A Toddler's ways

 

The Earth hath not borne anything as pure

As those beautiful feet that hath just embarked,

On the first of life’s many picturesque tours

Seasoned with tales of frolic and larks.

 

Trotting away from them, only to look back in jest,

Enough for each to declare claims of your attention,

Every compassionate heart here pours out its best,

When their labors of love earned their worthy pension.

 

What a pity it be to see you trip over to the rug,

What a relief to see you stand back in smiles,

What an honor it is when you choose my hugs,

What a joy to follow you for hours and miles.

 

No grammar as beautiful as his half-baked Babble

No dance as mesmerizing his unbalanced gait,

No story stands to captivate like his childhood’s Fable,

That the Creator hath authored through his parents’ slate.

An evening with a toddler has fueled the author to write these verses. Yet he knows for sure that the beauty of childhood will never be measured well enough by his limited power with words. 

Verse Crumbs: Holy Hill

The Holy Mother, know, dwells in this Manger of Piety,

In the woods whose peace, my words labors to explain,

Did the Savior that hath Risen, give this Fall her beauty?

Here my touring eyes retire and in contemplation, I remain.

A visit to Holy Hill that houses the Basilica of National Shire of Mary, to catch the Fall colors, and got overpowered not just by the beauty of Fall but by this underlying peace that was difficult to explain. 

Verse Crumbs: Dinner with comrades

Never a dull moment when comrades dine, 
Never a SafeHouse where puzzles untwine, 
Never a palate ignored by that Lady Terse,
Never enough reasons to send you this verse. 


After dinner with group of great friends and colleagues, at a restaurant called SafeHouse. 

Verse Crumbs - Birthday it is!

A birthday wind was blowing in town,
the night was young in her winter gown,
the scoops got picked and crumbs stranded
from dinner we took off and in Kopps landed.

(Dinner party celebrating one of their birthdays and then icecreams)

By The Flickering Flame of a Beauteous Night

When the fire of revelry let out her first smoke,

When I set forth in earnest without my cloak;

When guarded etiquette flashed her final smile,

When dancing shoes would paint many a tile;

When chiming glasses had intoxication in guise,

When the dancing tribe possesseth my eyes;

Whose hands I clapped, to whose humor I bent,

Through many a name my labored memory spent;

Yet what magic did it weave that I sit up and pen,

With an unexplained urge came these verses in ten.

The author finds an unexplained urge to pen these verses in a set of ten at the end of a musical night of camaraderie.  

"What is this Gowramma"!

Why, o lassie, this eye-liner on thy brow,

Decorates these eyes to an eloquent glow,

Who coloured these precious lashes? ‘Twas I,

Now amidst amorous flashes, my senses ply!

Many a lake parched by the tropical May noon,

My sun-burnt skin pines for the course of moon,

Yet why my maiden, do thou shiver at my approach?

In thy heart’s parlor, did I secretly encroach?

Like the waist-band singing praises of thy frame,

The lamp-glass ornament to the resplendent flame,

These unchecked words, in truth my fair dame,

Are likewise grammar’s  ode to thy worthy name.

Let Cupid lay down his bow and sleep,

Let the Artic snow douse the flame’s last leap,

Let wrinkles and grey manes wither our youth,

May these verses be balms to comfort and sooth!

Why, o lassie, this eye-liner on thy brow,

Decorates these eyes to an eloquent glow,

Who coloured these precious lashes? ‘Twas I,

Now amidst amorous flashes, my senses ply!

The poet was triggered to write this poem when he heard the Kannada song "Enidhu Gowramma" on radio during his drive home. 

This song and the Tamizh version - "Ennadi Muniyamma..." are indeed fun songs to listen to!! 

An admirer's lament

Neither her hair, let loose or held in plait,

Nor her frame -every true admirer’s bait,

Nor her presence that weaken even cast iron knees,

Nor her fragrance for which many a competing bee,

Nor her gaze aloof from a gallery of eyes,

But yet found mine in a questioning guise!

