A solitary sunbeam

Tracing a solitary sunbeam,
Stargazing the dimlit expanse - suspiciously serene;
Lost all, and yet none, in a moment, in eternity;
On a chequered canvas, what crosses & noughts mean?

The ebbed residue

A prisoner, a mendicant-
What deem, or redeem?
Of visions or none,
What see or seem?


A life strung with dewdrops,
What shells are washed ashore?
Through Here to the Finale-
What's less, what's more?


A toast to the merchant's love,
Alike to the innkeeper's gain;
Of tides that usher some joy,
And the ebbed residue of pain.

A tale told by a joker (devoid of sound and fury)

Accumulate not the woes,
O' oceanic eyes;
Nor the tiniest bejewelled drop,
From your reservoir, let slide.

For you're Hope, you're Dream,
To my dreary eyes, you're Gleam;
As raconteur, in your playful banter-
Life's brightest hue, my cherished theme.

Glow! Illuminate the night sky- my pole star,
With yesterdays and tomorrows, all afar;
An immortal speck on the Time's wall - deem,
The quixotic pair, a joker and his queen.

What Lines foretell

Of barren breaths and worn-out wares,

A tumultuous journey, a comedy of errors;

Through hearts of darkness, or a child’s glee,

A change of clothes, and I shall just be.

To a lonely grave, or a lasting embrace?

Two sides of a coin, a sigh or solace?

The unquenched spirit- near elixir, yet always afar;

Tiptoes hope and despair, through life’s door ajar..

In the court of Fate, a plea for succor,

To assuage the ache, for soul recover?

A kindred spirit, a warm abode to dwell?

An unheard prayer, the Lines foretell..

The Balance Sheet of my Life

A snapshot in time, 
This balance sheet of my life-
What assets, what liabilities? 
The Moving Finger presides;
Mere intangibles, to erect the sandcastles of hope?
And an inventory of defunct dreams? 
A cruel surmise.

An elegy of desire

Such is the power of motion/flow - May be a fissure in a volcanic crater, or a stone thrown in a placid lake, whence the ripples travel far and wide- unwittingly, involuntarily. And the unstable equilibrium is once again rendered unstable... Here below...

Desire not, tender heart,

Ye, of baser earth make;

A furtive wish or a forlorn sigh,

Never does a powerful prayer make.

Play not with fire, that threatens to consume,

Recoil! Retreat! Dare not presume;

The remains of the day - a bleak, grey horizon,

Metamorphing into darkness, the spiralling gloom.

Don again that mask, and muffle your cry,

This parched firmament - look not to the sky;

Hope may be a country, but you dear, an outcast-

Extinguish the candle burning, the fire within - let die.

The slipping era

My muse found inspiration after a long gap and some random thoughts converged to produce the following! Comments solicited!
A passing moment, or perhaps an era slipping by,
A pocketful of memories, few thoughts survive-
On the crossroads of life, I pause, I ponder,
A mendicant's belongings - whither smile, whither cry?

Of the tired legs running, the shifting sands,
The illusion of living, a cosmic trance?
And how many acts, in how many more plays?
A scene within a scene, a puppet's dance?

Laughters echo, under a shroud of stoic silence,
A lingering thirst - Oh saki! my saviour, my hope!
Let me drink from thy lips, drown again in illusion,
Oh truth, what good! Oh life, I shall cope!

Beyond the Hourglass

-A dedication

The enigma enshrouding life 'n death,
The eternal longingness for a few more breaths;
The fervent prayers, the unrelenting destiny,
The blatant truth, yet a morbid irony!

She longed to see some more flowers bloom,
Quite oblivious, alas, of the lurking doom;
Full many a dreams she had once sowed,
Biding her time- to see them sprout and grow!

It isn't she never desired to be free,
All she ever asked- see her saplings turn into trees
She prayed, she begged, but had to go,
Leaving a few hearts aggrieved, volumes of tears to flow!

Quite unfair must be this routine, and its bizarre, intricate ways,
If life's a cycle, why terminate midway?
With trauma and anguish filled in her eyes, she left,
If 'creations' are flawed, how wise is it to deem the Creator, Perfect?

Yet, perhaps things do extend beyond our visual horizon,
And it may not be in physical presence only that we live-
For, the eyes may perish, but would that gaze would never fade?
For, freed from the rotten bag of bones, she dwells in memories.

