Thus speaks the mind:
put away your MRI machine
I am beyond matter
my latent potency it can't detect
I am invisible and amorphous
even I am not aware of my own mystery
and what propels me
to do what I do
I know no boundaries
as I am seamless

and strangest of all
I don't even know what I am
however hard I try

I have a million questions
but have no answer

so take your machine away-
you are just wasting your time
trying to define me-
the unidentifiable, the incomprehensible and the immaterial

Einstein was great for his relativity theory
  but so naive in matters of matrimony
  Shouldn't  we say then his emotional intelligence was really low?
  This must have dealt his E=MC squared a deadly blow!

LIFE AS A SCORE-BOARD?
    
    Why treat life
    as a score-board?
    with pen and paper
    adding up the points
    grumbling when you fall short
    every dart you throw
    is like one in vengeance
    with bloodshot and greedy eyes
    score
    score
    score
    more
    more
    more

and when the mark you missed
anger and shame swell in your face
like one consigned to disgrace
and you got terribly ******

   why treat life
   as a source
   of self-satisfaction
   and self-glorification?
   you feel good
   like a Napoleon
   or Alexander The Great
   when those around applaud
   your feat and prowess
  
   but
   too soon
   the night dissolves
   everyone in the bar
   is tired of the silly game you play
   enough drinks and folly
   for the night
   they start to walk away

   in the dart-room
   you are playing a game
   no one does bother to care
   and soon enough forgets your name

Because I don't know
and know I don't know
it saves me from putting up
a stupid and self-stultifying show.

You thought I knew
(what a mistake you did make!)
But I knew you knew far more than I did know
I held back and my folly I did forsake.

Wasteland of my heart
where no flowers grow
past glory has faded
splendour has ceased to glow.


In my youth
my heart was a lush green field
where birds came to rest and sing
love I planted and to its beckoning happily I did yield.

In my manhood years that came too soon
weeds insidiously crept in--smudge gathered
on the once fertile ground-
all the flowers withered

And all that's left
is this wasteland--parched and desolate-
that my weary heart
seeks to forget.

6
The Sublime knows every heart
From their joys and sorrows she never stands apart

7

She shares the joys of those who are happy
She weeps with the forlorn, neglected, the forgotten and the lonely

8    
       None sees her tears but so often in silence she does weep
       Like a guardian she watches over everyone awake or in sleep

9
         When the stars, the moon, the sea and all nature have fallen asleep
         She keeps night company and her vigilance she does unfailingly keep.

10     She keeps in her secret drawer a diary
        Every human event she records faithfully

I don't want to know
more than I should
too much knowledge makes for mischief
seldom does it do any good.

The learned I shun--all the time-
they rank as  the world's most rude
barking at one another like mad dogs--cantankerous, contemptuous,
supercilious, condescending, spiteful and outrageously crude!

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.

Words to the writer
how rare a gift
even the sudden dawning of a single word
sparks the imagination and helps to lift

the spirit--and the poetic muse
awakes from its slumber
and like a bright light shows the way
out of the murky tunnel of uncertain thought--then splendour

takes over the writing scene---words
mysteriously conjoin and start to dance on blank paper
the poet becomes the composer
as the sweetest music flows from his heart's ardour

Isn't a poem a miracle?
isn't the poet blessed as the receiver
of gems more precious and dearer
than anything else? Through words he  becomes a lasting joy-bestower.

..... but, in the dark,
light, however weak,  flickers somehow
(though we know not its source-
it matters not)
and robs the night
of its complete control-

we might fumble
but would not fall
and that's consolation enough.

If we have faith
in the light
it would brighter glow
as it is in direct conversation
with us---and does know
where our hearts yearn to go
while darkness lurks nearby
but is powerless in limbo.

Each heart is a candle
waiting to be kindled
even a droplet of light-dust
will set it aflame.

Even in the darkest night
there is a light, however weak
to guide and befriend you
are you that person who lives
in the light?

1

Because I wait
what I desire comes in the fullness of time

2

Because I control my impulse
I avoid rash decisions

3

Because I share the sorrows of others
I acquire humanity

4

Because I share
richer is my life

5

Because I count myself less
I acquire humility

Love builds but also destroys
often it behaves like naughty girls and boys
who in tantrums throw away their toys
which they started loving but later found such were no longer joys

Now you are being unreasonable, Sir --totally so-
I'll relate this story so that the whole world would know
You shouted at me:  "Wrong phone number
You stupid ****** !'
May I say: 'Why did you pick up the phone then, Sir Marlborough?'

