisors and subordinates (usually students and post-docs present for a short term) are equally responsible and if both parties have hands-on experience with the work. It might help if each publication has a footnote stating the role of each author in the publication. This is still anathema to most researchers.
Unfortunately, fraud is not the only sin committed in both experimental (presumably more relevant) and theoretical work. It should be noted that there is ambiguity in the rules of the game and that it is a tough task to decide when or whether the rules are broken. Consider papers in which a theory is “cooked-up” (recipe including simple analyses, a set of assumptions and convenient free parameters) to “fit” experimental results. The difficulty to disprove some of these “theories” could be comparable to the difficulty to explain the experiment. Doubt and criticism remain within an old-boys network and does not become knowledge in the public domain. It is not uncommon that even if a work is erroneous by way of calculation and concept, the paper still gets cited by those who are unaware of the deficiencies and take the peer-reviewed results for granted. By the time the errors are known in public, the publication would have ceased to matter even though it proved to be useful for promotions and new positions. It is usually a lucky day for Science when these errors are mentioned as inadvertent errors in footnotes. Next, consider papers submitted for peer-review. Even if errors are suspected (and probably because brilliant results are as rare as geniuses), a paper could be accepted due to complicity in the network or with the unwritten comment “it does not matter since it is going into that journal”. Meanwhile, the reviewer could start simulations/experiments of their own on the same topic during the review process. Are these low-level sins?
Scientists are definitely as human as everyone else. The job of a scientist is just like any other job in a close community with ethically correct individuals being the minority and rules broken by the majority – if not closely watched.
[1]For example, please refer to “Rules for Integrity” (in MaxPlanckResearch 2/2001, p. 90). http://www.mpg.de/english/illustrationsDocumentation/multimedia/mpResearch/2001/heft02/index.html
To prevent fraud, preservation of data and records of the investigations are especially relevant for large-scale (experimental or computational) projects since the verification of results require resources and time beyond the scope of the majority. Such projects are properly done when the supervisors and subordinates (usually students and post-docs present for a short term) are equally responsible and if both parties have hands-on experience with the work. It might help if each publication has a footnote stating the role of each author in the publication. This is still anathema to most researchers.
Unfortunately, fraud is not the only sin committed in both experimental (presumably more relevant) and theoretical work. It should be noted that there is ambiguity in the rules of the game and that it is a tough task to decide when or whether the rules are broken. Consider papers in which a theory is “cooked-up” (recipe including simple analyses, a set of assumptions and convenient free parameters) to “fit” experimental results. The difficulty to disprove some of these “theories” could be comparable to the difficulty to explain the experiment. Doubt and criticism remain within an old-boys network and does not become knowledge in the public domain. It is not uncommon that even if a work is erroneous by way of calculation and concept, the paper still gets cited by those who are unaware of the deficiencies and take the peer-reviewed results for granted. By the time the errors are known in public, the publication would have ceased to matter even though it proved to be useful for promotions and new positions. It is usually a lucky day for Science when these errors are mentioned as inadvertent errors in footnotes. Next, consider papers submitted for peer-review. Even if errors are suspected (and probably because brilliant results are as rare as geniuses), a paper could be accepted due to complicity in the network or with the unwritten comment “it does not matter since it is going into that journal”. Meanwhile, the reviewer could start simulations/experiments of their own on the same topic during the review process. Are these low-level sins?
Scientists are definitely as human as everyone else. The job of a scientist is just like any other job in a close community with ethically correct individuals being the minority and rules broken by the majority – if not closely watched.