Perhaps, death's the mere rocking of a boat in a vast ocean,
While offering us a glimpse of our volatility and transience-
And may be whispering-"be not foolish to fear mortality,
Sublime yourself to imbibe the true essence of eternity!"

Like the composer who has long been dead
Yet lives in eternity, for his compositions still reverberate;
So do we live, perhaps, long after our death
In many new forms we continue to manifest!

Thus, in silence, you can still reach her in your hours of solitude,
And in her own special way, she will help you thru' forthcoming vicissitudes,
For she will always be near when fear and darkness sets in'
For you can sense her image smile when eventually you do win!

***

Between Truths & Greater Truths

Like a lonely, aimless, wearied traveller
I try to find my way through the mist that enshrouds me;
Hibernating & waking intermittently, crawling ahead
I try to fight the unseen forces that bind me.

A desert of mirage and glitter allures me
Yet a faint call from within checks my fallible steps
I yearn for bliss, an estranged traveller in desert longing for rain
Tired, dejected but never knowing if & when this journey would end.

The familiar face in the mirror appears stranger
Living in multiple galaxies baffles me
Have I become an outlaw in my own community?
For, no longer I can bifurcate dreams and reality.

Will I be calm, contented when truth dawns upon me?
Where would I be after this transition - from truths to greater truths?
As I gallop ahead, I bereave drifting away from the herd that beckons me.
Am I an escapist, am I a pessimist?
Or am I a realist, or perhaps a perfectionist?

I suffer the tortures of some virtual wounds
Just once I refuse to abide by omnipotents who guide me
I peep inwards - my mortal sanctum, seeking help
As I explore myself, the answer comes to me.

I now understand all my nostalgia
I now know the reasons for my dilemmas
I fathom what distinguishes me from my guides in sky
That I'd never grow wings, for I cherish my humanity.

Like a vanquished soldier I march back home at dusk
I know my fellowmen 'lesser mortals' would forgive & embrace me
I had let myself be held captive, but now I am free
Free to fall, free to make amends, free to try
Free from obligations, shadows; free to breathe, free to die.

The mighty ones that giveth me emotions to feel and mind to act
I crave thy forgiveness for failing them
For I prefer small moments of pleasures to perpetual bliss
Over ye powerlords, I prefer my fellow fallible herdsmen
I prefer to fall & rise, rather than always stay atop
I prefer anonymity and corrigibility to eternal fame.

I'm a mere mortal, turn me not into an angel
Let me live life my own hard way
Strike me off your memory, I'd gladly fade into oblivion
Rising from dust, finally being claimed by it -
When it all terminates at the end of the day.

The Plebeian

Bereft of hope, happiness, an enduring smile
Your birth was a curse poor child, your first crime
Chasing unto death, that elusive ray of hope
Destined as a stigma to be, on the sands of time.

You breed nibbling on scraps, surviving on pity
Life - a confinement of invisible walls, eroded by apathy
Are you but a herd, shepherded by the peacekeepers in white?
In numbers alone your ilk is deemed; unnamed graves - individuality.

You have gods to represent, repent, promises to feed
Skyscrapers to erect, yet only slums to inhabit;
Like worms in a jungle amongst beasts of prey
For namesake you live, while you die million moments a day.

A flickering candle in a bag of bones
You are churned like a speck of grass in the tempest;
Dwelling like a captive in some virtual jail
Where happiness, hope are defunct words from fading fairy tales.

An indestructible link of a great democratic tradition -
Unprejudiced, you are tortured by one and all, evenly
For this ain’t a land of violence, you have to savour your wounds
For you can utter no evil against the more equal fraternity.

Your own ‘karma’ it is, in a vicious circle it’d persist
As the great lord of this ancient land once did insist
Sans all but sins of infinite lives accumulated
You are eternally forsaken and would forever be unforgiven.

So, you gave your youth, your soul, your enterprise
To earn a loaf of bread, some affection and peace for a while!
You believed in justice simpleton, you strove for redemption
So you thought the night’d be over, the tide would turn?

When your li’l ones begged for food, you offered them hope
And sprinkling some dreams, you pointed to the stars, and told –
“From there, angels would descend, like him they should wait
For suffering ennobles the soul, that’s what the holy book says”.

