"O’ye who have your eyeballs vext and tired
Feast them upon the wideness of the sea,
O’ye whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,
Or fed too much with cloying melody-
Sit ye near some old caverns mouth and brood,
Until ye start as if the sea nymphs quired.
On the Sea
Enthralled by timeless Breathing about,
The lure of unexplained shores and a mighty rush,
Which has limits prodigious,
Only godly intrusion can render them unwelcome.
A shivering spectacle creates no creation,
This what I wrote does quell my distemper,
It lent back some slumber I ventured,
I am falling back in to anguish again.
Virtue is what my heart must encompass,
Spencer in his happy mayhem says so,
My ambitions shall be answered by virtue alone,
Without which it is rendered puerile imagination’s plaything.
My blaze can never abate,
I will not let it fade away,
Till it harbingers a cluster of a kin,
With this heave I embark on my eternal work.
I trust in the omni-potent,
Give me the warmth and the stuff for this endeavour,
Let me see in the girl next door,
Diana’s icy romance.
Let me watch the peasants work,
And midst them, my devoted lad,
How will I shift from my mind
When not a sinew concurs?
O, Apollo, do not punish me…
I have mocked you,
But in worship alone
Did my vain quill step by your mane.
Sweet Cynthis, Charming Cynthia,
Symbol of beauty and voluptuous grace,
My soul is human and stands for my fancy
Taken to sea by my searching imagination.
The sea alone on this orb can render me peaceful,
How you love and are in awe of me, my little girl,
To be bonded with you in brotherliness
Is my lifelong privilege.
Do not scorn a single written work, devilish act,
Verse humane I want to write,
I want to be inanimate, strong and defiant,
I cannot escape my ears.
Yet the Blackwood’s acid has left me sick,
A patient with no will to live.
How can a poet be true to his vocation,
If his creative faculty waits for its own creations?
No, there can be no such artist,
Who deserves to live,
And so I must die a poetic death,
Since I have undone mine own poetic duty.
No, I will not dwell on my woes,
I am shy and fear to share,
My abilities are slave to needs,
Why do these scrapes rack me so?
Prod and invoke my sleeping self,
It seems onerous,
Hark…the world watches,
But are all these millions of eyes watching me alone?
I learn from noisy mouths,
Setting fear in my heart and flow in my lines,
I am no versifier, I set bones,
Why gull my own senses with imagined fame?
Yet the smell of a pod is ether to mine sense,
I live in nether world,
Between saving souls and lifting them,
Thus belonging nowhere.
As I walk across these square laid stones,
Knowing all too well where I go,
These walls standing for a two hundred something,
They guard me from the present.
How beautiful you lie in a wet grave,
England’s honourable son,
You may not have charmed so,
In furrowed hide and blunt gaze.
Your fame would mar itself,
And you would be the century’s child,
Not an alluring youth,
In a poignant sepulcher.
This youth, a countenance so icy,
Every aspect tuned to the expressive whole,
I fear brevity inspite of the great bard,
Why did no great indulge in it yet?
O England, My England,
My last breath for you and my Mother Nature.
I will bury my feel, Sense and ardour,
In to my task unseen, a two headed Janus.
Tonight I am as good as a dead man,
My faculty is dry…. Help me Mother,
You are here in my being,
But how do I bring forth thee?
Your mystery shall never be unearthed,
Laid in your infested tomb,
Your life is open to guessing,
So can you and you and I too.
I write, I work, my noisy imitations left the crowds wild,
Crying pains need no dreamy apothecary,
And wordy man heeds no surgical melody,
I write in volumes, for my creativity flows.
Else, which may lose its ease of wave,
I may love what my mother provided,
But I will not write her as my focus,
Unless I have none else.
Every nook, every sapling, every book, every happening,
Is my issue for poetry,
As long as it scintillates my five foeish friends,
As long as it stirs up my latent core.
My fairy, she is weak because I doubt her,
I want to dedicate myself to you, little one,
But I know my task too well,
And am incapacitated.
Your spirit is light and balms your red hair,
You are in love with life, therein your compassion,
You live in an era,
Which wants to escape this helpless optimism.
Ignore my little fairy, damn her,
Disfigure her gentle wings with your acrid tongues,
I am a sick bird, who looks up and sees its own end,
Knowing what I want, I know not where to find,
I wander still inspite of my stages of growth,
I am a man in search of greatness,
In search of centurion immortality,
I did not write for you to bask in critical glory.
Spit with repugnance,
At my drawn out naked consciousness,
You will not shell my mind,
Or hope for my passionate withdrawal.
I am an honourable son of this land,
I will make you feel,
In time to come,
Where your folly in marring my pen has been.
The eternal bard! I seek a balance,
But my thoughts are always falling me,
Elsewhere than I want them to,
But they are singular in their union.
I worship you, my little fairy,
My psyche true of poesy,
Why am I obsessed,
With what I seek shelter in?
These marbles remind me so,
Of senses else perceived,
O my beautiful midget,
Caretaker of cheerful dock,
Various ships dock and leave,
Carrying cargo views and dreamy customs,
To far off lands,
And occupy their natives with novelty.
Only the master ships,
With a dedicated crew does so,
Others wash away in the winds,
And their cargo dies unseen.
I do not want to see your beauty,
I want to experience beauty,
Feel my own as you see it,
This is what a bard must do.
I turn; I turn; yet your shadow blocks my path,
I know my prophecy is mine own end,
I want to be disinterested,
Please guide me as to how.
I am the Prince of profligacy…
Excess in rhyme, in word, in sense,
I lie like a cadaver, oozing my life through,
I will use you till you tire, antithesis.
I see all, I see clear,
And the importance of doing so,
I am me and none else I can be,
Nor desire to be else my vision endures.
If you do not know,
You might say poetry is coated artifice,
But how you declare your ignorance,
It is none but a profound and life-making ideal.
How I did emerge,
I do not want to be the greatest by imitation,
For I want to be myself,
Of all inspiration purged.
A poet derives the angles that fit,
Not from classic worship alone,
I must know more, my life is short,
And most of it passes in slumber and vapid vacancy.
I want to transit from the literary idylls of the past
To the evident and fresh sublime,
The precious past’s shackles are to be broken,
And a new mindset to be born.
Idealism gives us tradition, Classics and the opportunity
To sieve out the best, and on the other hand,
It kills the self-inclination and forces upon us,
A feeling of incompetence for originality.
Originality, which is confused,
With pretty imitation of former greats,
Instead of being criticized,
For writing a lifeless epic…
Originality is subjective,
I am ignorant, tormented,
And numb yet possess,
A Mood-less mind.
A conscious stepping up of thoughts,
In the human mind, Sonnet to ode,
Infinite steps, psyche-‘perfection personified’
The model for an utopian future.
The greatness of a poet is determined,
By the grade of steps that he has achieved,
And the plane of thought,
Coincides with the stair level.
You feature high though
The time factor lags you behind,
You are a son of the sea,
Your expression dictates so.
After a particular high step
We see only mist and no clarity
Feel numb to all sensations except pain
Like ascending a mountain.