People will see you
from their perspective
whatever you do or say
counts for little---the world
is all about perceptions

objectivity is left to sleep-
it suits the other person best-

prejudices abound, egos mislead
arrogance rules-even hatred raises its venomous head

mutual understanding?
respect for others?  Congruence?
goodwill?  universal peace?
nay--only cacophony and anarchy our there
and the last scene is like an apocalypse
when ideologies clash
and in the senseless and merciless battle  fields
humans perish as in plagues of long ago

when reason and compassion are abandoned
and assigned to oblivion
where's mankind's hope?

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.

PITCHING TENT

Where should you pitch your tent?
Have you studied the terrain?

Will the winds be too strong?
Is it too close to the sea?

Is it disease-infested?
Are there dangerous animals?

Can you find enough wood
to make fire in the winter?

Can you find water?
Where are your sources of food?

Do you have enough warm clothes?
Can your tent withstand heavy storms?

Are there wild people there
with ready spears in their hands?

Have you counted the cost in your mind
of what you have left behind?

Can you bear the loneliness?
what made you decide to leave civilisation?

The next ship will arrive only in twenty years
will you live in fear and tears?

Think, think over - make sure
this is the right decision

Once you have pitched your tent
there is no turning back.

What have I planted today
but the seeds of words in my mind's garden?
would they germinate and grow
would they beautify?  and gladden

the heart in verse and song? I'll not fail you
  my love,  as it was you who gave me
the seeds with your white tender hands
which I kissed--your love I'll enshrine forever in my poetry.

Too many poets died unhappy
they took their poetry too seriously.

Everyday is the same
even your own name

Anyone and everyone can write
what percentage do you think is right?

Why is love in old age more than love
and why is it that  love in youth falls far short of love?

' Live well'--two words that transcend the highest philosophy
  It's up to you--unless you want to live in self-imposed misery

One descending dew-drop to another: Farewell dear
Within a short while on landing we would forever disappear

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

If you are dead, you are no longer alive
If you are alive, you are not dead
Ipso facto (what's so hard to understand?)
What further light can philosophy shed?

My teacher said: You would never be good enough
You have none of the intellectual stuff
What's your future plan?
None Sir,  perhaps, I'd strive to be a con-man

The law is the law
It must be upheld though it contains a flaw

Poetry is in essence
right words in the right order
but
it shouldn't  stop there

there's more
infinitely more

distillation
of the heart's deepest joys
and sorrows

constellation
of all that springs from
and happens to the self
in all its myriad manifestations
and facets--
mysterious - multifold

for life is an endless roll
of the self
in motion
and action-

self-searching
self-evaluation
self-conversation
self-evolution
self-determination
(existentiali­stic recognition
that life would inexorably end
in extinction
more despair and ennui
than hope?
that's the question
to be addressed individually--
  each life is sacred and its own
and asserts its will to be
before it sinks into oblivion)

poetry is also
the articulation
of the beyond-self
the juxtaposition
alongside others
the intricate and delicate interplay
of relationships
the joys and angsts
that follow

while time watches on
and carries a whip
'hurry, hurry--I wait for none-
presto!'

and
destiny stares one
in the face
testing one's mettle
and endurance
at any time
in any place

the poet writes:
I am saved by words
by words alone
they are my salvation
my one and only vessel
which gives my life
a ring-tone
however faint
and makes me aware
I am still living

'de nihil, nihil fit'
from nothing
comes nothing
either I am something
or nothing-
with myself I've to wrestle
to deny that
I am nothing

even if a pale shadow
I'm still something
I'd not forego
my right to being
someone in the making
for life is living
and experimenting
over time
a process of becoming

and at the end of things
I'd know with every single feeling
I've not failed myself in the task of living
through the words of my poetry
that have given me every meaning

Poetry
is not clever well-stringed words
nor about rhythm and rhyme
images and metaphors
and all the craftsmanship that brings
the parts together--
it's more, much, much more--
poetry is subtle and has a secret life and pulse of its own
its home is a mysterious hideout
which so few could ever discover
and turn it into music to soothe the heart-

I have struggled all my life
only to end up saying-
I am still searching for the key
to unlock its mystery-
I write poetry but am not a poet-
perhaps never could be one.

Love is bereft ---abandoned by the heartless
    cry not, nor lament--none is around to listen
     sorrows of the broken heart
    are never assuaged by reason
    
   ..ah ! when would love
  its splendour once more  glisten?
  my pillow I #bite this sombre night
  in tears--I never knew love was such a prison.

