Stop all the clocks- W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

What my friend always says to me.......

"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn."

Tears,Idle tears

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more

Walk On

And love is not the easy thing
The only baggage you can bring...
And love is not the easy thing...
The only baggage you can bring
Is all that you can't leave behind
And if the darkness is to keep us apart
And if the daylight feels like it's a long way off
And if your glass heart should crack
And for a second you turn back
Oh no, be strongWalk on, walk on
What you got, they can't steal it
No they can't even feel it
Walk on, walk on
Stay safe tonight...
You're packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been
A place that has to be believed to be seen
You could have flown away
A singing bird in an open cage
Who will only fly, only fly for freedom
Walk on, walk on
What you got they can't deny it
Can't sell it or buy it
Walk on, walk on
Stay safe tonight
And I know it aches
And your heart it breaks
And you can only take so much
Walk on, walk on
Home...hard to know what it is if you never had one
Home...I can't say where it is but I know I'm going home
That's where the heart is
I know it aches
How your heart it breaks
And you can only take so much
Walk on, walk on
Leave it behind
You've got to leave it behind
All that you fashion
All that you make
All that you build
All that you break
All that you measure
All that you steal
All this you can leave behind
All that you reason
All that you sense
All that you speak
All you dress up
All that you scheme

P.S " I don't love you

I say this because this is true. Why do I say so? It’s not me, it’s the symptoms. Symptoms that to the trained and clichéd eye seem to be that of love.
Now, I am not an expert on this topic so probably won’t be able to be delicate and nice about it and this might hurt any sensitive readers feelings. Now there are several phrases used about it which irk the soul. This ‘falling’ in love and ‘rising’ too. The supporters of both the theories have flooded orkut and facebook profiles with quotes. Why can’t they just stand still in love? Isn’t being in love supposed to be the state when everything else ceases to matter. Nothing moves except a moving stillness. But I guess that is surreal and once again a cliché.
I don’t have anything against love birds. They are interesting to watch from afar but very boring to be around with. Either they are too lovey-dovey which can get embarrassing and frustrating especially if you are single. Or they are very quarrelsome which makes you wish fervently for remaining single. What I am against is their penchant for match-making. Since three is a crowd, they are always trying to pull in a fourth member to make it a happy foursome so that the one who is lonesome doesn’t become meddlesome in their billing and cooing. What they don’t realise is that this in most cases is downright degrading both for the third and the fourth. Suppose the fourth has a runny nose? Or the third has a shrieking laughter? Or the third and the fourth hate being chaperones?
It’s not only besotted couples who do this ‘catch the match’ thing. I have some friends, who are single and take an active interest in finding the firsts and seconds for the third and fourths. They spy every stolen glance, titter at every handshake, smirk at every smile exchanged and scent cupid in every blush. Now being of a very blushful, smiley and handshaky nature I have been a victim of this devil in disguise often. After a long and strong friendship, I have been able to convince her (I hope) that I am not in love.
But you have to be careful. A careless smile can lead to a lot of trouble. The fourths start believing that they can make you a likely second. And start dropping hints. It’s a hint that you should start dropping them hints which mean otherwise. And I have, by repeatedly asserting my feminist nature, ranting against ‘chauvinist men who believe that women were made from the ribs of a man’ and so forth. Enough to keep any attention seeker at bay. Seriously I am not the sort of person who can fall in a third or fourth’s ‘made for each other’ criteria or be impressed by mushy love tributes.
Another reason why people can take you to be that of a romantic nature is your affection for reading. To the ignorant, novels mostly mean love stories. Or to be precise, the ubiquitous paper backs sold in the market, which have a titillating cover page, a sensational back cover and a very boring plot. Am not denying having read any. Have read some in teenage, due to curiosity, peer group or simply because of lack of having anything else to read. But I graduated from thereon to a better and higher scale. I do read romantic fiction even now, but that has become a rare event. I can be found curled up with a Wodehouse these days.
Finally, what adds frosting to the cake is my ‘INFP’ personality as revealed by mbti, a personality test devised by none other than Carl Jung and administered to me by a friend with q-th degree of imbecility. Well, us ‘INFPs’ behave like INFPs are supposed to. And am no different. (INFPs are idealistic, loyal to their values and to people who are important to them. Want an external life that is congruent with their values. Curious, quick to see possibilities, can be catalysts for implementing ideas. Seek to understand people and to help them fulfil their potential. Adaptable, flexible, and accepting unless a value is threatened. ) Now these sorts of personality orders give people food for thought. But I vehemently oppose it. I am a good Samaritan, not someone in love. To give effect to the contrary, I have started being snappy and vicious to anyone who even tries to hint about ‘love being in the air’.
The camel’s back got broken by the straw that was laid by Karan Johar in ‘Kuch Kuch Hota Hai’, a lovesick movie where Shahrukh Khan says in a literature class ‘Pyaar Dosti Hai’. And the scales fell from people’s eyes.
Friends started eyeing each other surreptitiously. Trying to realise “If you wanna be my lover, then you got to be my friend”. So that even honest and pristine friendship came under suspicion. So, I make this declaration:
My dear friends, I love you, but I am NOT in love with you.
Contradict this with the statement given by my nemesis, D Silent Assassin– “A boy and a girl can’t be simply friends. Feelings! They always crop up somewhere.”
But I don’t blame people for their suspicions. After all, I stay up late each night, am engrossed in books, try to seek solitude, keep listening to soft music , have male friends and found busy on the phone.
But these rather than being symptoms of love are signs of being an unlovable person.
Not that I plan to die like this. What I dislike is continuously being at somebody’s elbow, this idiotic celebration of rose day and valentine’s day., the petty quarrels, the long shayari, the public display of affection and the ‘ love u’, ‘miss u’ kinds of text messages.
I have my own versions of the perfect Raymonds man. The strong and the silent one, both of which are essential. The mental strength to get along with me and the silence to match my verbosity.
Sadly... Mr. Darcy is getting dusty in a bookshelf.
Listening sagely to this long diatribe of mine, my wise friend got up and smiled sardonically..... ‘You know something, dear. Your soliloquy provides a proof against itself.’
Love, actually?
No!