Nor her printed cloth that was condemned to veil

her ripe lips that would leave many verses in trail,

None as enchanting as that disarming smile,

but, none to release her*from her cloak’s guile.

Hours flew swiftest when her unveiled cheeks shone,

And time labored most when the drapes were done.

With a rumble in my heart I solemnly write,

Of my infected musings that has no balm in sight,

If the sweetest fruit were the most forbidden of all,

As a burglar in the sanctum, I shall stand tall.  

*her smile

The ladies in the city have now started veiling their faces as they move about, and the poet can't help complaining. He ponders about why something so beautiful as her face should be hidden away from his admiring eyes. So much so, that he is urged to himself step ahead and unveil her face!

To Be Happy

To sight him among the wise men they besought,
with her: “pray show to us thy lovely consort”
“Is he? “; “No”, “Is he?”; “No”, until they reached the One,
Her head hung, no words rose, only her abashed face shone.

Thus from one joy to another, from one victory to next,
Through sights and scenes who each claim to be best,
When they drop away disarmed, without even a drone,
He knew that to be happiness, so unalloyed, so alone.


When Sita was asked by her friends to show to them who her consort, Rama was among an assembly of sages, she denied everyone whom that was pointed to. But when they pointed out to Rama himself, she just hung her down in bashfulness and didn’t say a word.
Similarly, when that pure happiness happens, there wouldn’t be any expression, no testimonials, no debates. We would be left with only that pure experience.

The Ancestry

Like the infant retiring to her parent’s bosom,
Like the lifeless corpse on to barren ground,
To know wherefrom all its nature blossoms,
Is to find where to its retirement hath bound.

The Earth sprang from Water, by the aforesaid rule,
And Water, from Fire, what unbelievable parentage,
And Fire, an offspring of the might Wind’s fuel,
And the pristine Space be Wind’s final hermitage.

To the most subtle ancestor, be a progeny most blatant,
Hath there ever a riddle, whose answers be more pendant!

And so, the perceived World from the bosom of Senses,
The inscrutable Mind in turn bred them to their fame.
The Mind, like rays, diverged from the Intellect’s lenses,
And Intellect be The Conscience’s embryonic game.

To the most expansive ancestor, be a progeny so distinctive,
To know of this would be questioner’s unsought incentive.

It is believed that to find the orgin of any phenomenon, it is enough to find wherein it subsides - just like an infant naturally finds an embrace in her mother, etc.

Accordingly, Earth is said to have orginated from Water(as it get submerged in Water), water from fire(as it gets put off by fire), fire from wind and the wind from the expansive space.

Similarly with the Object-Senses-Mind-Intellect-Conscience relationship.

It is intersting to note that in both examples, every phenomenon subsides in a more subtle and expansive one (like, the wind subsides in space), until there is nothing to subside into. And that is the goal worth beholding.

Love and the City

On my honest mirror this monsoon night,

I see the greying sky and her promises of stars,

Together they mirror with sweetened darts,

Memories of thee and “her” fabled sites.



Few as worthy of a verse as Bangalore,

Yet they say, I loved only thee more.



Every orchard and every garden’s gates,

That I passed, hath me look back for miles,

Only more charming was thy winsome smile,

When thee looked back on a conquering gait.



Whence they come, whither they are bound,

They reach by her lakes to pause and pose,

Like my travelling thoughts with their weary toes ,

By the memories of thy deeds, are resting found.



Few as worthy of a verse as Bangalore,

Yet they say, I loved only thee more.



Her gyrating nights and over-flowing taverns,

Stir me but lesser than thy mysterious eyes,

The city and the damsel in love’s playful guise,

Have etched many a verse in my heart’s caverns.


Few as worthy of a verse as Bangalore,

Yet they say, I loved only thee more.


Many are the songs written about cities. Yet none written on Bangalore. I took the responsibility of the doing the due to this beautiful city.

He....who...?

The perennial well of ever-returning thoughts,


Who, incensed by senses, binds them in knots.

