Yanni's World

Until the last moment ....

Until the eyes water

The heart leaps

Until the string breaks

The keys explode

Until the mind fuses

The body shuts.

Upwards until the last moment,

We of one Earth

Will make our music !

The Crazy Actor in the Audience

The play on the stage was into its third act. I was kinda out of myself that whole evening, even before the curtains went up. During the play, lost in my thoughts mostly, I was perfunctorily watching the goings-on on the stage. I guess I should introduce myself before continuing on with this anecdote. I am an actor which is most germane. I have had a decently good life and few good crises too.

My thoughts during the play were centered around my achievements as an actor. When my self-absorption spared me some brief mental space, they ventured out onto notions of what is an act. Notions like : how different is our regular demeanour from our's when watched. As far as my achievements go, I'd wager if I had to, they fall within the median. I like to think otherwise.

 At one point during the next act all the actors were quietly congregating in a courtyard. At that point, I directed myself (without any rehearsals !) onto the front part of the stage. Quite John Cage-y by any standards I'd say, with all those people in the audience watching. Watching one of them suddenly rise up and walk on to the stage. No clue as to what seized him in the middle of a professional production. I paused, looked around three hundred sixty degrees as if very confused, then said to myself, but loud enough for the audience to hear, "Am I part of this play ?? ..... hmmm .... may be not ... one never knows." Then I exited the stage.

Thy Third Eye needs Rest too.

The ancient Greeks said that to See is to gaze

And think and Gain with the mind's bright aid.

That's why even casually we say, "I See"

And you see how language and its history

Can illuminate for us, to feel this phrase used freely :

"Vidya" - that some try seek - in Sanskrit

Is the fruit from the Great Biblical Tree.

But wherefore true knowing without thorough seeing ?!

"Video", as you and I know ! is something on show

For us to look and feel and for us to see.

This shared genealogy of two simple words

In the giant fraternity of idioms and words

And I can't put in words the mind's automatic glee.

Yet all this seeing with my own two eyes

And too much straining to see hampers
The faculty of feeling; fatigues me naturally.

The irony right now is, I close my eyes

To calm and rest.

And quick opens the third eye,

As if impatient in youth,

But in truth

It is but restless

And indisciplined.

To dissect - not see - this me sitting.

Sitting with closed eyes.

The Malady that is Our "Busy" Life / Vulnerable

Why does
Why does that drop of tear

Drop down this teary eye

In this largely mundane

Moment in time ?

Is it because

That animal there,

plodding through this busy life,

Is at wit's end

When there is

No time to spare ?

Or because

Anxiety

When attacks,

Deserving a special mention of nature,

Claims its pearly prize

With brutal tack ?

Or perhaps the question to begin with,

Would say my strong friends,

In today's modern world,

Is a boring one.

Whose correct scientific answer

Won't of course fail to amaze.

I wonder though

If that same scientific answer

Can heal our tearing brethren,

Tearing a little with every precious tear -
Precious tears all over the world -

Because of a despair

That, as opposed to cause,
has no sense or rhyme.

Not even a bit !

How carefreely foolish are we ....

How carefreely foolish are we

In our everlasting eternal youth !

That we perforce wear,

Lest we're weak, uncool or uncouth,

A stylish shirt or a short dress,

While Ithaca winter kisses our mouth.

For G

O What have I done ! What have I done !
To thy happy soul freely flying,
Flying as it was like that butterfly
Until I became a dead lead weight,
And not an anchor that you hoped for,
To which you tied your hopes to.

Time and Understanding will
Will swiftly grind me to dust.
I hope I can become
To your now hurt pretty wing
A little adornment when you'll soar,
And not a toxin that posions only more
with Time.

Dear friend, you're blessed
With that precious commodity.
And whatever learnings
A breaking heart might offer,
They should not be weighed,
If I can help it,
In your sanguinity.




-------------------------------------------

PS : sometime in Sept-Oct 11

Friend Circle (in six parts)

Self-Pity or Loneliness ?

Losing a bunch of keys

Brought home how alone
I was. Tears rolled down
For none to see. Mom,

Your vulnerable son
Cried alone. Tried alone
To cheer back up. Son,
I said to me, gone
Are those days. C'mon,
Go look for your keys.


Soon,
The search took over
Like music or mild fever.
Off my thoughts, I was delivered.
And I had my answer.



Maybe both, maybe neither.
Self-pity is a fact of nature,
part inseparable, you can't sever
from this frail constitution of ours'.
Is a mechanism mere,
neither virtue nor blunder,
to tackle, somehow bear
life's whims, tugs and shear.
Like the meds and care
of a good kind doctor,
Taken in dosage proper
and this mind is freer.
Loneliness is a fact sadder,
as being social is our nature.
We crave human company sure,
and human comfort even more.