[1]For example, please refer to “Rules for Integrity” (in MaxPlanckResearch 2/2001, p. 90). http://www.mpg.de/english/illustrationsDocumentation/multimedia/mpResearch/2001/heft02/index.html
Monday, June 22, 2009
Can you see the eyes (1999-2001)
Can you see the eyes-
of the mother, raped, refugee her identity,
head covered, baby suckling at bare breast, titled “Tragödie”;
of the newly-wed widow, confused, victim of a cause’s kill,
shielding the warm carcass, mumbling “kal”;
of the soldier, booted, scared, confined with loneliness,
wondering if he is, labeled a hero in papers’ excesses;
of youths gazing nowhere, clinging to love long lost,
of women with empty cases, flowers for a ghost,
of the crazed, laughing, snoring, the pillow held tight,
of the sane, full of reason and purpose, lofty and might;
if you cannot-
enter the train leading nowhere, stacked neatly,
as in a slaughterhouse, cackle merrily,
the guillotine is not for you, suppose,
waited upon, sipping wine, a sight for windows,
gather the friends, for sex or serious talk,
ask not why the neighbour is of silent stock,
read the Book, be wise, learn the truth,
pray to God, pay and confess at the booth,
seek serene sleep, the race continues,
to be noticed, tagged, love, shackles to be cut loose,
do not see the eyes-
of the mother, raped, refugee her identity,
head covered, baby suckling at bare breast, titled “Tragödie”;
of the newly-wed widow, confused, victim of a cause’s kill,
shielding the warm carcass, mumbling “kal”;
of the soldier, booted, scared, confined with loneliness,
wondering if he is, labeled a hero in papers’ excesses;
of youths gazing nowhere, clinging to love long lost,
of women with empty cases, flowers for a ghost,
of the crazed, laughing, snoring, the pillow held tight,
of the sane, full of reason and purpose, lofty and might;
if you cannot-
enter the train leading nowhere, stacked neatly,
as in a slaughterhouse, cackle merrily,
the guillotine is not for you, suppose,
waited upon, sipping wine, a sight for windows,
gather the friends, for sex or serious talk,
ask not why the neighbour is of silent stock,
read the Book, be wise, learn the truth,
pray to God, pay and confess at the booth,
seek serene sleep, the race continues,
to be noticed, tagged, love, shackles to be cut loose,
do not see the eyes-
I would like to chase the sun (1999-2001)
I would like to chase the sun.
But each step on the icy ground
gets shorter and slower.
Till there’s a still longing.
There’s the company of trees.
Shorn of leaves, with green mossy sides,
age-old wisdom, helpless fate.
Call it, maybe, His ways.
It is tougher still, not to let winter in.
Within where there’s no cover
but faith which reason shuns.
Nor assures another summer.
Is that all? To survive?
Darwin says it’s easy: one to the other,
a smile, a laugh and in bed together.
Possibly not when life is a routine.
He had a choice – to let them live or love.
There’s no reason actually, in either;
a whim, like the seasons that please or not.
He did not know about the faith.
But each step on the icy ground
gets shorter and slower.
Till there’s a still longing.
There’s the company of trees.
Shorn of leaves, with green mossy sides,
age-old wisdom, helpless fate.
Call it, maybe, His ways.
It is tougher still, not to let winter in.
Within where there’s no cover
but faith which reason shuns.
Nor assures another summer.
Is that all? To survive?
Darwin says it’s easy: one to the other,
a smile, a laugh and in bed together.
Possibly not when life is a routine.
He had a choice – to let them live or love.
There’s no reason actually, in either;
a whim, like the seasons that please or not.
He did not know about the faith.
Trust these words no more (1999-2001)
Trust these words no more,
my dear. Without you,
merely to kill time,
strangely I decay.
Alone
with sense of reflections
that is marred by breath,
wishing it were not so
but then, there is nothing.
my dear. Without you,
merely to kill time,
strangely I decay.
Alone
with sense of reflections
that is marred by breath,
wishing it were not so
but then, there is nothing.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
To Eros : II (1993)
The fair back, tense and straining,
The brown blouse bravely exposed
Was it so in front
An enticing décolletage?
Sheer flimsy bodice
Or straining jeans about her hips
Swaying maybe in artificial effect.
Is it an effort to be smart
Or to create an itch in the crotch?
Brave couples in open embrace
Rather smothering
As if the senses fail to reason
With just a touch.
How frail or encouraging or caring
Does she look at the theatre steps
A hand firmly gripping
Her partner’s arm “Touch me so”.
That middle-aged woman
And her translucent sari
Encapturing the glance
At her bulging bosom
Straining and above
Her fair blouse upon fairer skin
And how dark would it be
At the mount, flaccid or tense,
Does she seek pleasure
In such curiosity,
And the chapter closes
With hereditary proof,
Her daughter too,
Promises such beautiful holds,
With purchase of clips or bags,
I purchase them too.
The brown blouse bravely exposed
Was it so in front
An enticing décolletage?
Sheer flimsy bodice
Or straining jeans about her hips
Swaying maybe in artificial effect.