PRISONERS
Men are born free
but everywhere are in chains
thus wrote Rousseau--I take the point further-
upon themselves they inflict pains

in being prisoners of time
which with a sword of Damocles hangs
over every head and herds them into closed barns
where they sigh and lament in silent pangs

of anguish with no hope to be free
they have lost the will to fight
to regain that which was once their heritage
and fundamental right

men are born free
but by the loss of freedom they are condemned
time is the slayer--would they wake up
some day and look upon time with contempt?

A promise is a debt
  though not written on paper
  once made--from it
  you can't sever.

  You borrowed in gold
  and with gold you must repay
  a promise made is more than gold
  it has to be fulfilled before you pass away from the light of day.

How can I make you
any promise?  Weak
so weak I am-- too many
I made to myself and broke--too ashamed to speak

after the events--damage I would cause you
and your hopes to the ground I'd smash
forgive me, my friend,  myself I can't trust
to say further is mere balderdash.

PRUDENCE

I paused and took a step back
I looked around and was unsure
' You're a coward ' my critics chided
I replied: ' For folly there's no cure'.

Prudence has taught me
Life's prizes and trophies are never easy to secure
I've seen so many mighty giants fall by the roadside-
They were too arrogant and too cocksure.

'Quit!'-- the most powerful word
I know
one that
I'll never let go-

sounds grandiosely onomatopoeic
( a word that never fails to stick)
it shakes
the existing foundation
and order of things
it compels
listening and reckoning-

the establishment
is held aghast and asks:
'Is this a sting
to everything
we hold sacred and dear?'
( why should the present masters fear
  if of their own stand they stand sure?)

'Quit!'
a word
so final
affirmative
decisive
prophetic
as though
the bulwarks of the old
must give way to the new
(and what's that 'new' happening?--
those who are threatened are asking)

' Quit!'
how glorious the word!
audacious
pugnacious
cantankerous
unrelenting
uncompromising
non-conforming
unflinching
unyielding
irreverent
intransigent
belligerent
most triumphant !

unashamed
contemptuous
of the current state of being
virtuous
as it would not prostrate
before what it deems to demean
human morality or decency
it would not cow
to suppression or tyranny--
' Quit! if you want to be free!'

How often
in my youthful days
' Quit!' swamped my mind
before those who controlled and bullied me
as I was poor and weak
with no recourse
to any safety nor sanctuary-
how they took delight to see
me at their mercy--
my misery made them happy

' My time shall come'
myself I did promise
through sweat and tears
I laboured waiting for the dawn
when I would shake off the yoke
of my unhappy years-

' Patience, patience, patience'
to myself a thousand times I said
'  The time has not come,  you must still wait
in more patience, yet more, more and more' --even in the dead
of night the word returns to haunt
  weeks followed days, months followed weeks
years followed months, decades followed years
  my struggle took three decades-
the price of freedom didn't come cheap

then came the crowning moment
and before the inquisitors I threw my gauntlet
looked into their fearful and perplexed eyes
and exclaimed : ' I QUIT!'
(the most senior of them fell from his seat!).

Quitters of the world
unite!
you have nothing to lose
but your chains!

Reason walks half the way
and complains: 'I'm weary'
it asks the heart-
I don't know why,  please tell me'

The heart is quick to reply:
'  You don't know
  why you are taking this journey
  as for me--my dream I faithfully follow'

Sit still, don't dare move
fix your eyes on them--stay so-
remember
it's their show.

The audience is clapping
follow, don't you fail to follow
furtive eyes are watching you
remember---it's their show.

Intermission: hold your opinion
they have agents looking around--you don't know
don't whisper a word to the next person
Remember--it's their show.

They must be the cynosure (nothing less)
wherever they are, wherever they go
stay out of their way and trouble you would avoid
remember always---it's their show.

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

All sorts of rooms I've entered
save one I don't have the key
the room of your heart I can't unlock
you are a complete mystery

yet you stare deep into my eyes
as though to say you want me
but  when I *draw close to you
you walk away without the slightest stint of pity.

All sailing boats
will at the end arrive at shore
patience and endurance
is the guiding wind--the storms will buffet no more.

Many a sea I have sailed
and shed every lonely tear
but I am a man larger than the sea
in my aloneness I conquered every single fear.