Who, with doses of memory, keeps alive the dead,

who, in my assumptive cognizance is well bred.

From whose reflective lenses rise duals and triads,

Who, as a dreamy artist paints events in their myriads.

Who knoweth all knowns but of one’s own birth,

Who killeth even the valiant, like in ghastly mirth.

Whose rising alone raises worlds and their kings,

Whose slumber alone can set one’s wisdom to wings.

Who, as a glorious speaker hath his audience in tame,

But whose origin when questioned hath him bow in shame.

Who though loudly operative is improbable to find,

Thou art the bandit, my insentient MIND.

 

Bundle of thoughts, interpreter of our senses, holder of our memory, the building blocks of our knowledge and assumptions – the mind is the one and everything that builds the world around us. It takes us through events and dresses up our opinions. It has its landlord – me- in such a hold that it operates so fearlessly by its own whims. Truly, only when cornered and questioned of his credentials will he stop and bow in shame to his master.

Thesis of a Sufferer

Many a dark thoughts, like engulfing dunes,

 Stun his spirits to dread this night of June,

Clinging to that face that horizon never gave,

Alas! As possible as were garden on stony grave.

Memories did but nothing to soothe his mane,

Their mighty claws dug deep to spell his bane,

Amusements that he harbored to force his smile,

Enjoyed in the present but despised for miles.

Consumed by rage and confused by reason,

He pursues a balm that might end this treason,

Awfully caught in this impregnable coffer,

He now lay wonder, “who is it that suffers”? 

Nay, not this protagonist, nor his swaying resolve,

 Not his intellect, nor the expectations it dissolved,

Neither his five senses, nor his stature sublime,

And neither his triumphs nor his valour they mimed.

And hence what remained that hath to be slayed,

Was merely his belief that he was that prey.      

When mis-guided individuality that thus was slain,

None was left to witness the dual of pleasure and pain.

And like that river that dissolved in mighty sea,

He lay consumed in the refrain - That art He!

A spider's web

Built in a fissure amidst sprawling walls,
Thy silky maze stood for a scheming pall.
Woven from one’s own secreted wire,
The web has an artist to pause and admire.

To watch its arrest and to feast on its gruel,
With hunger satiated, what pride didn’t it fuel.
The triumphed binds glorified by many a prey
Thy hunter’s instincts have left fewer in fray!

But the choicest nectars from a bee’s mining,
And amidst picturesque petals, a butterfly’s dining,
Alas, evade thee that hath a castle to guard,
And a guardian too often is a captive inward.

Built in the vault amidst birth and passing,
Our world is a maze of our own dressing,
Springing from the self, many a thought envision
Our world of perfection yet hath us imprisoned.

However laborious, habits need to be severed,
Thus torch our schemes, however they be revered.
For it is by painfully consuming the web, in glee,
The spider-a survivor, turns that seeker in a bee.


A spider's web is a unique phenomenon. Built between two surfaces, by the secretions from the spider, it is meticulously woven and re-woven to capture its prey. So involved is a spider in waiting for its prey and "fine-tuning" its web before and after, that one wonders if the spider in truth is a prisoner of its own making. He doesn't get to enjoy the rich nectar like a bee or dance in a garden like a butterfly. And at times, his web doesn't spare him and ends up trapped.
Such is our lot as well.
We spin our world into being with our thoughts and tendencies that spring from our heart. We build our schemes, gaurd them like a spider does. Needless to say, we lead an unenviable life inspite of our victories and riches.
We killing our habits and withdrawing our assumptions, can make us permenantly free and happy; just like a spider withdrawing its web into itself can make it as free as a bee that seeks the best of nectar.

The musing of a spectator

The following is a recording of a spectator as he walks after watching a rapturous performance of his favourite dancer. His thoughts prove that the dancer has had a larger-than-art influence on him. The performance has left him emotional, empty-handed, his sense of purpose lost.
Yet, few would believe how envious his situation was!!!