Yet,
the soberer answer
to my helpless tears,
seems to me, is another
fact of my existence Here.
Pretend I will a coroner -
and may tad bit belabor,
but this mode is calmer -
given all evidences clear,
childhood couldn't have been better,
college was even sweeter,
present is neither really sour,
I enjoy good time and a beer,
thought, play, maidens and laughter,
am fortunate moreover
to have had friends sincere,
of all ways, suit and character.
But ... for the past year,
even with many friends here,
am lacking a friend circle dear,

so says me the coroner.

--------------------------------------------------------

Friend Circles that, but recently, always had been.

Now,
Poet I'll a pretend
Wax poetic to no End -
Poetry's solo act can never mend

this issue at my hand -

About a circle of friends.

Well,
how do I quite begin ?
To explicate on something
(A poet cut-analyzing
may well be a sin)

that, but recently, always has been.

And what always has been
a part of life's daily din
easily skips being Seen
by mind's eyes unseen.
That's precisely the reasoning
why it comes to me striking
Now when I am missing
that which always had been.
So is the case, not surprising,

with life's many precious things.

"Friend Circle",
the two words sure bring
a nice comforting ring.
And in their uttering,
we simultaneously sing
To two ideas gleaming,
perhaps common, yet amazing.

-----------------------------------------------------

Friendship

Of course,
Friendship is not just an idea.
It has a solider being.
A bond, two persons binding,
As tangible as any real thing.
But when one spends musing
on the idea of this bonding -
two animals each other helping,
together laughing maybe crying,

food talk walk stories jokes sharing,
quibble some, in the end forgiving.
(A moving example, Seth's penning :

Maan-Firoz's simple fun and caring
one, impulsive lazy friendly daring,
other, equable, royalty but hardworking)

Lightens the soul's solitary navigating,

on Earth, this ephemeral journeying -
it comes to you with null forcing,

how amazing indeed is this Friendship thing.

------------------------------------------------

The Circle

And,

Circle is another idea brilliant.
Perhaps more so than Friends,
a citizen of the Idea land.
Yet, it too exists among us men !
In a tumbler's rim, a hula hooper's hand,
In the ubiquitous Wheel's rotating end.
In the baby's toy, teen's doodles on weekend,
In the marriage ring, Grandpa's glasses' lens.
But not just objects of life, precious to mundane,
It also abounds aplenty in our vocations, hidden.
In the judge's mallet, the hammer of a sweaty mason,
the flutist's flute-holes, the farmer's hat under the sun.
In a factory-worker's cycle, rhetoric of the politician,

the factory-owner's watch with a chain pretty golden.
In the doctor's stethoscope, potter-wheel of an artisan,

the gun-barrel of the criminal and also the policeman's.
In the angel's halo praised in a priest's refrain,
In money's circular flow 'tween bank, corporations and man.
Also in our endeavors not quite common trend,
like arts and mathematics, disciplines grand,
even sciences, my own particular brand,
in writings, e.g. The Circle Game,
in Pantheon's majestic domed circumference,
the generous circle does beauty lend,

asking no interest, paying bountiful dividends.

Yet, its presence outside the sphere of men,
one may be tempted to say, is grandest great,
while beholding the setting sun's contour red,
or that of the dew drop on a lotus leafy bed,
or countless joyous things on nature's slate.
I'd better stop before you cringe of circle surfeit !

To end this soliloquy,

This perfect mother of Pi,
in its own simplicity,
(centers' equidistant loci)
inspired civilizations and, thence, history.
Yet barring its profundity,
its conceptual clarity
presents itself in our tongues daily,
serving well the spoken word's utility.
And it is this familiarity
that one forgets Circle's own history,
how it has helped humanity.
Take a moment to appreciate its glory.
And even if you don't do so willingly,
the Circle won't care really !

------------------------------------------------------

A Friend Circle

Wow !

Been waxing poetic to no end,
about all 'cept the poem's desired end.
And it is to this end,
will steer the poem's bend.
So, what is a friend circle, my friend ?
(An obvious question has answer bland)

Well,
it is the spice and condiment of daily grind,
a button that zaps boredom to pastime,
emits conversations of all random kinds,
or sometimes just a silent pat behind.

The What obvious, still not trivial to find.
Like truth or liberation or peace of mind.
Like the Happenstance of a tender sapling,
the planter in "control", the universe guides,
It chance grows, given the soil and clime,
organically, like that sapling, over due time,
into a living thing of unique shade and size,
with hobbies, passions, and cute idiosyncrasies.
And comes in unending variety, this prized
creation of social man since so many centuries,
not limited but subject to, age, sex and creed,
the peaceful one love, the bitter or sinister hate breed.
And also dies naturally, if not killed -
which is sad as any unnatural death -,
like a seasonal plant or a shady tree,
having lived a short or a long life beautifully.
And I am like that traveler in a bind,
no inn in sight, seeking these trees kind.