---

Life’s an undefined game plebeian, play it with your own rules
Opportunities are conceived, rag-pickers are fools;
They'll trample you with boots if you are weak or meek
You’ll be adorned, feared – if you clench your fist.

It’s a battle royale plebeian, when will you realize?
Winning is about firing first, propaganda's name is Sacrifice
And justice is but an illusion, buried somewhere in time’s museum
Angels dwell in fairy tales, paradise and utopia in legends.

How long will you refuse to open your eyes?
How long will you huddle in the corner, so afraid of light?
Betrayal, abuse, subjugation – aren’t you fed up?
If you have had enough, then get up!

Yet, count not me for support, for it isn’t I who beckon you
Implore not others for help, each have their own voyage
Peep inwards to discovered everything you ever crave for
For it isn’t weapons, but courage and conviction that wins the war.

For sand when scorched turns into mighty brick
Water, when frozen has sunk big ships
So, set ablaze the extinguished volcano, Show peacekeepers some fireworks
Let all be known, that you have woken up!
* * *

Cindrellas, Waiting

With dim-lit diamonds studded in sparkling eyes,

She walks aimlessly in the unfriendly rain

Forsaken by a mother and the humanity,

A living testimony to the society's shame.


With unkempt hairs and sloppy attire,

Could she dare to play with the forbidden toys?

The bare tiny legs walking, struggling to leave impressions on sand

In vain she tries to build a castle of mud; such tiny hands.


Smiles often evade her, above all they need to be earned

The self resists to lament, though treacherous heart yearns,

So fervently she prays every night, for the tide of misfortune to turn,

Questions - the innocent eyes hold; ah, she has a lot to learn!


She stares at the bright, uniformed faces, with a deep forlorn sigh

Much too aware of the glass wall - too thick, too high;

And sometimes in dark nights, this lonely girl shudders with fright,

A longing ensues for a soothing voice, that could have sung her lullabies.


She looks at the florid rainbow; amazed, she wonders-

Can the colours of joy also brighten her dull, grey life?

Gazing at nature and its myriad ways

A thousand silly thoughts in her heart simultaneously transpire.


She summons the li'l bird and quizzes, with a twinkle in her eyes

If she could lend her its wings or take her along for a flight,

For unreached by mortal obligations, away she wants to fly

For she desires to know, if there lies a heaven beyond the mystique blue sky?



With her arms stretched out, she stares at the moon,

As if imploring him in silence, to grant her a boon

She too wants to escape the darkness, bask for a moment in sunshine,

Though deep in her heart she knows, her thoughts are akin to crime.


She can dwell without love, she pleads to be exempted from hate,

Perhaps lacking in virtues, she requests not to be disgraced,

Nurturing some soiled dreams, she lacks strength to fight the battle

Thusly, in this stormy night, with utmost sincerity, she prays for a miracle!


With turmoils and harrowing memories all these years,

Struggling all this while to hold back her tears,

Refusing to quit life's battle without putting up a fight

Yet, tormented by the mirage, she appears tired.



Never having tasted the bliss of joy, will Love take pity on her?

Despite being innocent, why did the Gods turn their back on her?

Amidst all this cacophony though, some fairy tales fell into her outcast ears,

and so waits this Cinderella, for a prince, who would come and wipe her tears...

Random thoughts - part embryonic, part senile

Sanctum sanctorum of the self - a garden, tiny, concealed,

Planted were some dreams, tended with care 'n hope;

Yet everyday few die, crushed by harsh realities,

This tender heart bereaves, the mind learns to cope!

About poems, bleeding hearts and One Tree Hill

Poets often dwell, perhaps, in the no man's land - torn between the expressed and the inexpressible. Armed with a canvas of a handful of letters and their finite permutations on one hand, and the accumulated shadows, dreams, images, some half-formed, some still-born and some in ruins on the other. The shadowy labyrinths of a restless mind confounded by the shrouds of perception - can it ever be (accurately) mapped on a piece of paper, transformed by the (magical?) powers of expression? I have often groped in darkness - for answers, for enlightenment, for truth... At times it seems a function of time, a function of inspiration, and at times- the unknown, the unknowable(?)...
It is the former that provides me hope, though not the answers...
Riding on the same train of thought but migrating to another man's (very popular) canvas, this monologue is intended to give you a peek into a song that I've often admired for being able to express the sublime.
It is a song called One Tree Hill by U2 from the album The Joshua Tree. Sample these:

The sun so bright it leaves no shadows

Only scars, carved into stone

On the face of earth.

