Monday, September 27, 2004

A Poem on Poetry

In this very moment,
right here and now,
I think about my thoughts
and wonder what, why and how.

I jot down the random musings
as and when they come,
and wonder in amazement
as beautiful poems, they become.

At the first glance, I wonder
who gives me this thought?
Whom to thank for this gift
that could neither be bought nor taught.

But on a closer introspection
which I sometimes do,
something within me stirred
as I heard Him say, "I do".

Now the clouds of doubt cleared, 
and the sunshine of clarity bathed me through.
The bird of my thought was now uncaged
as in unbridled glory my thoughts flew.

In an infant's innate bliss,
in our self imposed stress,
in a toddler learning to talk,
in an old man's trudging walk,
in the beauty of a nymph,
in the ecstasy of a triumph,
in a beggar's expectant eyes,
in man's perennial avarice,
in the silence of the tomb,
in the unborn's kick through the womb
and mother's painful pleasure,
in love, the joy beyond measure,
in the growth of a tree
and in life's mysterious travel,
there is always some poetry
waiting for us to unravel.

If the thought doesn't come to you
like bliss to an infant,
like flight to a bird,
like swim to a fish,
like leaves grow on trees,
it would rather not come.

If you don't value things that don't matter.
If you can't see beyond
the physical scope of a human eye,
poetry is something, 
you'd rather not try.

Monday, September 20, 2004

The Gift

Dawn's horizon still very dark,
the first yawn's of the lark,
a distant dog's intermittent bark,
the first glimpse of sun's arc,
in my heart, kicking a spark.

The first rays of the morning,
the shadows of the awning,
the growing clarity of brightness
slaining obscurity of darkness.

The first drizzle on the shore,
pleasantries of the petrichor,
myriad moods of the rain:
farmer's delight, traveler's pain.
The dewy creepers lying low,
the sublimity of the rainbow.

The vastness of the ubiquitous sky,
punctuated by birds on the fly.
The blossom of the flowers
and their alluring powers.
Pigeons' courting games on the perch.
Silence of the mosque, grandeur of the church.

In the patter of the rain,
in the sigh of the breeze,
in the hiss of the stream,
in the rustle of the leaves,
in the barking of the dog,
in the crowing of the cock,
in the carefree songs of the cuckoo,
God sang for me too.

But in the mortal quest of my name
and the unquenched thirst for pelf and fame
In my daily rush and hurry
and the unseen baggage of worry,
these simple gifts of nature I miss
and deprive myself of the 'so-near-yet-so-far' bliss.

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

Perennial Search For ...

Once upon a time, 
there were two kids.
One was brilliant and ambitious,
while the other average and hedonist.

One's life was epitome of meritocracy,
other's was a hallmark of mediocrity.

One eased his way to a reputed MNC,
other struggled his way to a local company.

One's progress was exponential,
while other's graph was horizontal.

One started dealing in targets.
As they got steeper and stiffer,
his personal life began to suffer.
His past reputation 
was ever at stake,
under the burden of expectations
his proud head would sometimes ache.
Fear of failure had driven him so far,
the door to recovery wasn't even ajar.
Other's target was to start at nine
and to end at five,
and to gleefully return
back to the hive.

One was a dream introduction.
For his wife, he was a priceless possession,
a la - an diamond necklace,
to be proudly displayed at parties.
But in home's loneliness
he was as useless as a necklace.
Other was an unenviable introduction.
Food for conceit there wasn't any
in being his wife.
But he was always there for her
through joy or strife.

One didn't realize when
his son became a toddler.
The other egged his son on
to take his first steps.

One's kid had to be shown his
dad's snaps
to reinforce his image.
Other was always back before
his son's ephemeral memory gave way.

One's wife'd now had enough of being envied;
she now hankered for a solitary moment with him.
Other's wife'd now had enough of those moments;
she now wanted to be envied.

Kid's grew.
One's kid had enough of swanky toys;
he now wanted his dad to play with.
Other's kid had played enough with his dad;
he now wanted swanky toys to play with.

One's family had the material accoutrements of happiness
but none emotional.
Other's family had it all
but lacked the realization.

One's problem was one dimensional progress
where his family had no place.
Other's problem was underestimating what they had
and overestimating what they didn't.

Why is the distant road always better laid?
Why is the grass always greener on the other side?
Is there a dwelling where the elusive
absolute happiness would just come and stay?
if there be one,
Oh God! show me the way.

Monday, September 06, 2004

Mind Monologues

Am I really independent
if I'm bound by time?
If I desire something, 
will that ever 'really' be mine?
Although a mere mortal,
am I not divine?

When I'm the fire,
will it ever burn me?
When I'm the water,
will it ever drown me?
When I'm the air,
will it ever smother me?
When I'm the earth,
will it ever 'home' me?
When I'm the ether,
will it ever dissolve me?
When I'm the killer, the killed and
the act of killing,
will I ever curse, pity and condemn me?
When I'm the soul,
will I ever die?
When I'm the God,
will I ever try?

College lectures - I never conquered

I came.
I saw.
I heard.
I slept.

My Tale

It's cold. It's biting cold.
People wearing warm clothing
but still shivering.
I don't have any.
I don't need any.

I'm a nuisance to the society.
Foraging is not easy,
I wait at shops and houses
with expectant begging eyes.
On good days, I'm fed;
mostly I'm shoved, kicked or plainly ignored.

I'm infamous for jaywalking.
Nobody taught me how to cross roads.
If I set out to cross them
I'm not sure I'd reach the other side alive.
The other day a bike hit me.
Both of us were badly hurt.
Some good souls took him to a doc.
On me, they hurled expletives and stones.
I'm still limping.
No good souls for me.
The similarity of being alive
doesn't guarantee similar treatment to all.

I like the sexy bitch in the opposite bungalow.
She's a real teaser.
She's always mollycoddled.
I'm mostly heckled.
Don't know what she did right to be in there.
Don't know what I did wrong to be out here.
She's always accompanied by body-guards.
They scare me away.
She likes me too.
Her eyes speak of approval.
She doesn't care for our differences.
But for the guards she'd come running to me.
Man made differences not letting lovers meet.

Freedom is the price she pays for security.
Vagrancy is the price I pay for freedom.
Wonder if she would exchange her security
for my freedom.

This is my tale.
Spoken through the wagging tail.
I'm almighty when spelt backwords.
I'm your friendly street dog.

Friday, September 03, 2004

The Sunset

The drizzle. The petrichor.
The cold breeze. The mild sneeze.
The birds chirping back home.
The hue in the horizon.
The balcony. The panoramic view.
The hot tea. Cooling in no time.
Nature at its tranquil best.
My father's sunset.

The drizzle.
But no sand around for petrichor. Only cement.
Circumambient concrete stiffling the breeze.
Birds' chirps drowned in traffic din.
Horizon, defunct.
The balcony, facing another balcony.
The hot tea. Hot forever.
Nature pulverized.
Man in his mortal quest.
My Son's sunset.