Is it an effort to be smart
Or to create an itch in the crotch?
Brave couples in open embrace
Rather smothering
As if the senses fail to reason
With just a touch.
How frail or encouraging or caring
Does she look at the theatre steps
A hand firmly gripping
Her partner’s arm “Touch me so”.
That middle-aged woman
And her translucent sari
Encapturing the glance
At her bulging bosom
Straining and above
Her fair blouse upon fairer skin
And how dark would it be
At the mount, flaccid or tense,
Does she seek pleasure
In such curiosity,
And the chapter closes
With hereditary proof,
Her daughter too,
Promises such beautiful holds,
With purchase of clips or bags,
I purchase them too.
To Eros : III – Of Her (1993)
She stood so close,
With fear
So far.
A lover turns a stranger
With new future
And stranger thoughts.
Why has she never been so,
Was it chastity’s masquerade
Or restraint by the unsure
And a life’s misconceptions?
And now she stood so close,
At desperate fingers’ length,
With her thighs near my knees,
Was I in an eternal crouch
Stooping to passions anew?
She laughs, seeming ignorant,
She talks, as nothing’s occurred
While I contemplate.
Maybe, that be the whole truth.
She, in nature’s stride,
Me adrift in thoughtful meander.
Is this the beginning,
Or the end,
None seems clear,
But
The fact:
She shall no more be that of the past.
With fear
So far.
A lover turns a stranger
With new future
And stranger thoughts.
Why has she never been so,
Was it chastity’s masquerade
Or restraint by the unsure
And a life’s misconceptions?
And now she stood so close,
At desperate fingers’ length,
With her thighs near my knees,
Was I in an eternal crouch
Stooping to passions anew?
She laughs, seeming ignorant,
She talks, as nothing’s occurred
While I contemplate.
Maybe, that be the whole truth.
She, in nature’s stride,
Me adrift in thoughtful meander.
Is this the beginning,
Or the end,
None seems clear,
But
The fact:
She shall no more be that of the past.
To Eros : I (1993)
Memory tarnished
by time’s
inconsequences.
The lady piously sheltered
Beneath her sari’s hood,
So young, yet with child
And for that matter, a bald grey husband.
Does she not wish to glance
With timidity, or adolescent curiosity,
Does she not wish me to stare
And let my fingers stray
Beyond the bus-seat’s bar
Onto her sheltered slender neck
And below, I guess, to caress her heart?
O look at that pregnant woman
In straining kameez
And bulging protuberances, so inviting,
Yet with a child (never there be none)
And a bucket, straining above a water tap.
She knows not I exist
But the reaching hand
In silent prayer
For the tap to transform into a helping hand,
To hold the bucket and the child,
And another still clasped at her waist
(to the many-handed One),
Sharing the ten months’ weight (or is it wait?)
And togetherness, as at ecstasy
Or was it mere release
Of a disinterested mortal?
Alone upon the hotel’s white sheets,
Wishing they were rumpled, stained and wet,
Is there such reality across the flimsy wall
Or another soul probably pounded
Wishing for another’s company,
“O why don’t you see how we are,
The tremors and the surge restrained,
And in realization of its cause, use me?”
Does she not cry so?
by time’s
inconsequences.
The lady piously sheltered
Beneath her sari’s hood,
So young, yet with child
And for that matter, a bald grey husband.
Does she not wish to glance
With timidity, or adolescent curiosity,
Does she not wish me to stare
And let my fingers stray
Beyond the bus-seat’s bar
Onto her sheltered slender neck
And below, I guess, to caress her heart?
O look at that pregnant woman
In straining kameez
And bulging protuberances, so inviting,
Yet with a child (never there be none)
And a bucket, straining above a water tap.
She knows not I exist
But the reaching hand
In silent prayer
For the tap to transform into a helping hand,
To hold the bucket and the child,
And another still clasped at her waist
(to the many-handed One),
Sharing the ten months’ weight (or is it wait?)
And togetherness, as at ecstasy
Or was it mere release
Of a disinterested mortal?
Alone upon the hotel’s white sheets,
Wishing they were rumpled, stained and wet,
Is there such reality across the flimsy wall
Or another soul probably pounded
Wishing for another’s company,
“O why don’t you see how we are,
The tremors and the surge restrained,
And in realization of its cause, use me?”
Does she not cry so?
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