Life has exceptions
indeed too many
beware of assumptions
lest you court catastrophe!

For favour of anyone I never ask
none has snubbed me or put me to task

I live in the world
but will not allow it to mould me
to none nor to any cause will I surrender
only then could I be truly free

Don't ask your boss for a raise
when he's in one of those ugly days!

How could I measure myself?
I only have a 12-inch ruler
I'm not out for attraction
why should I bother?

Give me a person who is COMPLETELY true
and gladly I would thank you

People pass by
and you they would bypass

When is a wise man a fool
and a fool who springs a surprise?

I write and, in doing so,I find my complete freedom
which no one could ever steal from me--
I have built my impregnable kingdom.

To be one's own victim
is the worst punishment
the saddest situation to be in

The truest measurement of a person
is not when he's successful but
in his failure or defeat
which tests his entire being and heart

Even in my utmost despondency
I should not drown in self-pity

I should learn to doubt and disbelieve
greater peace of mind I would likely then achieve

Oh no, don't follow me
you are your own identity

The self is the best ground
for one's earnest study
once self-understanding has been found
coping with life and the world would be easy.

My first word on getting up:
DISCOVER

My last word on going to bed:
FORGET

One word that will save my day:
PATIENCE

One word that would unsettle me for the day:
ANGER

One word for the day that will draw others to me:
HUMILITY

ENGAGEMENT is the name of the game of life--
it's that latent creative energy that is released, it's like Zen really--
being absorbed into the immediacy, we remove our old habits, our fixed pattern of thinking;  we cease to analyse or intellectualise ; we let go of our rigidities and are different from what we were before-- we see things with deeper insight and are amazed at the discovery.  


We learn so much from the curiosity, spontaneity, naturalness and the unbridled enthusiasm of children.  We have grown up but have somehow lost that sense of wonder which is the source of all our creativity.

Let us then step back and rewire and retune our thinking mode to be more efficient, more productive and happier.

It would only seem
( I can't be sure
whether this is THE thing)
I can't persuade other writers
to agree ( readers aside)
their experiences
are not mine
they might know more
and could be right-
in my not-knowing
alone I stand
but to doubts
I don't bow
I write
in order
to know
and to understand

is a poem reasoned
it's its birth-place the left-brain
the logical and analytical locus
that spawns the poetic thoughts
and outpourings? A mechanical outcome
a product from the conveyor-- belt
when the factory's button
is switched on
by the eager writing hand?

is a poem born
from a test-tube
a microscope
or a clinical trial
with the poet
as scientist
or progenitor?

An avant-garde poet
(just an acquaintance )
to me he wrote to advise:
'  You must sit down
   and plan
   you must map
  your thoughts--
  don't forget
  your are an engineer
  a scientist
or architect--
  
words are your tools
  have your dictionary
  and thesaurus around
(your tool-box so to speak)
you would need the hammer
the nuts and screws, the spanner
a welding machine or a cutter
nail your words
and thoughts
think of a factory-line
let your every phrase
and sentence
line in sequence
as the railway carriages
follow the running train
if you fail
try and try again
all works-in-progress
would end as finished products
ready for the market'

but
I was not trained
and would be pained
under the weight
of rigorous constraint
I would be imprisoned
the best part of myself I would lose
all my poems would then
weep unrestrained
perhaps I would not write again--


is this THE thing
that does the intuiting?
a feeling stirs within
(its whereof I have no inkling)
it won't go away
and begs to be listened to
a strange mood descends
and guides my hand
I write
(I don't reason)
the words from
some stream
of half-consciousness
rushes to fill
the empty writing-
paper that lies awaiting--
I am reborn
my energy begins its soaring
to a celestial- beyond- time unfolding
(what beauty and radiance
that follows without reasoning!
the feeling
embodies
the ultimate meaning
undoing
all conscious thinking)-

then
my poem
witnesses
its natural dawning.

