Swept away in hyperbole,
I by-passed a much needed reality-check.
The only memories of our earlier life
Are in department store gift wrapping
That I save and savour
In deliberate sorrow,
paper shells in which
I hand out recycled feelings to you, unnoticed.
Love, a popular one-word-fits-all euphemism,
An endocrine surge.
It sells, maims, kills and resuscitates too.
I know you are no Keats who loved
An ambiguous Fanny till his gnawing consumptive death,
Nor a Yeats who wooed his Maud to perfection
All I ask for is to feel alive,
In your life, mind and being.
I grow dizzy on the outer vortex
Of the teeming whirlpool that is your life.
Languishing on the periphery
Of your perceptive field,
Yet, most jarred.
Our realities are
Just personal constructs,
One for me and another for you.
Your dire sorrow makes not
My lack of joy
Any less poignant.
Your black and my white
Makes a common
Mid-way pallid gray,
Where cheer has not a chance,
Nor cathartic grief any scope.
What’s that you say?
You couldn’t keep your sacred vow?
No matter, darling,
Just toss it along
On our common scrap-heap of promises,
The only thing we share,
Except of course
For a bed and bathroom slippers.
Why argue over my Spanish lessons?
I need them to stay ahead
And make sure that
I am decisively chosen
For the deputation next time around.
I also like to drive around alone at night,
I need to feel independent.
You wouldn’t understand.
Just like you need
To meet your foreign client,
Every weekend at that classy restaurant.
Its work, I know, dearest.
And Sunday mornings are the only times
Your stallion honchos
Can find time to swap wife-jokes
And slap backs over hormonal escapades.
Have you noticed that
My diction has moved
From Daniel Jones to
Prime-time soap opera bombshell?
In your absence,
Digital phantoms entertain me,
And netizen compatriots
Calm my frayed nerves.
Did I tell you that
My hair now falls in clumps
And that my face needs a lift?
And this inspite of the mail-order
Volume-inducing potions
And anti-cellulite concoctions.
The fantasy is finally spent,
But do we notice?
Never dreamt of looking
Coyly at a husband
With whom I would whelp
In our bondage,
‘We two, our two’.
Must I look to motherhood
To deliver me from my malignant ache,
That simmers on our kitchen stove?
Friday, July 6, 2007
Forgiveness
A wakeful grandeur to toss in tonight,
But, to when does this pleasing picture endure?
Cannot still handle my beating guilt,
Does the night air cure a lonely aching heart?
Escaping view of my inner plight,
Finding your sylvan grace of forgiveness further ahead,
Gleeful resuscitation that thrives on single sight,
How a convulsive cold chill you warmed mellow mature.
I know not why my past I dread,
Just feeling the in and out of layered past,
Keep me, a trinket, that used to line your bed,
Lofty airs I now have none to cast.
Many a dusk, you drew out in to dawn,
Never a tinge of blame or curse you let me feel,
Only a pining sense of silence and love stillborn,
Pleasing play of bygone halts my insane reel.
Quieter than ever, I, a defeated thing,
Rueful to all but you, my saviour bright,
Sinking your healing words in to my soul,
To raise my sense of hollow existence.
Unless I give in to your calm and pensive embrace,
Vivid joy I am rendered incapable of,
Why I am so important to you,
Explanations cannot be found.
Yet, the faith that colours your forgiveness,
Zealously I guard, as you breathe in to me,
A new life.
But, to when does this pleasing picture endure?
Cannot still handle my beating guilt,
Does the night air cure a lonely aching heart?
Escaping view of my inner plight,
Finding your sylvan grace of forgiveness further ahead,
Gleeful resuscitation that thrives on single sight,
How a convulsive cold chill you warmed mellow mature.
I know not why my past I dread,
Just feeling the in and out of layered past,
Keep me, a trinket, that used to line your bed,
Lofty airs I now have none to cast.
Many a dusk, you drew out in to dawn,
Never a tinge of blame or curse you let me feel,
Only a pining sense of silence and love stillborn,
Pleasing play of bygone halts my insane reel.
Quieter than ever, I, a defeated thing,
Rueful to all but you, my saviour bright,
Sinking your healing words in to my soul,
To raise my sense of hollow existence.