--------------------------------------------

Missing you, Dear Friend Circle

Presently,

A close circle's absence does clear remind,
what we all probably know inside,
that for all the fun it provides
(which I still have besides)
what matters at certain times,
are few close friends (or a companion) you can call insist
to be there, even when there is no practical need.




----------------------------------------

PS : written in March-April '10.

Thinking about a Sweet Girl

Hey Pretty Girl

Didn't quite notice people n' sunshine today,

Been slightly absent these few days.

Yesterday, didn't enter the book I read.

Friends' company or something or you in my head.

Hey Sweet One

I can't pinpoint what I want to write,

stupid as it is, funny as it does seem.

Wonder why one loses a bit,

this rudder for banal reasoning.

Hey Pretty One

Got to say life's sweet lovely,

these past few days especially.

For my age, they'd call me crazy

juvenile, if knew my happy agony.

Well

I don't know what you been thinking,

but it's cool you like Hobbes and Calvin,

that your life's goal is happy Calvining :D

I don't mind being either Hobbes or him !

The other day

at Statler's cafe, our chance meeting

and I stopped any which processing -

this is sure juvenile - stood just grinning,

should've asked what you're later doing.

Hehehehe ...

I am surprised you found me cool,

when you look at my being a fool.

However much I grow, I act like school. :P

But, the bottom line is you're cool and beautiful.


------------------------------------------

4/23/10 : April' 10

Chance Encounter

Chance,
You be cruel.
On an innocuous day,
Showed generosity,
Like the king,
To the expectant subjects,
On a festival's expedient occasion;
Gave your foolish subject
a loveliest feeling.

But,
like that king himself,
who, the expediencies fulfilled,
spending affectionate years
with power,
became readily a tyrant,
so are you,
reveling
in your vested tyranny.

I be your game and prey,
have gamey fun
at my expense, while I,
bound, try to escape
your calm clutch.

Your steady pursuit,
and my pursuit unbegun
has lost track.
Hard to lose you
once you're on scent,
the very same you
who gave that sweet
lovey-dovey feeling.
(of course,
like how the not hungry lion
gives a start to the unsuspecting deer
for a pleasure chase)

Now,
I'm at your mercy,
and, till you've had your thrill,
will roam around trackless,
with a hopeful eye out
for the sweet one.


--------------------------------------
5/17/10 : May' 10

The movie reel asks existential questions

I thought I'd watch a movie. I had just had a nice conversation with a good friend, talking about movies and such, and then a smoke. As always with so many choices to choose from, it took ten to fifteen minutes to decide and I started one called Swimming Pool. It was a cool French sort of movie where each scene was brought to bear with proper care and style.

During the beginning of the movie, as the scenes unfolded lazily I toyed - the smoke offering some lucidity - with an idea for a movie. It would be a reel that hovers in between motion and stillness, almost ready to flutter into life and had not an invisible hand come along to still it, it would have taken flight and soared away. If it can tell a story in the process, even better. Pretty soon, as stupid dreamers are wont to do, I was thinking about how awesome the movie would be, how it'll be acclaimed all over and I'll be winning awards and such. Soon thereafter, I was thinking other thoughts and how they would revolutionize physics, sticking true to the stupid dreamer's code.

Which is when, curiously, the movie surprised me. The data stream started stalling in a peculiar way. The audio kept running fine, but the video became discontinuous, catching up to the audio every two or there seconds. In the scene, the protagonist was talking to herself and so, even though I could hear her thoughts, she had become a bunch of stills incapable of fully expressing herself, unable to tell her story fully. As if there's a cage ready to imprison any time, allowing her only momentary fragments of freedom.

The pleasant surprise was that the question I'd meant to ask through the movie idea had been partially answered. Imagine a movie reel asking itself one day, "What am I ?" The adventurous way to answer such a question is by trying to find out, "What am I not ?" or "How much can I change or disfigure myself till I am no more ?" Another way to answer the same question is by stating a purpose("I am a doctor because I cure people"). Thankfully, for a movie reel and almost all media, this kind of answer is simple. To tell a story.

The Joke is Me

All I try to be
Is jolly good myself.

Funny it is then

When I to myself,
come off as a bad joke.

Irony cuts keen.

It's mean. The joke
Is on me. And me.

Peepli Not Live

There that Village,
Her Children call her Peepli,
Tucked somewhere
Anonymously,

Therein Lived
And died,

By some standards,

A man.

Hori Mahato,

His ostensible name,

Dug hard earth -

That's what he did

Every single day

of his last golden years -

Under the stony sun

and village sky.

That's how he sweated

And how he lived by

And how he died,

in an eery Sisyphean way,

His wiry thin body

Worn down by Elements

and Fate

(or Circumstance for us

Who can afford

To quibble).

