Poems

What but a child of notions naive?
What but a slave of powers none?
What but fate has it's stamp on me?
What but my death am I certain of?

What but my intentions have I that lasts?
What but my will have I to offer?
What but my time have I to spend?
What but these are my purpose at all?

What but myself can I hope to love?
What but a poweless slave am I now?

Vagrant winds carry your songs,
shining sun reveals your smiles.

Flying birds display your grace,
sweet rains bear witness to your love.

Open skies too small to hold you,
thick white clouds too timid to cover you.

Lush leaves are strokes of your brush,
Animal forms spring from your potters wheel.

Open plains sing praises to your beauty,
crowded forests revel in your divine majesty.

Violent storms show me your power,
frail ferns teach me your delicacy.

From your hand, we have all sprung,
and to your home we shall all return.

The master artist moves his brush,
a bird of great grace he draws.
A flash light,
the bird in flight,
the magic in his hand now grows.

The master artist blows on his furnace,
a statue of perfect poise is born.
A divine breeze,
ends it's deathly freeze,
his claims to humility are gone.

The master artist, his head swelling,
dares nature to match his hand.
The water is cut,
and the artist is but,
silent screams and grains of sand.

The artists' master pulls back his hand,
and looks at the world that is his.
Some creatures small,
others big and tall,
live together in happiness and bliss.

Inspired by a postcard of Mono Lake which I got. Not that it's descriptive of the place but it evoked the imagery.

Laughing trees and singing brooks,
lazy clouds and cosy nooks.

Smiling sun and dancing greens,
fragrant winds and silver streams.

Playful deer and friendly flowers,
ornate ferns on great green towers.

Balm for the eye and food for the soul,
severed from them, we're no longer whole.

Inspired by the state of my bike. I like Limericks. :)

A broken bike with a faulty gear,
rode by a fool without any fear,
He slipped one day,
in a rather nasty way
Thank god, a hospital was near.

Wrote this while reading Wuthering Heights and walking around in a lousy state of mind. I really wanted to write something cheerful but I guess that was not meant to be. This is broken in lots of ways. Rhythm is messed up, too many reuses of words (but that enforces the theme maybe) and a general pointlessness.

The stones chuckle as I walk by them,
the grass twists to cut my ankles.
The patch of moonlight that is my torch,
dances to the rattle of my shackles.

The eagles fly high with arrogant indifference,
the serpents slither with vulgar grace
The worms burrow deep to avoid my scent,
the masterful owl denies me his kingly gaze.

The skies weep an undead rain,
the moon retires to her cloudy home.
The trees undress to take their shower,
the lusty wolves begin to moan.

A stink of death sprouts from the ground,
watered by heavens tears.
Cracking whips and white fires,
light my inner torch of fears.

A heartless warmthless frigid wind,
takes the place of the weeping sky.
It rouses minions of the darkest night,
the ones that crawl and the ones that fly.

The tears of the sky are gone for now.
In their place is my own sorrow
The night proceeds to claim a victim
and leave his bones for the worms tomorrow.

A godless soulless inky sky,
looks down at my hopeless plight.
The laughing silence drowns my screams,
and puts out my god lit light.

Vines and creepers, the hold me down.
I shed tears of betrayed blood.
My putrid rotten, swollen heart,
returns to it's place in the mud.

The sun shines over a battlefield,
where one man fought against the night
The might of darkness quickly claimed,
a hapless wretch shrouded in fright.

And while the worms feed on my rotting corpse,
the dark masters sit at lofty heights.
They watch over their evil kingdom,
they watch over the blackest nights.

Trying to develop a main theme and a symbolic one to support it at the same time.

Golden Galleon, decked with riches,
watch it's sails unfurl.
A matchless marvel this ship is,
on velvet a shimmering pearl.

An unhurt heart of human flesh,
A spirit of truth and love.
Burning fires of life's own furnace,
Lit by the heavens above.

Sailing north to trade it's gold,
the good ship draws it's path.
Till a fatal flaw in it's wooden heart,
conjures up natures wrath.

Wandering spirit chasing lights,
naive and stupid fool.
Walking about with eyes sealed shut,
in life's dark and murky pool.

Sails to shrouds, bunks to graves,
the good ship begins to die.
Taking it's crew to the bottom where,
tortured soulless bodies lie.

Proud and wicked, arrogant man,
you walk with twisted feet.
Your head is big and heart is small,
Ostentation is your defeat.

Breaking wood and burnt out lights,
the ship now disappears.
Mothers calls out to their sailor sons,
silence confirms their fears.

Begone then, ye faithless wretch,
from this island of bliss,
You sold God without a thought,
for a harlots vapour kiss.

Words of verse flow from my pen,
and turn into flowers of ink.
I write and read without any care,
and new meanings spring and sink.

The verse brings heavens to the ground,
and angels to the rank of man.
He denies his heart the freedom to write,
although it screams that it can.

But why this urge to make black marks,
on pristine parchment white?
Why does the star twinkle in the sky,
or the bird delight in flight?

