1013

Too scanty ’twas to die for you,
The merest Greek could that.
The living, Sweet, is costlier—
I offer even that—

The Dying, is a trifle, past,
But living, this include
The dying multifold—without
The Respite to be dead.

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

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?

From little handed, we shall seek increase,
Still with the multifold of riches we make,
Our heart's poverty shan't be at peace.

Like leaf that withered and tossed in wind,
Life dangled in the realms of time
To reach, I yearned, and hold what passed,
The moments,that fled to an abyss called past

I wished to wipe those tears I shed,
And let go of those that were unshed,
To feel multifold ,all that was felt,
To pat my back and say it's alright.

Those times when hope seemed a distant dream,
I wish I knew what laid  was better ahead
When the heart that grieved what was lost and left,
I wish I knew how blessed I was.

But choices were made that could have been not,
This moment I wonder if I was better off without,
Yet I know that deep in my heart
This too shall pass like a Breeze, fear not.

To cry for what was gone is lame
To lament for what is yet is the same
To live the moment the way it should be
Is the gift to self that one deserves.

a rose colored tragedy
beautiful to the end
not really

so desperately they bloomed
In the heat of summer, the musk of roses permeate the air

the rich tone of multifold petals
each layer darker than the rest
the brilliant shade fades at the edges
as if the poor flowers had run out of things to bleed
they bloom gloriously
forgetting the price of that lush magnificence

there is something tragic in the making

like all sweet things they don’t wither

they rot

Multifold survive in a single drop:
They walk, they dance, they sing.
A stem sprouts into thousands,
And bears blossoms into blossoms.

MULTIPLE BENEFIT SCHEME

Pause for a sec, each time I do, before a tap I open and close

Without fail, to say kshnothro Ahure Mazdao, eveytime l pose.

Remember I each time before I switch on n switch off the light;

to Kshnothro Ahure Mazdao say; believe me, it's sheer delight.

Watering my plants, say I, "Ya Amardad Ameshaspand beresad"

And before I sign any paper, a Yatha, I pray, for me it is " farajiyat".

This will me protect against any harm; even if it doesn't make me wealthy.

Along with this a prayer small before n after food n bath, will help us stay healthy.

Benefits multifold are, our water, electricity, we save; plants a positive vibration receive.

And most importantly our children n grandchildren into their psyche, this conceive.

Armin Dutia Motashaw