When and how shall I be
'  wholly I'?
a dumb question

to me
to be whole
would be a cul-de-sac
a full-stop
a coda
a nightmare
as I won't be able then
to go anywhere
to grow
and would not even know
my real self-
I have been too used
to my not being 'whole'-
I delight in being what I am
in my not being complete.

Because I am not
'wholly I'
I would still be able
to flirt and play with life
pull its ears and retain
my innocence and incompleteness
dance and run with it
in mirth
and that makes
for joy
for freedom
for spontaneity
and real living.

Being 'whole'
then
would unmake me
and turn me into
what I desire not.

I don't want
to be a fake
of a human being
I want to be incomplete.

There's no perfect moon
no perfect sky
no perfect stars
no perfect rose
no perfect poem
no perfect beauty
no perfect happiness
no perfect love

for
what has become
loses the grandeur
of the coming-to-be.

Life should not be
a final summation
but an unfinished equation-
work-in-progress
that shall never be
a finished product-
that's where the wonder is--
the song still being sung
is more beautiful
and more desired
than when it has ended.

I don't want
to be the perfect I
the perfect man-
to be in that state
would make me inhuman.

You, whether a friend or not
if we should meet
just regard me
as a person incomplete.

Is it true-
poets, more than others
weep?

beauty they worship
and if it is blemished or defiled
by man's callousness and indifference-
they lose heart
and even in their sleep
they are inconsolable

there is healing
in tears
despite the anguish
over time and past years.

Is it true
poets, more than others
love?

their yearnings
know no rest
and their passions
fearlessly sweep
over the wildest mountains
and the most tempestuous seas
even the bitterest Arctic

they burn like fire
and melt
every lingering piece of snow
they write across the sky
their poignant and painful poems
' Love is life's most sublime gift
and stronger than death'.

Are poets, more than others
lonely?

dwelling in the universe
of words and feelings
they are strangers to the world
even to themselves
as they struggle to find themselves
and unravel life's multifold mysteries.

Are poets, more than others
melancholic?

they dream of a world
beyond time
wrapped in eternally sweet dreams
only to end
in disillusionment and despair
(reality is too harsh and too cruel-
purveyor of the baneful, mundane
the uninspiring, the inane)

Should poets
be scoffed at

because
they long
for the beautiful and sublime
and draw
everyone's attention
to the ugliness
of the world?

Too often the heart can do what the brain can't and puts the grey matter to sleep---it has no limits and is free as the wind, it is spaceless and encircles the whole universe.  It is a mystery beyond the brain's finiteness.

THE HEART OR THE BRAIN?

In my youth I held
the brain to be superior to all
the seat of all wisdom
and the university dons said: 'the call

of genius lies
in grey matter-
nowhere else--you students should know
lest you academically falter'.

I wore my degree
on my sleeve
I could talk my way through
it only brought grief.

I found through the years and tears
reasoning and logic was dry as leaves in decay
I learnt to laugh and smile, I smelled the flowers
I talked to kids, I tried to write poetry and in every way

my childish innocence and wonder
returned and I was transformed and born again
I began to feel and understand life's mysteries
its wondrous  joys and its every deep pain

and how profound was peace and contentment
(who ever dared say ' Knowledge is the end-
the door to bliss?'   Trust not lofty philosophy
it's a cynic, a joy-destroyer and not a friend).

My heart is with me every moment
and with it I converse and only in it I place all my trust
my brain is arrogant, without warmth and obtrusive
garrulous and obtrusive---say goodbye to it I must.

Faces in the crowd
among which I am one
each heart silently bears its joys and sorrows
the business of living is never done

as we have to wake up everyday
with the never-failing rising sun
(even the weakest, frailest and most sickly)
though the day's prospects are grim and life isn't fun.

Holding on, clinging on
dangling in the limbo
of survival and existence
what the future holds none really does know.

Faces in the crowd
passing and fading images--I know no one-
yet I feel their pulses as I, mine--- murmurs
of existential* angst---until life's sad drama is done.

My heart I neglected
it was grievously hurt and turned away
it refused to talk to me
by night or by day

inconsolable
incessantly it wept
we didn't talk for years
as though our happy past had been swept

into the dark bottomless sea
I have lost my best friend
and it's too late for healing
I'll regret this until the end

of time---I was young and too arrogant
to give way to feelings-I knew no meekness
I prided on my strength and resolve
remorse has come too late--what is left now is but my sadness.

I am in outer space
I am levitating
light as a feather
in another state of being

but I am no alien
( I am not dreaming)
I was born with a heart
I have every human feeling.

I touch the tips of stars
I sleep in the cradle of the moon
I dance with the clouds
to the music of the heavens I swoon.

Lighter, yet lighter I am getting
(I know I am not dreaming)
weightlessly I am drifting, flying
in space infinite--in a world without ending.

The song has ended
and faded into the silent night
it lives on forever
in the lovers' hearts--true love never takes flight

only resides to endear and charm
to rekindle desire--beyond the pale of words and time-
ah, my beloved,  be my ever-shining light
as we embrace and abide in the eternally sublime.