Oh burning hand, rest you now,
lest you kill me whole.
An artless heart and inkless pen,
are bodies without a soul.

To hell with you, you vagrant heart,
from today, face not me!
To which it with blood scarlet writes,
reams of finest poetry.

Perhaps not as good as it should be. But it's a first attempt

The bright sun shining
it gives life to all creatures
paper casts shadows

This was written with a calligraphic pen while I was trying to concentrate on getting the forms of the letters right. The content itself was secondary.

On open minds and empty hearts,
despairs flowers doth grow.

But on a heart of passion and a spirit stalwart,
the wine of love does flow.

The hidden grove of eternal love,
is locked with seals many.

The innocent eye and playful soul,
opens them with laughter merry.

Chilling stories and violent visions of daemons from afar,
are laid to rest and turned to dust by beauty that evil can't bar.

Broken pots of earthen clay,
Quieter days of childlike play.

Smoking chimneys and a tidy bed,
Newborns, children all well fed.

Bright green saplings and tender shoots,
Fertile soils and shallow roots.

The head turns forward and sees differently,
A new world where people huddle quietly.

Where lights flicker and candles are dim,
And songs drown in the common din.

On these dark wings, arrives my destiny,
and without a tear, I drink from the cup of eternity.

There's an incredibly large tree at the Lal Bagh in Bangalore which I was really captivated by. Although this was written much after I first saw it, It's definitely dedicated to that leafy friend of mine.

Oh ancient friend of wisdom great,
Please lend to my words your ear.
When I can kill you with a swing of my axe,
why do I and not you live in fear?

Her leaves whistled in the quiet breeze,
And looked at me with knowledge of years.
They sung praises to her loving creator,
their songs were all for his ears.

Oh ancient friend of Wisdom great,
spare me a nugget of your thought.
While we struggle to make a living,
has your kind never a battle fought?

Her branches spread over a sunny furnace,
and shielded me from the heat.
Her purpose was to love and serve
and not to worry about defeat.

Oh ancient friend of wisdom great,
bless me with your vision divine.
Your fruits feed many a people,
Is there nothing that you call "mine"?

Her aged limbs bowed down with,
the weight of her children many.
They dropped off her with dignity and ease,
and fed her animal friends a plenty.

Oh ancient friend of wisdom great,
Your age has made you valuable.
Your wisdom greatly surpasses that of man,
but to us, you're simply wood that is saleable.

Doggerel. What else can I say?

Evil and vile, anagrams.
Curses, witches, pentagrams.

Ugly evil step sisters,
Chauvinistic girl haters.

Smoking dirty and loud lorries,
Long and boring sob stories.

Loud and stupid lousy songs,
Flashy and tacky mobile phones.

What's a solution to all this mania?
A healthy overdose of paranoia!

Morning Maiden, bearer of light,
shining through my window at dawn.
My day is your gift to me,
the darkness creeps in when you're gone.

Morning maiden, mistress of time,
Yours is every minute of the day.
My heart sings it's praises to you,
just as it weeps when you depart.

I wrote this on the spur of the moment when I was at home this weekend. I didn't care about the rhyme scheme or any form of meter - just wrote what I felt like and this is what came out.

I don't know about form or content but it was spontaneous.

Oh! Guide of the poets pen,
Oh! Wielder of the artists brush.
My powers are yours to command,
one and all are but your slaves.

Oh! Blower of the unseen wind,
Oh! Sculptor of the cragged rocks.
My eyes are but your slaves,
I am blind to everything but you.

Oh! Bearer of the heavens above,
Oh! Master of the seven seas.
For you alone my spirit soars,
for you it seeks in your own skies.

Oh! Guardian of the outcast lover,
Oh! Fender of the wandering fool.
Your pleasure is all I seek,
With every fiber of my undying self.

This was an attempt to create a poem based on some of my musings in this post.

The living tree is a piece of wood,
the yelping dog a bag of blood.

The flying eagle is a stone in the air,
that floats on the wind through my hair.

My own two hands are sticks on my shoulders,
these stately buildings are merely boulders.

My thoughts choke my ability to see,
a cage from which I can never break free.

Light pierces not this eternal night,
the knife is forged only by internal sight.

A wonderous world awaits the seeker,
From which one returns wiser and perhaps, a little meeker.

Waltzing clouds of purest white
size so large and yet so light

Lazy motion ever so slow,
Guided by unseen currents flow

Bearing life's nectar sweet,
And after delivering, hastily retreat

The sun shines through ever bright
the cotton angels leave in hurried flight

Books and bats,
sticks and hats,
tapes and songs,
clothes all wrong,
in the boys house.

Flowers and dresses,
shoes and tresses,
perfume and paint,
to make you faint,
in the girls house.

This was something that I just wrote while chatting with V. She's already put it up but nevertheless.

In mornings calm, I act aloud
and feel my spirit soar

In evenings tired, I look straight back
and feel wonderful evermore

Such is my life, careless and free
and I hold nothing for tomorrow.

But spend all that I can today
and when the need arises, I borrow.