Unless I give in to your calm and pensive embrace,
Vivid joy I am rendered incapable of,
Why I am so important to you,
Explanations cannot be found.
Yet, the faith that colours your forgiveness,
Zealously I guard, as you breathe in to me,
A new life.
De-layering
Fear of disclosing
Raw disconnection,
Vacuous ambition,
Pretentious notion
Of well-written verse,
Therefore, revision blues.
To add on a Wildean flourish,
Or stick to a domestic strain?
To position oneself as a poet,
Is it conscious a process?
Does it happen naturally?
As you write,
As you learn and laugh to cry?
But I grow older, know no better.
A postcolonial doldrum wannabe,
Or a stifled keatsian drunk on the sea?
To gain brownies of a battered world,
Womens's groups or animal rights,
On whom may I smother my bewildered words?
But, whom am I kidding?
Is this piece itself a cry for consideration,
For praise on subversion?
An attempt to crawl on to global paper,
And be witnessed by the critic's eye?
Else, why yearn to publish,
Long-held private space?
A covert poet
Is no poet at all for the world.
Why the scramble at competitions?
As any other, the poet is no grander.
The need to be acknowledged, be admired,
Runs in every creative vein, deny it howsoever.
It may be a precedence lesser or larger
Than the inspired contentment,
But it exists incontestably all the same.
Just as doing good feels fine,
Why rebuff that we do it
For our own being, as well?
I go all agog over toothless trill,
And digest a whole lot of gobbledygook.
I ruminate over
New-historicism and post-modernism.
I take the trouble,
Because I want to be seen.
I have a simple, short life,
Here today, Gone tomorrow.
I need to leave a mark,
And see what I can do.
And the day I spotted verse,
The moment I felt the urge
To put in to words of untold type,
I knew this is where I was headed.
To see on cover, a name fond to
Me and those who I treasure.
To make them proud,
And beam and buoy, along with me.
To understand what goes on inside,
In my craggy,
Presumptuous mind.
This is not adulatory self-reproach.
The only time I am myself
Is when I write this styled out stuff.
It gives me identity, it gives me self,
I let it take over.
I have no control over the root,
But,twice refined through maze of thought,
It comes out half-born,
Sometimes grim, rock faced,
Or maybe at times,
Grosser still.
Raw disconnection,
Vacuous ambition,
Pretentious notion
Of well-written verse,
Therefore, revision blues.
To add on a Wildean flourish,
Or stick to a domestic strain?
To position oneself as a poet,
Is it conscious a process?
Does it happen naturally?
As you write,
As you learn and laugh to cry?
But I grow older, know no better.
A postcolonial doldrum wannabe,
Or a stifled keatsian drunk on the sea?
To gain brownies of a battered world,
Womens's groups or animal rights,
On whom may I smother my bewildered words?
But, whom am I kidding?
Is this piece itself a cry for consideration,
For praise on subversion?
An attempt to crawl on to global paper,
And be witnessed by the critic's eye?
Else, why yearn to publish,
Long-held private space?
A covert poet
Is no poet at all for the world.
Why the scramble at competitions?
As any other, the poet is no grander.
The need to be acknowledged, be admired,
Runs in every creative vein, deny it howsoever.
It may be a precedence lesser or larger
Than the inspired contentment,
But it exists incontestably all the same.
Just as doing good feels fine,
Why rebuff that we do it
For our own being, as well?
I go all agog over toothless trill,
And digest a whole lot of gobbledygook.
I ruminate over
New-historicism and post-modernism.
I take the trouble,
Because I want to be seen.
I have a simple, short life,
Here today, Gone tomorrow.
I need to leave a mark,
And see what I can do.
And the day I spotted verse,
The moment I felt the urge
To put in to words of untold type,
I knew this is where I was headed.
To see on cover, a name fond to
Me and those who I treasure.
To make them proud,
And beam and buoy, along with me.
To understand what goes on inside,
In my craggy,
Presumptuous mind.
This is not adulatory self-reproach.
The only time I am myself
Is when I write this styled out stuff.
It gives me identity, it gives me self,
I let it take over.
I have no control over the root,
But,twice refined through maze of thought,
It comes out half-born,
Sometimes grim, rock faced,
Or maybe at times,
Grosser still.
