Is my poetry
hymnal?
of life's another dimension
I write.
my poems are ethereal
there's untold beauty
beyond
revealed to me like a mystery

no convincing do I need
I default if I were to doubt
for earth is temporality

here's but the sighs
the intense fever
the heart quivers
the restlessness
the endless misery
the turbulent sea
the human boat
on a ruinous journey

I believe
and uphold
the Light
I embrace
that Magnificence
I'm saved
by Grace
my humility
becomes my transcendence

even when all strength
has abandoned me
and I can no longer write
my faith shall falter not
as I gently walk
into the eternal night.

For a while, today
just for today
home I'll not stay
and from myself I'll walk away-

my cloistered self--with none
I share--- what I'm my verses convey-
love and faith I deny--- when all's said and done
my life is empty and my days are grey.

My heart doesn't wander
in careless search of love
but I've never been
a love-smotherer

solitude I hug
like none other
while love vacillates
my aloneness survives every weather.

Engaging my heart
with others? It seems
too burdensome and hard
sadness itself I've had too much-

moving away saves
on both sides many a heartbreak
a single boat in the stream
impedes no other. For the sake

of individual freedom
I prefer to live alone
nature is never obtrusive
seeds of contentment it has sown

in the garden of my heart
how sweet, how tender
is her voice.  With her I engage
bliss it is. I need no other.

Don't bother, my friend
to visit, just write when you will
here's my thankful letter
the night is cold and still--

don't let my lonesome words
affect you---life offers me a misery-pill
I swallow it without regret or fear
often I wished it would ****.

I hate to give
love a bad name
I shy away
by choice not of shame-

how could a rose
ever blow the same?
lovers I envy not
as they play their unsure game.

The long-drawn summer hours
how they oppress my spirit
I long for the soberness of autumn
as I weary and despondent in my kitchen sit--

among the loud, ambitious and smart
I can't mix---I don't have their wit
the moon and stars to me their stories unfold
I think my sympathy they seek to elicit.

Joys are rare
they deceive
time is a liar
and a thief--

yet to the thin thread
of life I hold though with no relief
the hills are dark and tonight they brood
I've nothing to long for or believe.

I'll not write tonight
heavy is my soul
like the dying star
I couldn't be made whole--

I'm falling, crumbling, sinking
drowning, hard of breathing
as that lone star makes its descending
I'll embrace it and gladly celebrate my dying.

Earth is temporal
there's a life beyond
living is an illusion
dying ushers in the dawn-

the impure and imperfect
all that's blemished shall be gone
eternity shines its light
on the believing--they shall be reborn.

Unrelenting is the winter--night
        I'm yet to cover so many miles
       bitter winds smite my pale face
       all my longing heart knows is sighs-

       no wrong have I done
        songs is all I write
       love is loath to come my way
       consolation is not in sight-
  
      an *****-grinder I meet
      he says:  Lost we are--you and I
      homeless and loveless without hope
     it'd be a blessing this night to die'-

     I can see tears in his eyes
     and with these words I reply:
     I'm the composer of Winterreise
    a song I'll sing now--as the dying leaves drift by

The falling petals bear my tears
    the green fields I'll not visit again
    a heartless scythe is fate
    my only companion is unceasing pain-

    by the world neglected
    and forgotten-- my life is all in vain
   through my lonely window I gaze
   a gray sky trembles over the plain-

   my friends no longer look my way
   from mentioning my name they refrain
   how happy they all are--revelling in wine and song
  such great spirits they maintain

while I'm withering, wasting, love-wanting
waiting for my sanity to propitiously return
hope eludes me, the night mocks me-  life's nonchalant-
poetry alone is my consolation as I write this my last testament

* the great nature/rural poet, was placed in the asylum from1837--1841; absconded in 1841 and walked 80 miles home. Wrote 3,000 poems, also essays and journals.  A tragic life.  ' I AM' is perhaps his most poignant poem.  I read the poem aged 14 from a book-prize awarded by my school, in the then Malaya, a British colony until 1957

In one hand
beauty I hold
in the other
sorrow untold-

I'm dying
in this late winter
Rome is not home
to return to England never-

love is beyond my reach
fate is too cruel
I'm fading away in illness
with nothing to fulfil-

no epitaph will I write
only my poetry will speak for me
ah,  how sweet will that moment of release be
when I fall into my final sleep-- so gladly

Secrets does night hold
its mysteries can't be ever told
the heart in melancholy weeps
lovers find it hard to sleep--

these dark hours are long
there's no comfort in verse or song
what's in store at the dawn
when tonight's shadows are gone?

Rest, oh rest so sublime

as night drifts into the unknown

forgotten is weary time

this, the sojourn alone--



light, oh light so calm

all darkness on swift wings has flown

ah, sleep so welcome--  the sweetest balm

what the living have never ever  known

Life I love
        also meaning
       if both I can't have
      the latter would be my choosing

How could you ever lose
when your mind cares not to choose?