No one can escape my eyes
I watch over everyone
I'm neither enemy nor friend
I'm neutral and independent.

I am mysteriously empowered
With a unique light
Whose beam can penetrate every heart
And nothing there eludes my sight.

What could be darker
Than the heart that in darkness dwells?
None should be afraid of me
Unless there's a secret buried that tells

A past story--the owner wants to forget-
It festers and won't go away
'  None should know this-
this should not appear in the light of day'.

I am night
I am also light
If anyone fears me
His conscience he should search--with honesty.

Don't sing me another love-song
I've heard too many
all I need to know
is whether you truly love me

Don't sing me another love-song
it will be my turn to sing some day--only
time would prove whether your love is true-
then you'll find that I  sing even more beautifully

No one is a fool
who falls in or out of love
for life is an open inviting field
to be played on
and love is the terra incognita
that has to be explored
(unless one wishes to wither away)

one has failed--so what?
lessons  are learnt
experiences are enriched
ignorance and folly drop away
(those who love should not fear
and those who fear should not love)

All that life is
is  action and progression
the libido
the will to overcome
the courage to be
to test one's mettle
(to be unafraid of bleeding
or of crying)
and not to yield
thus
here lies
the raison d'etre
for living

It's in making sense
of the unknown
to discover
the truth and meaning
of things
that we become
what we want to be

But those
who have not known love
will never know what it is
to **** life's sweetest nectar
a drop of which
is enough
recompense
for the bitterness
of love's pain
and the faithful vow
they are willing to die unto love

No one is a fool
who falls in or out of love

BECAUSE I LIE

Because I lie
you will catch me somehow
some day
though not now

I would give
myself away because I would slip
at that critical moment
my cunning I can't always keep

though I had triumphed
many a time--in many a place
the mask must fall down
and what I inherit would only be disgrace

but I'm used
to telling every lie--I can't stop
I have become my own victim
and at the end I must lonely sob.

I had a dream
time spoke to me -woefully
'  My youth has fled too quickly
all that's left now is but melancholy

having witnessed too much of mankind
and its inhumanity
love and beauty has vanished
hearts are lost and empty-

I'm getting old
I'm weary
people come and go
but I'm chained to eternity

and there's no respite
no longer can I live in this endless monotony
even the sweetest songs lose their glory
when over-sung----none would shower me

with any sympathy
there is no consolation in my tears
I'm the oldest of the old
but I can't rest or die --years

after years after years
still I'm bound by duty
my suffering is deeper than any mortal's--
because of my deathlessness I can never be set free'.

MOON FLOWER
In my sleep last night
I found myself on the moon ,holding
a flower in my hand, and this it said me
'This flower is real--you are not dreaming'.

Lo , my love gave me the flower
before I went to bed
he left too soon
and tears I sadly shed

Some days
I felt like walking away
from myself
to be nothing

the body is a burden
a captive to senses
the mind too vagrant-
self is too demanding

and never ceases
in wanting gratification
it fails to realise
it is creating its own prison

It will be good
some day
when  this self-absorption
time will put away

LOVE’S PARADISE LOST

Paradise lost
love shall come no more
ashes have consumed
every blissful moment that has gone before.

There is no comfort
in tears
the past is buried
in the nowhere of a million years.

I am a little child still
in life's kindergarten
learning my ABCs, how to talk
to communicate--every lesson

I cherish--I am so eager to know more
I love the sound of words-their beauty
each is like music to me
above all, I love poetry

But you say to me:
' Your learning is well over--you are too old'
my reply: 'I can't help it--it grows within me
I must move forward before time turns me cold'.

I am a child still
my heart beats wildly
when the sky, the stars, the roses,
the clouds, the ocean and the fields I see.

This is my life- story
simply this--it's my every engagement
with destiny.

I'm a wrestler
in the boxing ring
only one of us would be victor-

it's an uneven fighting field
my opponent seems invincible
but I'm not the type to yield

nor do I to myself declare
enough is enough
no more could I bear--

to fight is hard, to walk away
is easy--but I'm no quitter
I stand undeterred--I am here to stay

and at my last hour
to the world I'll proclaim--
with endurance and love, destiny I'll overpower.

They call me 'an idiot'
I stammer and with words I struggle
I am slow and have a an 'IQ so very low'
People to me are a puzzle.