And,

As our eyes

retreat backwards

and forwards

To the city of dreams,

We find Natha

Again digging

The city's concrete earth,

(leaving morbid fame

and Home behind)

in abject

Anonymity.

She walks along ...

She walks steady -

Slow simple poise

Gracing every step -

Down the stone steps.

The leaves scattered,

Casual and pattern-less,

Swirl in no hurry

Around in silence.

The breeze swaying

The auburn hairs gentle,

She touches the stones,

Fingers brushing slightly.

Content in the moment,

She walks along ...

On Laziness

When you let the pen rust

(Time's passage holding just

The fragile pen's rusted cast

From an anonymous whiff's destroying lust),

It is then that you realize

How time tricks. It flies

Never to come back. Your Cries,

Regrets and -- hope not -- Shame survive
You.

It is then, you lazy fool,

Will see the pen in glittering glory

Like the mirage quenching the thirsty.

Cry not then, doesn't look good.

Man to Man

After all the glib talk

And lofty theorizing

And super stardom

And romanticizing,

When the curtain falls

Comes that moment

When there's nothing really

to say.....

I say to you then,

"My fellow do good

Be a good man.

Help a man if you can

When you get a chance.

Listen to a hymn

Or a sweet song.

Look at the sheep graze,

The freight truck delivering produce,

The mother carrying the child

Or whatever you fancy

With a true heart."

But in that moment

When breath is keenest felt

I am no father

Or friend or philosopher,

And I say this to you

Man to Man.

--------------------------------

sometime in July'10.

Life is like a Square

Calvin, you know

A thing or two of

What's on the everyday show.

How in your unknowing,

To us worldly crew,

You say the truest thing.

How, standing on a square pavement

You, to Hobbes and yourself,

Say aloud in panels scant

- Fleeting panels like fleeting life itself ! -

Life is but the square,

The beginning just a crack in concrete

The end a crack similar

In the middle we stand and meet

For what purpose ? Wherefore come we ?

And the sky shines black in gloom

On our essential loneliness

While you and Hobbes loom

Thoughtful till it passes.

-------------------------------------------

written in June '10.

The Procrastinating Researcher's Defence

While leaving my beloved dept.

Around the midnight hour

(With mostly forays inept

And a little new hope's flower

Which makes a day end good

For us who walk a seeker's way),

The slight summer rain imbued

In me a silly kind of inner joy.

For now there was a reason legit

To wait in an armchair's sway

(Oh ! how could I get wet a bit ?!)

Till the downpour clears away.

This procrastinator's indulgence

At times, we indulge in gleefully.

When absurdest cause provokes "rest"

"There was no other way, you see !"

Except the tireless workaholic

Who breathes and lives work.

Much Respect for his simple ethic.

Work in Joy, Joy in Work !

But, if I may seriously defend !

(Procrastinated word's as good as guilty)

Procrastination itself is not to blame.

Overdoing it is the obvious folly.

So, well defended, I was waiting away

Staring, lazying, worrying, writing ...

When the window silently whispered to me,

"My boy, it has long stopped raining."

What is a Curse but this !

The young men in a fast car,

Raring impatient to go

Under hot blood's warm flow,

Can't wait for the lady elder

crossing busy street slow.

The event over, her daughter,

Having more of life's clue,

(daughterly concern strife brewed)

shouts wisely, "Hey Showman there,

You'll one day grow old too !"

Under the sun's generous face

And crowd's anthill ways,

The monkey's open eyes

Upon this fleeting exchange say,

"What is a Curse but this !"

What is a curse but this ?

That, when stated plain,

Say the obvious fact once again.

Plain sufferance we can't out bargain,

Coated in fantasy in Disney movies

To make palatable for us men.

------------------------------------------

PS : All our curses and our boons

Is just one life breathing away.

The wise man sees through soon,

we curse and bless like actors in play.

A Sad Piano Piece in a Cafe

What do you sing of there, fair Piano ?

Is it a lament for a close loving one ?

Your family's loving care back in town ?

Of your love who's far away gone ?

Or the futility of love's labor borne ?

Your sorrowful keys in sad tune

To which kind tree felled sadly down ?

To who kindly beast unkindly bound ?

To what people felling each other down ?

Or to people's largely uncaring ways now ?

Playing heart out your rendition

Of which sad story in our this heaven ?

------------------------------

Note : at Stella's, C' Town, Ithaca

The Little Girl's Evening Walk

Eating an ice-cream with a single gaze,

in a pretty pink polka dress,

the other hand in grandma's care,

she walks as if nothing exists.