Isn't it ironical how brightness, fame, spotlight can be taxing and burdensome. However, my favourite lines from the same song are:

And in the world a heart of darkness

A fire zone

Where poets speak their heart

Then bleed for it.

Jara sang, his song a weapon

In the hands of love

You know his blood still cries

From the ground

(For complete lyrics go to: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/u2/onetreehill.html )
To provide some trivia for the curious, songfacts.com (http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=916) gives the following information about the song:

"U2 wrote this about Greg Carroll, a Maori from New Zealand who became an assistant and close friend of Bono after he met the band in 1985 while they were in his country. He was killed a year later when he was hit by a car while running an errand for Bono on Bono's motorcycle. The album The Joshua Tree, as well as this song, are dedicated to Greg Carroll."

"One Tree Hill is the tallest of 5 volcanic islands in Auckland where Greg Carroll took Bono his first night in New Zealand. It is a tourist attraction in Auckland, with a monument at the summit dedicated to John Logan Campbell, one of Auckland's founding fathers. In 1994, the One Tree Hill tree was the victim of a chainsaw attack by a Maori activist which almost ringbarked it. A further attack in 1999 all but finished the job and the life expectancy of the tree was estimated to be only three years. By October 2000, the pine had become unstable and was a danger to the public. After careful study of the condition of the tree, the decision was made to take it down. The felling operation was successfully carried out on October 26 amid much public attention, and the Auckland skyline was changed forever. (thanks, Copper - Auckland, New Zealand)"

"Jara refers to the Chilean folk singer/songwriter Victor Jara. When dictator Pinochet overthrew the government, Jara was tortured by having both his hands cut off and made to play the guitar while he bled to death."
"... for us, from this part of America (Southamerica I mean, not the USA), the Victor Jara's part is quite touching. His death was awful but yet evidence of artistic integrity, honesty and compromise. The man was taken to the Estadio Nacional de Chile, with tousands of students. They were tortured there, but there were people like Jara, who became counselors and guides for the young students there. They suffered, bleed, but they kept believing in freedom, in democracy. Jara himself was thought to be a comunist! The fact is that Jara's death itself is an allegory of comittment to art and social issues. Jara's hands were cut, chopped, and then, thos military pigs threw a guitar at him and told jara to play it. Jara picked up the guitar and used it as a drum with his bleeding arms.... He was shot after that. ("And in the world a heart of darkness A fire zone Where poets speak their heart Then bleed for it Jara sang, his song a weapon In the hands of love You know his blood still cries From the ground") Truly, just like many many others's, Jara's blood "still cries from the ground" - ALE, Necochea, Argentina"

"The lyrics describe the traditional Maori burial that Greg Carroll was given at One Tree Hill. Bono felt he could perform this only once, and did just one take in the studio."



The factual details aside, the feelings perhaps have a universal echo. The world is likened to a heart of darkness as Conrad had expressed. Does one, more often than not, bleed for speaking one's heart?Are poets naturally pessimistic? Is the world really a firezone where one's heightened sensitivity leads one to observe the degree of burns of million hearts, thinly veiled; or feel the battle-scars of countless survivors engaged in daily crusades.... Questions galore... encore..
And though so much blood has been made to spill under various pretexts of religion, order, sacrifice, honour, society, evil, goodness, and so much more is destined to be spilled, and while they all cry vociferously from the grounds, how often do we really listen? And why pretend to reflect, if I haven't really been able to absorb. For, how often have I tried to listen, imbibe, introspect and then reflect in a soothing manner?
Cry Jara, cry in vain..........

The Banished

The stony walls of the city scornfully stare at me,

The portals of benevolence are shut against me;

The mirrors of future in the receding sun, cast upon me a sordid halo

Banished by the lords of justice, I crawl upon my shadows.

What friends, what foes, what sobs, what jeers-

The venomous verdict keeps rumbling in my ears,

With remnants rustic, stacked against a stooped back

The people, the home, the future, the past - goodbye to all that.