They use strange words
My condition is 'congenital'
Others go even further
I suffer from a 'brain deficit'--'a disorder neurological'

But I can keep a job
Always hardworking and punctual
I dress neatly, know how to take the bus
My boss said 'Peter is not brilliant but reliable'

Dad minds the farm, mum takes care
Of my little brother Tom and Tanya my tiny sister
I give my parents half my monthly salary
So that my siblings will have a good education and further

Their studies perhaps in uni
There is always joy and warmth in the family
We share, we laugh, we sing and make merry
Despite what others say--I am happy, truly blessed and happy.

Know when to speak
and when to refrain
think before words leave your mouth
lest you incur wrath and pain

Study the situation
is it timely to speak or refrain?
have you considered every angle
or should you think again?

It would not be enough
to fall in love and love but how
to keep this flame alive
it's easy to assume now

'  All will be fine
we'll love each other forever'
love's journey is hurtful
often painful--never

should the lovers forget:
real tests are just to begin
(the honeymoon is over)
would their love turn cold and thin?

Love is not everlasting sweetness
as the poets would have lovers believe
millions of tears would need to fall
and would need time for healing or relief.

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.

Today holds you captive
you can hardly escape
tomorrow is still asleep
oblivious to what you do now or shape.

Today stares right in your face
(every thought and action of yours it does tape)
can you free yourself from its clutch?
only if you have an invincible mind-scape.

Easy? hardly-
even taking a step
at a time forward
calls for unusual courage

for
old habits die hard

as
the self has been concretised
for too long--immobility
holds the reins--change
hangs over like an unwelcome
stale, wet and prickly blanket

doubt* and fear
makes the limbs tremble
( adults are no better than kids
  when they sense uncertainty
imaging dangers that aren't there)

' It's better to stay put
on safe and sure ground'

He who doesn't have the courage
to put his foot forward
will be nailed to the spot
where he's rooted
ending as less than a man
while time and fair chances
bid him good-bye
with an unsympathetic look
and downright scorn

he has to turn
his face away
to hide himself
from the light of day.

I can only teach you what I know
if I don't know, I seek to know
and I'll tell you what I don't know
that's the only way I can grow

in understanding--to lie
to myself and to you is worst than to die
that is the reason why
I never cease to strive and  try

Inside it does stifle
and suffocate
I want it out
fresh air I need--before it's too late.

I am not made
for an inside-something man
freedom has been my most faithful friend
as the world and people I scan.

Don't get me wrong
no misanthrope am I
beauty is in the open air
not in shut-doors--I shouldn't die

before I've tasted life's sweetest wine
don't lock me in--the room is loud, smoky, *****
dim, the carpets sting, cigarette-butts all over
the tap doesn't run,  people are rude--being out is the way for me.

At night I see
myself
more clearly.

Daylight
obscures
I can't think right.

There is mystery
when the day is done
the mind is set to grasp reality.

Silence rules the night
(day is silly clamour)
the heart's feelings are at their height.

This calmness with none in sight
while sanctity and purity* its cool balms shed
I've touched the sharpest edge of beauty--how I love the night!

DOES THE HEART REALLY KNOW?

Does the heart really know
what it wants?  Each gratification
leads to another--desire must be satisfied
without equivocation

never mind if desire
leads to destruction
what is life
if not lived in passion?

let the fire of desire burn
let love erupt in the most violent explosion
the heart will not rest
its longings know no obliteration

Does the heart really know
the pain of loving? Passion
dies too soon and in its trail
brings an end to gratification.

Philosophy I don't value much
but more the human heart
philosophers are selfishly speculative
too eager their theories to expound and impart

Ignore not the common man
whose life is by his myriad experiences profoundly marked
carved from the stone of suffering and pain
infinitely more poignant than the world where philosophy has embarked.

Old age is not being
young but look at its luxuriant tree
where its fruits have ripened
and its leaves are still as green
it's the same breeze as of old
blowing above its head
and the sky is as blue
and bird-songs by night
are still as sweet
as reminders
that all life is wrapped in rapture
and earth has not lost its pristine  music and grandeur

each stage of life has its  untold splendour
only that the heart must feel and embrace love
and the mind be free and hasn't given up
in despondency (I've had enough of this chagrin-
drop that line)
say instead--
I love life and its endless beauty
I would still bathe in its sea of wondrous delight
I would bask under the sun amidst the dancing flowers
have conversation with the moon and stars late at night
I would still sing the songs I love
and give life to my violin- lest it thinks I have lost faith-
with my shaky hands I would write a poem or two-
never mind if they are frowned upon by others
I would still smile despite the wrinkles on my face
and my grey hair so conspicuous to the eye
I would share in the laughter of youth
among the middle-aged mingle
and with those in my twilight years
laugh at the folly and pride of my early days
and hear their stories spoken
with slow and subdued voices
but no less poignant