A distinct memory of Fear

It happened around a year ago. It was the beginning of summer. A friend and I were out jogging at dusk. We'd gone some ways from our campus and it had become, as is typical of Ithaca, quite rural. We crossed an open field with wild grass and after a short stretch of trees neared a small stream. We stopped there to rest. I was enjoying the tranquil sounds of nature and the increased blood-flow. We were at ease, joking with each other as is usual among friends.

This is when it happened. A beast broke out of the dark woods and ran directly at me. It was swift, powerful and not un-menacing. I went dead paralyzed. It was a first for me. It was a strange feeling. The body automatically took over, became immovable. The mind almost stopped thinking but was at full alert. I felt the surge of blood in the background. It lasted for all of five seconds maybe. Like a trailer of some wildlife documentary. After coming to few meters of us at the same swift speed, it veered away jumpily to the stream, drank some water and ran back to its master coming out of the woods.

It did not leap or attack, did not grow in size or breathe fire. It did not tear us to bits. It did not do any of the many possible or impossible things that fear tells us in leisure.

On our way back, we were behind them by about two hundred meters. On my friend's advice, we walked so as not to provoke the animal. Once out of the field and on to the paved road, we jogged lazily back to town.

The Urchin

It was a pleasantly warm summer day in Ithaca. The leafy shadows of trees were playing mirages on the bare walls in the Commons. By the benches and carefully planted trees, people walked in packs, twos, ones. Not surprisingly, the kids were making most of the din, if you discounted the noisy and flippant wind.

On a green bench, X was fidgeting with his phone and looking on at the play of shadows, probably waiting for a text. The urchin accosted him out of nowhere. Scraggly looking, with a toothy grin and lanky arms, he asked for fifty-five cents, the amount he needed for a bus ticket. X smiled and, while fishing for the wallet, pulled a 1000 Korean currency note that he had. The kid looked at it fascinated and loudly proclaimed never seeing anything like that. They both concured together in grins and smiles. X had no change, only a ten dollar bill. The urchin, a momentary shake of the head later, bounced along.

As X watched the urchin run, trying to catch up to a kind man, the wind lifted him up in the air in a smooth swoosh. Soon he was flying over the Ithacans with two angel wings, but no halo oddly.

A small library nestled in a big University

After a satisfying dump

And Men's room joking, some bonhomie,

My legs, without a mission, trundled in,

Not knowing where to find an inspirational stop,

For the weekend gaze and reverie .....,

To a library nestled in a big university.

Wooden walled, well lit and sunny streams.

Carpets and sparse crowd of inviting chairs.

Kind busts and smart paintings keep gazing

At a silent girl working, her head in her book,

At a guy playing with the piano playfully.

Outer world's noise muffled incoherent,

Except for a persistent bird call nearby,

The occasional footstep or passing chitchat,

The mounted Fan's intent tennis-fan whir,

This place's silence hands an unpleading invitation.

In a time and style of its own and the world,

A mix of equal present and equal past,

This room's setting, the bound books on shelves,

The antique piece, elaborate wooden ship models,

The unlit stone fireplace, the grand piano,

(And the plastic creepers, the hand-sanitizers,

The electric outlets, computers and magazines),

Reminds me, though I don't partake often,

Of the charm, spaces such as this held

Upon the scholar back then, and still hold

For the silent spirit.

-----------------------------------------------

*The Browsing Library, WSH, Cornell

Nothing to Say

Should I be writing

about nothing to say,

When I have nothing

absolutely to say ??

This amazing blankness

is pretty awesome I say !

With that I'll cease

this driveling away :)

A nice day at Cornell

Lying on ... Libe Slope
(Faraway music's near afloat,
Uris's castle, contours old,
People cheery, lovers bold,
Mom and girl share the earphone,
Baby on Daddy's shoulder broad,
The grass green sunny close)
flaunts our singular campus abode.

The Thought Glow

I thank that surreal bulb. Its staid presence

renders life's low tidings worth some bearance.

On happier days I try fly, snuffing some of its
fertile shimmer's aid, like that free playful kite
or a guitar inspired, into some known unknown orbit.
Happiest chance, if illumes this reel in plain sight !

On a sadder day, to me this same sagacious light

Has been kind. A shoulder to rest, weep on.

Consoled in its way, not human, not quite.

Yet is keenest brutal, its bare honest tone,

Like a competent doctor's who doesn't bit hide,

When it diagnoses open the follies I own.

There in the distance I can see it vaguely.

The Thought Bulb's glow for thinkers at sea.

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

by W. H. Auden

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Auden,

You distilled sincere the utter despair,
We all have felt or may someday bear.
Of a soul's cry beyond any repair.
Perhaps our Condition's saddest share.
Am lucky to partake of your heart's fare,
Share with you this Earth, our dearest lair.
Even the inanimate pen, I upon God swear,
Must have so despaired when you left life's care.

yours humbled,
Narimus

Stupidly Grinning

I can't stop smiling.

For no good reason.

