Saturday, 27 September 2008

Arjuna

Mid-battle field, bowing to the omniscient.
Words of wisdom listened to with intent.
Long-haired archer of a warrior clan
Twangs his bow, summoning the Almighty plan.
Sacred vows of golden crown
Upheld by valourous arms of renown.

On a bed of arrows, let to die,
A grandsire of his own warrior tribe:
A summons to death in the art of war,
Utmost grief held by the call of Karma.
Piercing the earth,
Quenching the thirst.
Valour is in the killing of those you love
And honour is in the respect of those you hate.

Sweet father, seeking sweet vengeance-
For a son pierced, smeared in brethren blood,
Holding a chariot wheel in self-defence.
- Shrieks of helpless madness out of hopeless love.
"Son", he shall be called no more.
Deep surge of fierce, bloodied, wounded hate.
Stung, shattered, raging on,
Twanging his bow, radiating fury-
Summoning a battle-fear in the foe.

Ruthless war in a ruthless world.
"Duty is justice" - laws carved in a land of old.

"I am the long haired archer of warrior-clan.
After war comes peace in this aancient land.
I am humble protector of my men,
Set on this earth by God's fateful pen.
Listen for peace's silent echo
In the twang of my sacred, fiery bow.
I am the end of what had begun-
Mighty Kurukshetra was fought and won."

Wednesday, 3 September 2008

An ode to a glow

Twinkle-toed dancers-

Psychadelic lotuses float

Beneath diamondaic dew drops.

Pink and white peace-makers

Exist on endless shores

Of transparent water.

A little firefly stumbles into its heart

And lovingly the petals cuurl about a flourescent light.

Ripples of water in a cool breeze

Help the firefly glow dimly as it dies out

with a flutter,

And the light at the heart of the pink-white lotus

Fades away.

The petals drops open in a silent

And solemn

Ode to a glow.

02/09/08 - I can't believe fireflies are on the brink of extinction!!!! They are too pretty to die! like little tinkerbells in the sky.

a skeletal reality

A huge stone garbage bin
With plastic bags, food and sewage leaking
Around its sturdy, useless walls.
A dark skeletal hand
Plucks a week-old packet of chips and food
And stores the plastic bags
In a ragged, torn knapsack-
Nimbly picks up filth
As though it is precious life.

Glances thrown into
the depths of a stone garbage bin
Hoping to find a living
And a bony, skeletal leg walks by-
Indifferent
* * * * * * *
Eyes turn away
In disgust.

24th August 2008- cycling past Kishkinda

A little nowhereness,
And a drop of insects'
buzz in the ear.
Pink cycles tread a narrow
Path to nowhere;
Signifying the mind.
A little lost... and happy.

A meaninless, senseless poem written on the spur of the moment, but sounds beautiful (funny how sounds are beautiful- that's called synesthesia)

Has the wind heard, yet, your sigh?
Have the oceans seen you cry?
Has the land let you pass slowly by?
Does the fire in your heart deny
What empty space alone can know-
The sole cause for that pale glow
Is a hope beyond tomorrow?
Let a little flower slowly bloom
In the silent whispers of the night's gloom.
There is a flicker that kindles your soul
And you wait on forever.

I forgot a language yesterday

I forgot a language yesterday, when I could not place a letter.

A little bit of luck while writing

A little talent and a little knowledge

Sunken in a star of perceptionis what gives a light...

Like a torch on fire in the dark, dark night

And I cannt write in the language I forgot:

A paradox of English.

Maybe my language is not a language,

But a culture of mixed identity.

Yet why should I identify with that which I speak?

I am what I feel and not what I utter.

Yet my utterance is my feeling and my thought-

And my language (or languages)

Becomes my world.

I wrote this probably inspired by marsh languages, and partilly because I didn't remember a basic sanskrit letter: "ae"!!! This was just before our first CA! (not too sure of the date)