where it all began

Hearth, in its earlier days, came out in form of a newsletter. while the magazine was a tedious, more strenuous affair and was periodical, Hearth never depended itself on time and was published whenever an incessant need to do so was felt- be it some political or literary incident or the opening of a new joint in the city -
as a famous philosopher once said, we are not prisoned by time but by clocks, we must accept our ruins and our downfalls. true poetry and literature will come out of those.


11/11/2016

Leonard Cohen : I'm leaving the table. I'm out of the game. RIP

                                                                                        i started listening to cohen a long time ago. i was young, innocent and in love for the first time. first love brings with it, the melancholy of unrequited desires and  the ecstasy of belonging. and dramatically it all began. in those days, lovers would sit at their computers and burn cds for their beloveds. we were past the "recording-cassettes" time but not yet into sending songs through whatsapp. somehow, that felt more long lasting. and i stumbled upon leonard cohen. as one of the first sharers of the pangs that rip out the heart. the voice, the aura of the sixties and good old love. 
                                                                soon i was quoting him to the beloved, to young friends and to anyone who would listen. i was imitating him at places as well. to a young writer, to most of the young writers in the last fifty years, cohen was an inspiration as he will be to the coming generations. 
                                                                                              to me, he was never a companion in jubliation but one in pain. with him i cried (like many like me have) and with him i would find consolation. and when his final album came, he was already ready to call it off and as much as i  wanted to listen to it, i couldn't make time. the news came in the morning news feed when i was scrolling down and though i could not believe it initially, i knew he had decided. the saint-poet that it was, he deserved to go in peace and so it got for he brought just that to us. peace. 
                                                                                        i will keep listening to cohen on days when i am most tired, when i have no enthusiasm for classic jazz, when i am too much into agony, the weight of the world keeps trying to bury me down, usually when the world has fallen asleep and there is a little breeze. the yearning of a cool sleep, an open window and a lover with her neck smelling like trees on winter nights become unbearable, i give myself to him. he comes to the rescue like he always will. 
                                                                  may be there are better ways to do this. there will be hundreds and thousands of obituaries but like harry wanted to carve the epitaph on dobby's grave though he knew hermione could do it better, i want to wave him goodbye. you will never leave the table leonard, you will never be out of the game. 
i share my favourite song and tonight i will dare to think that you will see me listening to you and whispering you in my lover's ear. you will see us from up there and you will smile.

And why are you so quiet now 
standing there in the doorway? 
You chose your journey long before 
you came upon this highway. 

Trav'ling lady stay awhile 
until the night is over. 







(anchit is a poet.)