O wait !

There is one.

Hasn't it happened to all of us ?

Out of nowhere has come

A pretty girl

Talks sweetly

To you for a while,

On an otherwise

Normal Friday evening.

Sweet chance, happy chance

You're great !

Sat down to write something

When you intervened

And then She

And her young friends,

All energy.

Infected me with a general cheer.

Now I'm smiling stupidly

And happily by myself,

Gazing peripherally

At the same world,

Which is now pretty,

On a beautiful Friday.

--------------------------------------------------

I can't stop smiling.

For no good reason.

But wait, there's one !

Obvious and glaring.

Hasn't it happened

to you out there ?!

It must have I swear.

We're lucky my friend.

Out of nowhere

A pretty girl's come.

Sweet talk and some

Nice time, you share.

On a day random,

you normally won't care.

Sweet happy chance,

You're quite bright !

While planning to write ...

Your sudden entrance.

Soon she was here.

And other young folk.

Their energetic talk

found me all cheer.

Now I'm grinning

stupidly, happily.

Gazing emptily

at the same world spinning.

Spinning now prettily

on a Friday evening.

Distressful Homonyms

Distressful Homonyms

Since for me now you have no warmth to spare

I sense I must adopt a sane and spare

Philosophy to ease a restless state

Fuelled by this uncaring. It will state

A very meagre truth: love like the rest

Of our emotions, sometimes needs a rest.

Happiness, too, no doubt; and so, why even

Hope that 'the course of true love' could run even?

by Vikram Seth

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Mr. Seth

Excuse me if I violated some

Written law. "Hunted" the poem from

a website, aptly called poemhunter.com !

But if I did err, there was volition

I have to agree, though no ill intention.

'll regret I think not, later this action.

Praise I must, though my person

is far invisible from your station.

This, an inferior poet's commendation,

is a small token of appreciation

For your simple sad observation

on a restless lover's situation.

On the technical side of things,

the distressful homonyms

may appear a cheat for easy rhymes.

A cheat that is harder than not !

Can not imagine how you got

this gift for craft and for thought.

Cheers !

Narimus

Dear Reader,

This doggerel of a token

is a weird recommendation.
It was not the intended action.

Still if you entertain this notion,

a happy accident. Your attention

may take a chance diversion.

I will only say this much.

Enjoyed Mr. Seth's poem a bunch.

And others also from his whole bunch.

yours truly,

Narimus

History's Kiss

Leading this modern life in many a comfort,

By a decade, a day, an hour or perhaps a year,

The medieval man's faithful horse's trot

stumped my brain, amused this current ear.

Cradled in Now's sure hands' long reach,

it is hard to hark the quiet gurgle of History.

No cars, no fire, no invention, not even speech !

That there was such a time when all was mystery.

So foolish of this brain to Think now is forever.

Soon will come a time when we will be ancient,

This computer a kid's toy, this phone a souvenir,

Our "modern" ways old fashion, in a future present.

My Man, modern is but a word, don't take too literally.

Feel History's kiss, tender, passionate, or scary.

Reveal she'll, to one who listens, this perpetual story.

Your and Her work in progress - Mankind's symphony.

------------------------------------------------------------

Our history, for us, she spins

Our now, what we may become.

And how future eye imagines

Us, guess we may, for wisdom,

for finding posts and signs

to our address in Earth's kingdom.

But never ever forget,

O dear forgetful Poet,

In the longest scheme of things

- why that's history's history ! -

like a new diamond ring

pretty but carbon only,

(some twelve, thirteen some)

so are we specks lovely

of dust, flying casually,

In Time's vast vast Kingdom

On the spot

Put yourself on the spot,
To see what you're made of.

Memory of an Air Cooler

Sitting, smiling, shaking a memory half full,
my clock takes a break from regular schedule.
This train of thought, on a whimisical time,
Arrives at Past. That place of most charming clime.
Back home, back in school, in the summer times,
the empty school's joy fed our morning crimes.

And hot then used to be, and hotter still !
Yet - carefree abandon - we played until
Our legs took us home, our Ma's shouting shrill.
A happy shower followed. Then, our stomach ride thrill.

We lunched away glorious to our heart's absolute fill.
Soon sleep would beckon and we'd seek your saree's frill.
O Cooler ! So cozy was your nest by the window sill.

You cooled calmed cared, gave memories pleasant still !

-----------------------------------------------------------------

PS : again a 14-liner, not a Sonnet !

this meter business is such a headache :(

Might I borrow, as a template,

your pretty perfect poems, dear Mr. Seth ?!

A God concept

My God, I call it It.

Some call their God, Him.

Some others don't give a shit.

Probably God is but one's whim.

How do I describe It ?

It is all there is.

It is all there was.

It is all there will be.

It is the grand cosmos,

The potential of the universe.