Santa Claus is in deep financial trouble-verily-
He had spent too much on kids in the past
To save himself from bankruptcy
He has set up Santa Claus  (Universal )Trust.

Every kid shall contribute $1 annually
(Before Christmas Eve) to this 'most worthy charity'
His email to the kids ends with these words: 'Trust me-
I am a person of the utmost integrity'.

Santa Claus, Santa Claus !
the only person on earth who obeys no laws
we all know-unto himself he's an authority-
make way, make way for the Man Of Every Century!

More powerful than king and emperor
the world's most-loved- and- admired wonder
if you don't like dear Santa Claus
you would be the only one with obvious flaws!

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'.

Say hello
  to the moment
stretch out your hand
and you say with an open heart
what's in for us?

it replies
well--it's just you and me
I am the stage
you are the actor
I can't even raise a finger
unless you make the first move
there is no show without you
I have no life nor delight
of my own

no philosopher am I
call me an ordinary bloke
I didn't go to college
(just an average student-
finished high school at 17
poor family I came from
  dad was an odd-jobs man)
I held several jobs
but disliked working for others
now a farmer
with a helping wife
(we have two kids--very young still-
one boy and one girl-
we adore them)
we earn enough
decent living as the saying goes

I wake up early
and hello to my farm I say
I talk to the plants (they grow better
as they understand what I say)

after harvest
to the town I take my produce
and then I say hello
to the people who walk by
and they say hello in reply
these are great things
you bring--I'll have these two
also that over there
hello- what a magnificent word
just the sound makes me happy
and I am in the day's doing-show

to me
life is just saying hello
I have an unwritten alliance
with moments in time
they are with me
wherever I am
and wherever I go.

From the schadenfreude of some
you can't escape
it comes in many a size
and many a shape.

Should I be regarded
as being rude
to enquire:
is human nature intrinsically good?

I am
I was
what would I be
tomorrow?

how would I exactly know?
but if I set the compass
of my heart in the right direction
I won't be lost--I'll somehow endure

It'll be the same me in most measure
but the scenario will not be
if love, faith and charity are with me
it would be a day I'll count happy

then follows the dawn after tomorrow
and I'll again face another day
I'll still stand steadfast and do what I should
I won't be lost and will never turn away.

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.

The interplay
between self and others
the drama that never stops

what to do
and not to do
what is right and what is wrong?

giving or taking?
are acts sincere or faking?
are they joy-giving or sorrow-causing?

and when it's about loving
that's the hardest reckoning
is it about both or only self-gratifying?

how much self?
how much should one's extending
to others be? Most perplexing

but if love were true
self should be serving
the loved one--the act most ennobling

I can't be more than
     what I am
     only this and this alone defines me-
     should I further claim
    
    I do myself an injustice
     weeds are not roses and lemon
     is not champagne
     on this I need no lesson

     I know
     my station
     in this tiny faraway corner
     I seek no recognition

     little blessings I hold so dear to my heart
     sorrows  I accept with utmost humility
     of life's treasures I ask for none
     this is my happiness--simplicity

Many things we humans
can set aside
the hardest by any definition
is our pride

standing at the centre
of our being
like the Commander- General
and saying: ' I'm either EVERYTHING or nothing!'

Love’s Philosophy
BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
The fountains mingle with the river
   And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
   With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
   All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
   Why not I with thine?—

See the mountains kiss high heaven
   And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
   If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
   And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
   If thou kiss not me?

Should I say it again
dearest Lily?
walk away
forget me

I am not meant
for you--I would cause you misery
I love you, yes, I do
most sincerely

but I am not gifted
nor romantic in any way
too simple and common
you deserve better--for your sake that I say

love is strange--verily
such a mystery
the heart battles with the brain--let go of me-
should I say it again, dearest Lily?

Should love know moderation
or should it swim in the wildest waters to the furthest shore?
isn't what is held now sufficient
why should the heart yearn for more and more?

Love in extremity is the lover balancing
at the precipice--a strong wind would cause a catastrophic  fall
but the heart is too quick to prompt:
love should never be less than all.

Slogans of exhortation---ubiquitous-
they baffle and frighten me
many are far-flung and iniquitous
from such I steer away to keep myself free.