Dilemma
There is no limit,
interests are cold,
A farce, live it,
clay set in gold.
A change so jolting,
to what does amount?
Smooth voices giddying,
complacency does rout.
Stop the jarring beeps,
they repeat to imbalance,
a guarded insecurity peeps,
and sees through a false grace.
None created yet perfect,
a detached air much needed.
tug spasmodic instincts,
all crashes and burns left unheeded.
Imagine our cuffs disengage,
security & order inescapable,
Free from dynamic bondage,
laid back practical inevitable.
tinge of hint so disturbs,
out pours steamy silence,
How much can endurance curb,
without resort to dreamy violence?
The way out is not visible,
but why try at all?
When no means are feasible,
and states change in a call?
interests are cold,
A farce, live it,
clay set in gold.
A change so jolting,
to what does amount?
Smooth voices giddying,
complacency does rout.
Stop the jarring beeps,
they repeat to imbalance,
a guarded insecurity peeps,
and sees through a false grace.
None created yet perfect,
a detached air much needed.
tug spasmodic instincts,
all crashes and burns left unheeded.
Imagine our cuffs disengage,
security & order inescapable,
Free from dynamic bondage,
laid back practical inevitable.
tinge of hint so disturbs,
out pours steamy silence,
How much can endurance curb,
without resort to dreamy violence?
The way out is not visible,
but why try at all?
When no means are feasible,
and states change in a call?
Eyes In Gray Marble
A flinching ballast brand of gray……………
Flickers in your bloodshot eyes……………..
Elgin Marbles polished white……………….
Branding irons sparking bright………..
Flickers in your bloodshot eyes……………..
Elgin Marbles polished white……………….
Branding irons sparking bright………..
Fly to Olympus
I am sure you never did express your best,
A reveling colt in a thoughtful meadow
Before time, sapped to death and laid to rest,
A spirit bounding, of stoic meed must fate lead to sorrow.
In life, in living, in phlegm and heave,
To break a corpse, to shred a pertinent one
She glides in slither-gown, yet bade not leave,
Watched you wasting, yet, to you, she is none.
Lover of right, in form, in lays,
Of truth and outdoor blithe-cheer sanity
Of casements ope and bright-lit ways,
A moderate vision of tempered humanity.
Sense is enlivened, passage suppressed,
Cascade in blinks, each ravishing beauty
Perfect in grace, subtle-eyed impressed,
The restraint, the poise of poetic duty.
Friend to ages, Monarch of youth,
Hysterical congruous, voluptuous intense
For direction and love, a Greek in truth,
Innocent perusals, inspiring musical sense.
Yearn for Olympian lyre and prophetic zones,
The sign of warm love’s kiss on Psyche’s face
Keep looking, listening for figment of choric moan,
And the Goddess shall your endeavours embrace.
Convey to me through a pacing candour,
Your heroic ascending galloping verse
For a mind to perceive through centuries racing,
All that is apt is in poetic ether to immerse.
A reveling colt in a thoughtful meadow
Before time, sapped to death and laid to rest,
A spirit bounding, of stoic meed must fate lead to sorrow.
In life, in living, in phlegm and heave,
To break a corpse, to shred a pertinent one
She glides in slither-gown, yet bade not leave,
Watched you wasting, yet, to you, she is none.
Lover of right, in form, in lays,
Of truth and outdoor blithe-cheer sanity
Of casements ope and bright-lit ways,
A moderate vision of tempered humanity.
Sense is enlivened, passage suppressed,
Cascade in blinks, each ravishing beauty
Perfect in grace, subtle-eyed impressed,
The restraint, the poise of poetic duty.
Friend to ages, Monarch of youth,
Hysterical congruous, voluptuous intense
For direction and love, a Greek in truth,
Innocent perusals, inspiring musical sense.
Yearn for Olympian lyre and prophetic zones,
The sign of warm love’s kiss on Psyche’s face
Keep looking, listening for figment of choric moan,
And the Goddess shall your endeavours embrace.
Convey to me through a pacing candour,
Your heroic ascending galloping verse
For a mind to perceive through centuries racing,
All that is apt is in poetic ether to immerse.
An Apotheosis
"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
John Keats"
----------
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.
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
John Keats"
----------
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.
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