Most magnificent it always was.

Most magnanimous it unfolds to us.

It, a part of you salutes thee !

Your beauty and majesty humbles. Soothes me.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PS : Jonas's star, I liken IT to thee :)

Analysis and too much of it.

Analyse much my thoughts,

of this 'm guilty some days.

A confession of sorts,

'll write-confess, feel better today.

It gets to other selves,

I have no doubt. I try grudge not.

On days, it gets to m'self !

I try I try to stop.

Analysis, I love your company.

Be my friend. Don't misunderstand me.

But our friendship overdone and I'll crazy.

You're a mode but also a drug, believe you me.

Over-Analysis, you're surefire enemy !

You might win, hope not, but'll resist bravely.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PS : a 14-line poem, not a Sonnet.
Mistakenly thought otherwise the poet,
until he learnt that the form is stricter,
battle he must the Iambic Pentameter !

Happy Birthdays

On a gone birthday,
a year not long gone,
thought -- though I was gay --
'twas no special occasion.

To be had realized today,
was that great gift - Reflection !
On years gone away
And years yet to come.

Yet it needs no ceremony,
this present for any mood.
'tis a celebration of Harmony !
Of Sentiments. Of Solitude.

Let us then, this Special anniversary
of birthing cute, innocent and nude,
spend in merry company
or perhaps, in silent gratitude.


-------------------------
around 4/1/10 (Apr 1, 2010)


Thank You, Dear Student
for being my muse.
Your sweet smiling sentiment
lit this mind's fuse.

Poetry gives me Joy

The Joys of Verse
Lie not in mere versification,
But while happens the fuss,
In that artful thought,
and that crafted expression.

No if no but, No long no short,
Too unruly appear it may,
Still Poetry is a mind sport
With rules to many's dismay.

But worry not, my Poet Dear.
The sport is not unkind.
You're the sole rule maker.
Follow them to train the mind.

Train but strain not too much.
Go forth and do thy bidding.
Experience Written Word's tender touch.
Say aloud your deepest feeling.

Poetry is to life - Play the game -
As a beautiful drop to open sea !
Journey and Exploration ought be the same.
Life's a journey, Explorers are We.

Whatever may I make of Poetry,
The art does not come easy.
Yet the Muse, to each her citizenry,
Gives -- but not too gently.

Unforgiving she may be,
And may need much attending,
But perchance she comes to Be,
O Poet, it is a great great great feeling !

In the end,
Happy or Sad you may still be,
but it is a happy-sad joyous ending.


-------

early version of 1st stanza

The Joys of Verse
Lie not in mere versification,
But while happens the activity's fuss,
In that artful thought and that crafted expression.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Joys of Poetry
Lie not in mere versification,
But while happens the activity,
In the artful thought and crafted expression.

A Belated Welcome to Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

I invite you to my writings.
But first how goes your tidings.
Hope all's well with you,
Your near dears, I wish them too.

Would you be kind enough,

If you weren't totally put off,

To leave a word or so

if it's not much ado.

In case you intend to comment,
at the risk of being impudent,

I'd like to request you

to bear me a stanzas few .

Let not feelings of nicety,

Impediment you from sincerity.

Be true, be merciless,

Even at the expense of anonymity.

Free Criticism one gets seldom.

If you share your store of wisdom,

I will thank greatly

for your time which was free.

I hope it's not much to ask,

But let not this be a task,

for a task is almost never fun,

except for the enlightened one!

With this I take my leave,

And wish you more joy less peeve,

O fellow one of the same seed,

Let us rejoice, write and read !

yours truly,

Narimus

Battle Cry against Obsession

Let not a single thought

Much too obsess you.
Become it'll, I doubt not,

A giant fireball. Consume you.

Feed it not another thought,
lest it became a cranial gout.

Trifles forgotten, ah but all forgot !
It'll rein you thither, around, about.

Play not with fire, they say,
in their wisdom infinite.

Fight this fiery monster, I say

slay it with all your might.

Let it not push you around,

you're no so so boy,

We will fight, teeth and sound

till our sanity holds sway.

Till the world revolves around,

we might have to fight,

but we must, we are bound,

till our enemy sees flight.

And then we'd bid kind adieu,

for our souls will be cleansed,

we'd harbor no residue

of ill-will, hate or incense.

For we are just curious kids

in a ripe universe,

playing about, tied to her bids,

Immaturity our curse.

But we will grow up too

and make our enemy our friend

and each thought, given its due,

will coexist amongst a blend

of insights and ruminations,

syllogisms and paradoxes,

all our mind's concoctions

like colours in colour boxes.

Yes, Yes, there's hope

for sanity and the sane.

O Rational Man ! Vouch to fight and cope,

for thought's dear own sake - Amen.