I am alive and not left behind
I am there in the arena of life
though not as a player
but  only a spectator

if you do see a silent tear
dropping from my eyes
just know-
it's the tear of gratitude and joy

Pessimism, to me, is to be preferred to optimism.
I have planned my life based on this belief since my young days up to old age and have come to realise that what I am and the small measure of success I have been able to achieve has been due to this choice.
Pessimism is more close to the pulse of reality in the face of life's uncertainties and vicissitudes.

The pessimist plans well ahead and has a contingency plan but not the optimist who is left high and dry when his plans don't work out-
he has no resources to cope in these eventualities.
( I was happy to read, after my diary entry,  that a scientific study published in 2015 came to the same conclusion--the article was entitled
THE DOWN-SIDE OF OPTIMISM).

Being pessimistic hasn't dampened my love for living---the quality of my life has not changed--I am stronger and happier--thanks to my pessimism.

I know many would disagree---each unto thy own--whatever suits you, that you must espouse.

A fool I know gives
half his monthly salary to charity
while we the ones with wisdom look away
as we don't subscribe to such benevolent philosophy

Hate is the neighbour of love-
Beware!

This call--mysteriously so
I scarcely know
from whence it does come.

It will not go
away
it insists that it must stay.

I can't make out
is this the voice of the past
or the future?  How deeply I doubt.

There are no words
in the call
more akin to faint chords of music--how they enthral

and I seem to be dangling
among the stars and the moon-  ----celestially--
(am I dreaming?).

Soon to sleep  succumb my weary eyes
and suddenly words dawn upon me
in my dream---you are your own call--there's no mystery.

The truth is that we never admit
the untruth within our own selves.

I'll be I, you'll  be you
each within our void--we met
once before--love couldn't be-
we'll some day either  remember or forget

but nothing would ever be the same
even though we should meet one remote day
only a few words would be said in exchange
our eyes would not greet as we like strangers walk our own way.

Even tears
    do not know
    the depth
    of their own sorrow-

    will each tear cause
    a flower to grow
    from the dusts and ashes
    of the heart - perhaps tomorrow?

Enough of the moon and stars
of serenades sung under the moonlight
of wines spilled on the floor
of passionate kisses late after midnight.

Night is a heartless seducer
tricky games on lovers it does play
how many hearts has it misled?
how many has fallen  prey?

Enough of make-believe
of dreams doomed to perdition
of promises to be broken
of vows that will fade into oblivion.

Who says life is  never-ending romance
love is meant for eternity?
so many poets had been unhappy in love
they assuaged their agony through heartbreak poetry.

Santa has again let the kids down
they are miserable--everyone wears a frown-
Santa has sent an email and the words say:
' I have a severe tooth-ache and it won't go away.

All the dentists have left for holiday
the hospitals are closed and I can't go to sick-bay
next year all of you should fervently pray
Santa won't be medically put away'.

How can I be my own accuser?

1

Because I obey my heart
I love

2

Because I cry
myself I purify

3

Because I suffer
I acquire patience and endurance

4

Because I am content
I have everything

5

Because I observe
I learn

In the corridors of knowledge
the scholars and the smart loudly argue and proudly sit
I tremble when I walk by and don't dare raise an eye
as I know I've none of their wit

It suits them
if I walk away
they would make sure
I don't stay

and this is the worst cut-
they would then say
'That man is a coward
He hasn't the courage to stay'.

Ripples
each a reminder
of the passing of relentless time
moving towards the next order
of moments--the heart is a river
where our fleeting dreams and hidden fears drift
our story stops at the last flow
into the indifferent sea--
the outcome of which we can never know

the beginning
is the journey towards the end
our being hangs
on to the in-between of time-then
the ripples become weaker and fewer
quietly they fade away and disappear

The same bird sings in my garden
   as the morning sun its splendour spreads
   some flowers are in unabashed blossom
   the old lemon-tree some yellow leaves sheds

  a butterfly from nowhere
  settles on a rose motionless and serene
  I am writing this poem looking from my room
  the day's beauty has unfolded with such an unforgettable scene