To quench my thirst with the mist befalling my way,

With my stigma smeared name, am I forbidden to pray?

In the thorny desert that I tread, no oasis lies,

In the envelope of emptiness enshrouding me - what cries, what sights!

Fortune, affection, smile, hope, grace

All went past, bit by bit, merging slowly with the yesterday,

The lamp's long been put out, I survive like a zombie,

In the confines of the hourglass, I die with the passing of each die!

As I serve my sentence, I learn my lessons,

I brood over my misdeeds, shut my eyes in introspection,

Yet, tell me my lords, if I may dare to question -

Will I always be banished, famished; will I never be granted redemption?

Yet it's futile to longingly look back, when I've crossed several oceans,

Standing in the middle of nowhere, devoid of any destination;

Yet upon my fumbling lips, there's but a furtive wish -

Forgive me, if it'd be possible, my lords, when I'd finally fall asleep.

For the whispering voices of banshee echoes onto me,

How long shall I enact my part in this unending play of futility!

I've walked long carrying this inferno, I seek peace -

The silence of graves, the tired legs yearn for a place to eternally sleep!

a poem by Peter Meinke

here's a poem by Peter Meinke, written in 1976. I love it for its simplicity, wit and a subtle yet powerful underlying message...

Advice to My Son by J. Peter Meinke
(b.1932)

The trick is, to live your days

as if each one may be your last

(for they go fast, and young men lose their lives

in strange and unimaginable ways)

but at the same time, plan long range

(for they go slow; if you survive

the shattered windshield and the bursting shell

you will arrive

at our approximation here below

of heaven or hell).

To be specific, between the peony and the rose

plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes;

beauty is nectar

and nectar, in a desert, saves--

but the stomach craves stronger sustaenance

than the honied vine.

Therefore, marry a pretty girl

after seeing her mother;

Show your soul to one man,

work with another;

and always serve bread with your wine.
But son, always serve wine.

Written and (C)1976 J. Peter Meinke

Of Silence, In Words

The potter’s hands; if only I could shape silence, somehow,

In moulds of imagination, coaxed into reality

Or perceptions collective, beyond the periphery of fantasy,

A vindication, a void, or a momentary revelry in ecstasy?

Words, do they masquerade as bridges

Between the islands - you and I;

Withhold what, from whom, in million words untold,

Your promises of nigh, or countless cindered sighs?

Words - are they then a mapping, a function,

A manifestation, collating expression and perception;

Sight, would you deem it then, the underlying

Extension, to paint the perfect vision?

Two ancient rafts, drifting in the tide of time,

Dying embers, of hope, victims of exactitude;

The see-saw life, its musical chairs,

And silence echoes in this valley of solitude.

Bangalore Diaries - For the Love of God

"Bangalore's crazy violence : Violence was incited,"
"Chaos in Bangalore after Rajkumar’s death"
"Rajkumar's death sparks violence in Bangalore"

He wasn't just a hero, he was veritably a god! So when god goes to meet greater GOD, the mortals were natually anguished. They mourned, they protested and in their display of homage a metropolis burnt! No, this isn't a scene from gothic literature or Mahabharata or any other epic. It's a modern day incident of a city loosely regarded as world's emerging technology hub! The aforementioned god is Doctor Rajkumar, a noble soul and a noted Kannada actor who died of natural cause at a ripe old age. What followed however, was the dance of death in which thousands of supposed fans took to streets, burnt vehicles, enforced bandh, theatened non-compliance with physical damages and further dire consequences. It resulted in the death of 8 persons and physical injury to another couple of hundreds, ...
What I'd like to draw attention on is not exactitude, but attitude - of the intellectuals, the intelligentsia and the educateds alike, who regretfully described it as a natural outpouring of the sentiments of masses and washed their hands off, or tried to underplay the whole episode. May be those 8 persons killed were the sole bread earners for their families! Nobody would know that, or try to find out, or worse, would care to know! What then should be the price of a commoner's life as deemd by the mob/society? Who deems the worth of a god, and more importantly, who all are earmarked to pay?
There's a thin line between faith and fanaticism and there's a definite price to pay when it is crossed!
I had also come across this news about a person who severed his thumb as an offering to Amma (a dubious but powerful poltician of TN)!
Reverance of this scale are dangerous indicators. The collective sanity of a million people becomes easy to hijack. The fragility and the utter lack of self-worth/identity of the masses become evident. From this volatility rises often a wild fire that can be easily directed in virtually any direction by any cunning manipulator....
It may be wise to ponder over these lines:
Unfortunate is the country that has no heroes,
Unfortunate is the country that needs heroes.