-------------------------------------------------

An Apology in Post Script

PS : As for me, O dear Reader,

'm an incompetent pursuer,

And there's something I greatly fear.

Lend to me a kind gentle ear.

After all, What is a Poem ?,

but - to me - a device sincere.

Shows where the poet is coming from.

Is Not - I strongly feel - a liar's gear.

And who is the worst liar ?

A simple man in a trap severe ?

Or our well meaning mischief maker ?

No, unforgivable is the unbelieving Preacher !

Hence sermonizing I try avoid,

'cause I'm a lazy man in plain speech.

I'd rather dream in an empty void

Than Practice not what I preach.

So then, the first poem was to be

a reflection on obsession,

Got carried away, me poet wannabe,

Off in a different direction.

Moved I was to relate,

quite involuntarily,

For what reason I forget,

Except I was guilty,

of thinking thoughts perhaps trifling,

over and over and over again.

Till I was pretty much obsessing,

Exaggerate if I may, going insane.

Probably a happy accident

delivered me sane again,

Rid of the predicament,

I set to write then -

Or maybe, in the throes

of useless synaptic firing -

in verse as opposed to prose.

I forget the timing.

Started I to write earnestly,

stumbled onto a writer's block.

Gave up too soon too easily,

Should have shown some pluck.

Chanced again on those scribbled

stanzas, on a random day.

Read them quick, then dribbled

the idea of finishing without delay.

But the muse had other ideas,

Ended up writing what you read.

Seeded though the poem was

with a different dye and different thread,

To me it read differently.

A Cry against thinking Singly,

dogmatically, fanatically.

A Cry for thinking rationally.

Alas ! it is ironical,

that this chance meandering

on a landscape literal,

sedimented something

that pertains only too closely,

to the times we inhabit presently.

Thus, veer I did, but sadly,

this apology seems unnecessary.

A farewell note, my dear Reader -

Tolerate this poem affably.

Apologetic it may appear,

but is not written insincerely.

The Decent Man

Is he a wolf really,
When they look at him like that ?
When they sneer at him
as if he's a salivating canine.
When he is being nice
even when he's so hungry.
'Cause for real, he knows
that being nice is a good thing,
and nicety (not Knowing)
will Save him in the end.

Is he a wolf really,
when amidst other wolves,
he tries to have a fuckin' good time ?
When for that fleeting moment,
he lets go and gives himself
to everyone and everything,
when for that tiniest fraction of life,
all his burdens evaporate,
all cares and woes forgotten,
that's when, with ever more sharpness,
he finds in their eyes, -
crystalising - his demons, staring
with red wolf eyes, at him.

My friend, I wish I could save you.
I so dearly wish so.

I dance in joy for a fleeting moment's eternity.

The poor animal, the weak animal

in the wild wide steppes

trees blowing river flowing

the clouds tell thousand stories

and vivid is all

and harsh is all

and blood courses through its veins

what for, why, what for !

fly fly fly fly fly fly fly

the urban jungle welcomes no one

dull white brown and smoke

and ant I become in this anthill

of shady sides and rowdy cries

I drink it all and beer

drown my thoughts in motion

and fatigue rescues me like

Alladin's carpet ...

I fly I fly over the city
The beautiful city, beautiful streets

terraces lines spikes and gardens

churches dogs parks cars

and people walking talking,

selling crying helping lying ...

Swoosh swoosh swoosh down

in to this room small,

four guys singing a song,

a desk, papers and poem,

and a book and Newton

and love and imagination.

I dance in joy for a fleeting moment's eternity.

Sermon on Loneliness and Sharing

Loneliness is a tough diamond-serrated grinder that can, for the lens-maker's eye, shape the mundane into a flawless lens - through which, more often than not, the lens-maker sees a beautiful diamond shining radiantly. It's called Sharing.

In Praise of MacLaughlin

Flitting about

the notes

on a sensuous neck,

hither and thither

like a snake,

glistening and possessed.

Whence it calms down,

becomes a seductress,

meditates a little,

now becoming a spell

now a poet -

mesmerizes them.

Harmony - all made one,

instrument, maker and creation.

Recipes using unripe mangoes

These recipes were inspired after eating sweet radish cubes served before the main meal at a Korean Restaurant. The main ingredient is mango at a stage in its ripening when it's neither sweet nor unripe and sour. Its colour is light green and the flesh would yield slightly to force.

1) A Salad consisting of mango, cucumber, mint and kala namak or black salt. The mango and cucumber can be cut into small cubes. The mango provides the matrix of the taste with cucumber serving as a secondary filler. The mint adds to the freshness and salt makes for a chatpata beginning.

2) The mango is cut into eight pieces and polka dotted with milk chocolate on the darker side. To make the polka dots, one would have to melt the chocolate and pour it through a sieve which has small circular holes.

These recipes may serve as refreshing appetizers before the main course.