Words, once obedient servants
Now claim suzerainty over ideas.
The age of meaningful verse has yielded
To gobbledygook.
Poetry, a grey mist half-understood
Through which I stumble blindly,
A mirage I chase through the sands...
The wells of creativity run dry.
Neither outpourings of emotion nor tender murmurs;
Mere craftsmanship remains.
Lines dolled up in ****** baubles
Literary ****** soliciting passing readers,
Fireflies, impotent
In the face of the darkness within.
The autumn harvest of verbosity is ripe
For the scythe of the Grim Reaper
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
I long for your cooling embrace
After the relentless flames of the world;
Give me repose, Mother Ganga, for I come to your arms as ashes. 1
Increasingly irksome was the mortal garb,
And the silken ties too tight.
The skein has unravelled,
And I am one with the sky and the stars,
Those symbols of eternity;
Have left behind mortal playmates, fickle emotions...
My pen sobs
And I lack the courage to speak the truth,
To let it know
That it has finally run dry, and I, empty.
Words fail me, like the 'Brahmastra', at vital moments. 2
Perhaps I, too, carry the curse
Of some Bhargava ? 2
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
I sit by the window looking out
And see myself reflected
Outside the glass looking in.
Reality and illusion facing off -
Or is the window the only reality
Separating two ghosts;
Or perhaps imprisoning just the schizoid singularity
Of a self-absorbed existence?
A Rowlingesque Hogwartian mirror showing
My heart's deepest desire - myself -
A true inheritor
To the mantle of Narcissus
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
Is it my imagination
Or are there far fewer birds singing ?
What dawn do they mutely await
Through the long night of terror ?
Silence speaks of pervasive fear
And of the loss of ancestral nests.
The protector has taken an axe to the trees.
Trees fall; the earth shakes.
Raucous cries of dispossession supplant birdsong
As the khaki-clad hunters *** sitting ducks
While Zeus' swans feast on Leda's flesh.
Rejoice, my countrymen, for the prophecy has come true
-The state has indeed withered away.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC
It's a long way to twilight
With the day refusing to die.
The fiercely beating sun digging his heels in,
Dogged in retreat;
The stars and the moon bashfully hidden
Behind the veil of his blazing glare.
The sky cloudless, no impediment
To the spears of his incandescent beams;
The road, barren, tree-less.
Only the shrubbery of razor-sharp pebbles underfoot,
Kin to the cacti
Without even the saving grace
Of their greenness.
It's a long way to twilight
And the day refuses to die...
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 1:09 PM UTC