Lone Star

Crawling my way across voids ‘n empty spaces
Trying to reach out to you for years,
Down, when the officious sun goes, and a wicked world sleeps
I tiptoe into your room, sing lullabies in your ears.

Rooted since the dawn of ages, a lone star in a distant galaxy
Melancholy, deprived; I implore, befriend me sweet child
And come away with me, relinquishing all your woes
Across a starlit Milky Way, let me offer you a joyride.
* * *

Distances spanning lightyears, a lifetime of billion years,
Sentenced by cruel Cosmos, how long shall mourn the tears?
The cries, silent sighs, the illusion of innumerable tries
Futile they all are, sooner or later you realize.

And yet, my scars are no one’s but my very own
To none, at any cost, I’ll shall make them ever known;
Striking a truce with the unrelenting destiny
Putting up a veil, I become a partner in irony.

And you too innocence, perturbed by the scruples of a wicked world
Having cried many a times in silence, wounded by harsh words
And how many times, I see the longing eyes, staring at me
And how many times, I try, in vain, to subdue your agony!

Yet now as we sail in dreamboat, let’s bury the past in its grave
A ray of light has come wandering in this dungeon, let's celebrate
We’ll laugh, sing, dance, and play, have loads of fun
To make the most of these stolen moments, as best as we can.

For, liberty is valued most by those who are deprived
Like the bird in the golden cage, that had forgotten to smile
Like the forbidden music of trumpet, to a brave, vanquished soldier, dying in pain
Like an ever thirsty desert’s longingness for rain.

And what I wouldn’t trade, in this well of pleasure, for one brief dip
Hold on for once, O' jealous clock, I fervently plead
‘Coz the sun wouldn’t shine forever, and rain would flood our lives
When we'd be separated beyond reach, by countless skies.

And you'd slip in your world, and I in mine,
Never meet again, perhaps, churn in hell's grind;
Yet the troubles 'n hardships can never deny the secret gleam of our eyes
The benedicitions of memories, a memoir of our forays into paradise;
It'd be a wonder drug for you, to withstand forthcoming years of vicissitudes
And it's elixir to me, to endure another age of solitutde!

A Prayer for Dawn

***

Where the florid chinar leaves blissfully swayed,
Amidst their distinct din, gleeful children played;
Where creation's palette chose to paint a panoramic fantasy,
Yet Time, the leveller; and the rubble-remains of history.

'Twas a betrayal of hope, premature death of dream,
A bitter saga of sobs, 'n sighs, 'n screams;
The bliss of life swept away in a calamitous flood of violence,
Abandoned abodes, fear of death, and an eerie, gnawing silence.

The foresaken paths and the pallid flowers quiveringly beckon
Come back my innocent dwellers, the defeated deserters gone,
That time's a healer, change manifests, the storm shall eventually go,
So that the seeds of love, trust & joy - once again we may sow.

The night's been long, we pray for the dawn,
For scars to heal, the curse to abrogate, and spring to soon come;
For the cacophony of guns to give way to the innocent giggles of children,
So the infants may be privileged to inhale - that blessed fragrance of freedom!


Afterthought:
Though the inspiration is derived from the plight of Kashmir and Kashmiris, yet one'd feel there are so many others, spread across geographies who would feel the echoings to be familiar.. For, may be, this is a story of blood-brothers engaged in blood-baths, under the different nomenclatures of jihad, freedom-struggle, revolution, terrorism, etc. where the ultimate martyr is ironically, INNOCENCE...

On Bonding - a small poem

Sometimes words wouldn't seem to suffice-
Whence, silence & gestures are employed,
. . . . to fill in the voids...



For, words, at times may yearn to wear,
More than merely meaning,
Yet, the thoughts seldom cease to betray,
What the encumbered soul does fail to say.



For, more things in our lives,
Than you and I, maybe conditioned to believe,
Are ushered by, what for us, 
Others - wish and pray.