I am no prophet, no seer
no leader nor teacher
a common man here
in a far-away corner

trying to make some sense
of my weary life--even managing
myself is such an immense
task--- slogans-throwing?-

that would be the greatest folly
when I was a lad, my parents said to me
'  Learn to be independent, love yourself properly'
how wise those words--I've kept them and avoided so many a misery.

SNOW

My hair is white as the snow
is the season then
made for the shivering old
living with the cold?

but the kids jump for joy
and shout---this is fun-
as they play 'snow-throw'
while I watch from the window

musing as I do every year
as the new snow flakes one by one
fall and tell their story
before my weary eyes
and their mysteries unfold

are they saying
in the ripeness of time
all that is
must rest, decay and fall ?

winter is the white chalk
that writes in clear letters
on the blackboard of time-

it's the last chapter of life
soon all shall be wiped off
to make for a new slate
for future generations to write
lines of their own
stripped of all that has gone before

farewell then, autumn,
take your leave

but I
in my old age am still
  stubborn and unyielding
to winter's exaggerated pronouncement
and here I stand to proclaim

should only youth be bold
and old age be sold  
too soon  to the ravage of impatient time
is the song  Carpe Diem a mockery to me ?

is it too late to celebrate
my most glorious years

when seasoned experiences have wiped away all tears
and a new anthem shall proclaim
I am  the Ulysses -inspired man
who has weathered every storm ?

Though my hair is white as the snow
it's not the season for fare-welling
or to go
into the self-exiled wilderness
to regret or to moan

even in the bitterest winter
there shall be new dawns when
some warm light shall encircle still
around hearts that dwell on love and beauty
this is an awakening
not the sunset falling
the fond heart is singing
joys are in the blooming

so
winter I count
no more than
a metaphor

I am still alive
and furthermore
I know
my life has not been lived
in vain

It’s too soon
for me to say farewell
and walk away

The prattle* and clamour* of the day
is deafening my ears and jarring my heart and mind
I have to walk away into my aloneness
be courageous enough to leave the world behind

lest I turn into a shrinking man
someone faceless in the long and tedious queue
day in and day out--the same mindless engagements
in inane conversations and senseless pursuits--have but few

moments of real living and savouring
of beauty---I wither as I am, nay, dying
a little as time passes me by, life is fleeting
and I am in limbo--just dangling

hanging to a cloud of nothing
in a moral wilderness--bleeding
( I make sure no one is watching)
hoping for my self-redeeming.

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

Somewhere in time
do you still remember?
I was sixteen and you were fifteen
and you said to me: 'I'll love you forever'.

Somewhere in time
you left me for another
fifty years have taken flight
I really don't want to remember.

SOMEWHERE RIVER

Somewhere River
winding through time’s corridor
silent chronicler
of the heart of man and its sacred inner core

sentinel of history
record-keeper
of life's mystery
it forgets never

night and day
its waters meander
through every remote bend near or far away
further and yet further

can you hear its song so tender
when the night is hushed asleep
when the tired moon longs for slumber
when the stars in deepest silence  weep?

We are all like Somewhere River
we exist somewhere –each a traveller
through time,  a lonely unknown wanderer
this is our life-story—what else should we remember?

SONG OF THE PAINTER
                       (Dedicated to ...)


My mind swims in the endless sea
Of myriad shapes and colours
A mysterious force guides my hand
To create light,  shade and contours.

The whole universe beckons to me
Its pulse I feel, its beauties I see
I let my fancies roam wild and free
I touch the edge of eternity.

Every stroke of my brush
Vibrates like  a string of my heart
I leap into a kaleidoscopic world-
The Acadian garden of art.

In every shape and colour
An echo of music do I hear
The painter is an orchestrator
Of beauty that is ever sweet and dear.

Space-- silent, serene, mysterious and majestic- covers all
and there is infinite peace in its emptiness
we should learn to be empty
for that which is full could receive no more--we should address

ourselves:  what is this fullness and surfeit
doing to us?
once emptied of all our desires and vanities-
all that follows  serves only to bless.

It's all written
in his face-
' Don't come a step nearer
this isn't your place'.

This is the age where all morality
and kindness have quickened to death
he's a stranger and I wanted then to say 'hello'
now I 'm glad to have saved my breath.

Let the mind
be unprejudiced and free
let the heart find its true place
stand aside, be still and reality
will be seen and felt
in a new note and key
the veil is lifted
life assumes clarity
the best lessons are learnt
from compassion, selflessness and charity.