Pale leaves fall silently in the dead of winter
I realise I have lived far too long
I was once a bold and outgoing singer
but no longer has life left me any single song-

in the night's thickest snow I wander
the heartless winds they blow loud and strong
tears of forlorn love on icy rocks they flounder
in this chilling hour I weep,  to none do I belong

Age might not be the splendour of beauty

     there's grace and charm still to be cherished

     proud youth dwelt in self-absorbed  folly

     only in the ruins of time to be sadly banished

My love, as you lie on your bed
the first morning rose I'll pick--upon
your gentle hair to deck
ere the day's sunshine is gone

Poetry, like music.
at its utmost poignancy
speaks of melancholy
which will be engraved
in timeless memory

nothing can usurp
its grandeur and beauty
even at its darkest our
it  echoes so sublimely :

'Hearts,  do not weep
love surely there shall be
springing from every teardrop
and set your misery free'.

Here I am, in my despair
and loneliness, prayerfully
open my heart to its tender voice
and my ears to its ever-blessed melody

The heart that loves truly
         has a foretaste of eternity
         beyond the pale of the earthly
         it dwells in untold bliss and beauty

When the tides run low and wavelets have perished
and the sky is sullen and has lost its glorious shine
when every spring -flower in the meadow has vanished
and love's once-blissful kisses are no longer mine-

I remember that bitter winter day
you walked away and stole my every smile
all my dreams and hopes they did all at once decay
'twas then I first learned of love's cruel sting and mindless wile.

After the deluge
a new order
has emerge -
the past
will be buried
and we
who have  existed
in that episode
have now assumed
the mantle
of leadership
a better world
a Utopia indeed
to create-

we must not fail:
the future
shall remember
what we've done
and said
all of which
shall be enshrined
in its book-
our struggle
our sweat
our tears
and our history
it will faithfully record.

Our over-statement

could be our dumbest moment

The highest prize

does genius pay

the self it does antagonise

torture is the order of the day

In the cradle of the universe
sits my soul.  I'll sing my song
that will vibrate through space-
the moon and stars shall bend
to hear its every jubilant note
the clouds shall scatter its splendour
like petals over the surface
of the earth---every life
every living thing, every voice,
every heart blends in the silent mystery
of oneness--this is the quintessence
of existence--words--they are the mouth-piece
of a Higher Being that resides
within every man and woman
I am every man
I am every woman
I am all things
that breathe
that dares to reach out
for the beyond--
we are not of separate parts
but leaves on the same tree
with common roots
that first gave us life
for this is a tree
that is anchored
in timelessness
beyond age
and decay--

I would die
happy
even as a blade
of grass, a patch of ****
or a tiny little flower
in some unknown field

to regrow
in a season to come

We are slothful and complacent
thinking is too much pain
we'll travel with others in the    common wagon
instead of being against the grain--

the initial ride was joyous
the experience seemed so sane
towards the near end the wagon fell apart
we were broken and never the same again.

..and such are moments
in life that leave you agape
the world is shrouded in grey
and the day's landscape is out of shape-

friendship suddenly turns silent
in strange garments it does drape
love does not keep its appointment
the heart is in lockdown and can't escape

How austere and grim
it would seem
the stone-walls are saying:
'memento mori'
as one unobtrusively
walks by -and further
'  I don't need any company'-

  stones have hearts too
  if you could believe me-

time has made them weary
they have witnessed and heard
too many a human story
once tears they did shed
for frail and sad humanity
but their hearts have hardened
seared by man's inhumanity-

some villagers vowed
they had heard
at midlight's depth
voices from the hill
where the stone-walls stood
as though in muted sobbing
at hours so solemnly still--

I walk nearby
past midnight
but that path
I would not tread
not out of dread
but in silent respect
as I well know
the stones want
to be left alone
not to be engaged
or met.

I have no agenda
I don't induce
persuade, provoke
or incite. Billions
of words are written
every day and more
are spread and spoken-
I've nothing much to say
I merely search my heart. Faraway
from the debating forum
I look, listen and stay. Enough it is
for the world welters in the inundated sea of verbiage. Of hearing I'm  weary and my heart is heavy--the onslaught is killing me.

Ours is the age that has lost its innocence. It has eyes but cannot see. Its heart it has discarded and it cannot feel. Its voice is chocked in vengeance and anger on which it feeds. It knows not it has died a moral and ignominious death and is still insisting to be heard in the public square.

Agenda.
The word I fear
and to it I'd never draw near.

I should not labour
nor squeeze words
by their throat-
coercion is the death
of writing-- self-defeating
totally blind and absurd

with them I'll embark upon
a gentle dialogue
no damage would there be
nor unwanted shock

each an entity of their own
in uniqueness and trait
mutual respect is the route
to fruitful understanding's gate

humble and patient I will be
together we will celebrate
the outcome of a poem
that would beauty and ingratiate.