It would only seem
( I can't be sure
whether this is THE thing)
I can't persuade other writers
to agree ( readers aside)
their experiences
are not mine
they might know more
and could be right-
in my not-knowing
alone I stand
but to doubts
I don't bow
I write
in order
to know
and to understand

is a poem reasoned
it's its birth-place the left-brain
the logical and analytical locus
that spawns the poetic thoughts
and outpourings? A mechanical outcome
a product from the conveyor-- belt
when the factory's button
is switched on
by the eager writing hand?

is a poem born
from a test-tube
a microscope
or a clinical trial
with the poet
as scientist
or progenitor?

An avant-garde poet
(just an acquaintance )
to me he wrote to advise:
'  You must sit down
   and plan
   you must map
  your thoughts--
  don't forget
  your are an engineer
  a scientist
or architect--
  
words are your tools
  have your dictionary
  and thesaurus around
(your tool-box so to speak)
you would need the hammer
the nuts and screws, the spanner
a welding machine or a cutter
nail your words
and thoughts
think of a factory-line
let your every phrase
and sentence
line in sequence
as the railway carriages
follow the running train
if you fail
try and try again
all works-in-progress
would end as finished products
ready for the market'

but
I was not trained
and would be pained
under the weight
of rigorous constraint
I would be imprisoned
the best part of myself I would lose
all my poems would then
weep unrestrained
perhaps I would not write again--


is this THE thing
that does the intuiting?
a feeling stirs within
(its whereof I have no inkling)
it won't go away
and begs to be listened to
a strange mood descends
and guides my hand
I write
(I don't reason)
the words from
some stream
of half-consciousness
rushes to fill
the empty writing-
paper that lies awaiting--
I am reborn
my energy begins its soaring
to a celestial- beyond- time unfolding
(what beauty and radiance
that follows without reasoning!
the feeling
embodies
the ultimate meaning
undoing
all conscious thinking)-

then the poem
by the heart's purity endowed
springs into a life of its own
and comes into resplendent flowering

I never have contemplated
I would be a writer to be remembered

Every writer
even those with the loftiest dream
pauses as words fail
and runs out of steam

What and how
should I write today?
assailed by every doubt
which just won't walk away

The self lives in time and space
but is somehow estranged---tragic dilemma!
they lie who say life is grace
everyday I feel death's nearness---never far!

My mind is the writer
my heart is the editor

I live
while others struggle
to believe
or disbelieve.

I was not born to compete
the least anyone to unseat

The wind blows
hither and thither
my heart knows
there's no forever.

Love does catch
colds and coughs
its temperature, watch
also its peaks and troughs.

If she does remember
and I sincerely hope not
she would lose her slumber
pricked by every thought.

If not this
then that?
no-- something half-way?
caveat !

Life is not handsome
more to do with humdrum.

They lied
saying
life was all
upside

Bitten
but not beaten!

We tend to think we are someone who's special
as it makes us feel good, at least some times in our lives
but this can be self-delusion and we  will get depressed or feel disappointed when we discover later on we weren't that--
then the wall collapses on us.

So few do realise that self-honesty is very healthy
and that we can achieve so much with a sense of purpose, though being ordinary

Write to express
not to impress

It's not worth the poetry
      unless it touches on the heart of humanity

Write what you can
       never be a charlatan

My poetry is never great
         at best,  only readable
         I'll be more than elated
         if someone finds it pleasurable

Don't force the words
don't exaggerate
it bespeaks of struggle
the reader it would not ingratiate

A big vocabulary
     is far from a guarantee
     of good poetry

So many times I did fail
   I tried, over and again, I tried
   often to little avail
    I cried, silently I cried

There's no season for ripening
  I'll just continue with my writing

It's far from the mark
     an aroused feeling or a noble thought
     unless the right chord is struck
     no beauty would be wrought

When I sense that the idea which is hatching in my mind

seems a carbon-copy of someone else's,

I realise I am on the wrong track and immediately abandon it-

not to do this is dishonesty and hypocrisy which I can't live with.

He is wise who makes no promises.

Should love be the SOLE reason for living?