A GIFT OF OLD AGE

If old age does a gift on me bestow
it would be just: silence
in my youngish and manhood years
I had exhausted every single sentence

erroneously borrowed from writers,
from professors, friends, the clergy,
leaders, politicians, loud-mouths,
fanatics and extremists ( I didn't know then)--an endless litany

and I discover much too late
truth is only a word thrown about
for the convenience of the speakers
the stronger their conviction, the louder they shout

as they have all the answers
' you don't know-- you out
there---it's about time you followed us
we'll rid you of every doubt'

how I detest slogans now
pontifications are the death of me
I am lost for words--silence I choose--
myself I blame for my past stupidity

soon,  too soon I'll be walking
to life's terminus--near, so near-
with a tiny signboard ' finis'
I'll be quiet and calm --without a single doubt or fear.

It's a good day
when no one mentions
my name in any way

If you truly loved me
     those words you wouldn't have said
     now I've come to realise the truth --
     our relationship has been a mistake-

     no more need I respond
     we'll part for each other's sake
     against you I'll hold no acrimony
     in our new-found freedom we'll celebrate

Should I indoor stay
or should I go out?
it's a lustrous spring-day
that's not in any doubt--

the words knocked and they won't go away
first they gently pleaded and then began to shout:
don't you leave--the world outside will lead you astray
your poem will perish amidst the cacophonous crowd!

Those who know you well
tend to keep away to avoid familiarity
those who have just come to know you
wish to know more out of curiosity

I shouldn't comment
lest our friendship
were to come to an end

How could I bite you, Henry, tell me?
I have no tooth--- you are ridiculously silly!

I've no religion
to nowhere do I turn:
in my saddest moment
I seek refuge only in my inner sanctum

I've never learnt
how to say a prayer
my heart I silence
no word can I find to utter

no supplication
nor pity  do I seek
consolation if there were
it doesn't rise to speak

time shall dim my eyes
yet no tear or fear will I suffer
in utter calm I'll wait for the morrow
after the night's darkest hour is over

Be gentle and generous to everyone
don't offend or stay in the way of anyone

Let love reign

let compassion fall

like merciful rain


let joy spread

like beautiful flowers

in every shape


let every heart

be at peace

never to cease


let smiles grace

every moment of day

to chase every sorrow away


let  faith and hope

be life's beacon

let prayer never be broken

Let love reign

let compassion fall

like merciful rain


let joy spread

like beautiful flowers

in every shape


let every heart

be at peace

never to cease


let smiles grace

every moment of day

to chase every sorrow away


let  faith and hope

be life's beacon

let prayer never be broken

Grant me the gift of small words
that I might speak in simplicity
then my heart will smile and bend towards
their tender beauty and clarity.

Forbid that I should ever plead
for the loud, grandiose and ornate vocabulary
my voice would but choke and die
in that tainted and blemished artificiality.

Alas!
how many did such utter
at last!

If someone
were always saying
'I want to be positive'
the likelihood is
that person's living
has been negative

Late autumn
just a fallen yellow leaf
why do you stop
to look-- then reluctantly leave?

A leap in the dark
don't, it's dangerous
even by the spark
of day---quite ridiculous!

This I must master:
   never complain
   none likes the grumbler
   who's a bagful of grievous pain.

Dear Peter,

But you are a peaceful person
while I have never been-
my extreme tendencies,  while they have given me strength and courage to be what I am,
are also the cause of my unpleasantness, my peremptoriness and my rudeness--also crudeness and sometimes, insensitivity.
I don't enjoy it but just as a dog has a tail, I am stuck to what's in me and what I am.
Cutting the tail off? You might as well **** the dog!
Cut half of it?  The animal would never be the same again-
it has lost its pride, dignity and disparate self!  Its existence would have no meaning, it would count no more but would rather perish.

I don't compromise or, even if I do, it's a reserved and partly insincere compromise-
in short, not only do I have more faults than others
but, more importantly, they are enormous  in size and proportion
and are damaging sometimes.

Yet strangely,  there are some who like my accompany
but perhaps more who would keep their distance.
I don't blame the latter--they are right in their judgement and perception.

You might ask: are you happy being ruled by extremities?

My answer: I can't help it and I can't say I'm unhappy on account of this--my ugly blemish.

However you might interpret,  it's that you had seen me as a young man of 20 in 1960?
and have the chance now to compare that person with a very old man who is turning 78 this year.

My last word: I don't hate myself for my faults--whatever good that I have done, it's up to my family
to decide. But I know they would be biased.

These are my last 5, 7, 8 and at most, perhaps 10 years--I would waste no time
to do what I must, free and unencumbered, letting the world and people go by in their own  way--which means so little to me
(as I have to think of my self-interest first) and then fade away, hopefully without pain and with calm acceptance,
into the night to which I would return no more.  'Someday it would be good to die…', from a poem of Christina Rossetti whose poetry
has inspired several of mine.

Be of good cheer--you have a wonderful family and are already blessed.

Your unpopular friend
M.S  
dated 1st January 2018