Like the beach sand left back by the retreating waters,
Like memories washed ashore by the waves of events,
Like backyard swings as memoirs of now-wedded daughters,
Thy frame left my eyes leaving sweet tears as remnants.


Like silence lost with the advent of diction,
Like slumber stolen by that bundle of riches,
Like fiery pace muted by the labors of friction
Thy splendor did away with my trunk of wishes.


I hope you did mark me amid your rapturous dance,
And would return to grant me my secret musings,
For, I lost my alms when I clapped in a trance,
That with barren palms I now tread, musing.

Maiden to her Paramour

Scene of Radha a cow-herdress addressing her beloved Lord Krishna. As promised by Him, He agrees to meet her on a full-moon night on the banks of River Yamuna. At the specified time, Radha rushes out of her home, kith and kin in a state of exceeding love to meet Him. As they meet, Lord Krishna holds back her approaches. To Him, the love-lorn Radha addresses in words that are not only of deep love but also of legendary devotion. (scroll down for explanations on the verses)

1. In the moon-cooled sands by the abundant river,
Bathed by Thy eyes that art a love-filled quiver,
I stand transfixed facing thy benevolence’s might,
Oh! I am killed even with death nowhere in sight.

2 Lured out of the walls, you now have me in sight,
Now if unclaimed, how pathetic is my plight.
Fickleness in my love and this poisonous vanity,
Needs Thy embrace that would kill all Duality.

3 From the Lord who claimed all worlds by His strides,
Three steps of Earth I beg, that would lead to His side,
On the Stage of our love and to the tunes of Thy flute,
May we dance in ecstasy, my thoughts thus rendered mute.

4. A pompous bird that flew out from these sands,
To heights only lesser than her pride’s pangs,
Unleash Thy gravity that would slay my wings,
And bring me to Thy bosom, to what exalted bearing!

5 The butter that Thee hold is from incessant churning,
Of this creamy milk, behold! Here is my learning!
Thus pray churn me out from my entangling ignorance,
Hold me, deem me and consume me in Thy Fragrance.

6 All said, there still remains this cruel distance from Thee,
On one end, art the Lotus and on the other, a restless bee.
Embrace me so that there be no individuality, even a wee,
For, to the yearning seekers, the Divine Paramour art Thee!

1. Radha meets Krishna on the moon-light banks of River Yamuna. By "love-filled quiver" she means His eyes to be a quiver of arrows that aim love-darts at her. She is transfixed by His beauty and smile that she finds herself life-less even though there was "death nowhere in sight". Alternatively the egoism is killed.

2. Lured out of the walls: compounds of her home. Alternatively, the 5 sheaths that according to Hindusim sepearate the human from the divinity within him/her. Radha laments, if thus lured and not claimed, her plight is unimaginable. She believes her love is weak, and she is proud, and only His embrace can kill all these weakness and Duality in her thoughts. Killing of the "Duality" is supposed to be the highest spiritual state that is attained after the "5 sheaths" are broken.

3. The Lord is believed to have covered all the worlds by his strides in an episode. Radha requests just 3 steps of all he has covered, the 3 steps that seperate Him from her so that she could reach Him. She wishes to dance with Him in bliss to the tunes of His flute.

4. Radha compares her pride to the wings of the bird that breaks away from the earth's gravitation to fly high. She begs Him to break her wings and bring her back to earth, alterantively to kill her pride and bring her back to His bosom.

5. Just like butter is formed by continous churning of milk and then taken out of the container, Radha prays Krishna bring her out of ignorance by put her through various travails of life so that she can become one in union with Him. The reference to butter particularly is because of Krishna's strong liking for butter. Radha compares her to be his butter.

6. Radha compares herself to a restless bee that seeks the beautiful lotus, that is Krishna. She prays He embraces her so close that they are one in union and they are no more individuals. Alternatively, the killing of duality explained above and in various Hindu texts. Needless to say she treats Him as a Divine Paramour who would not only love her but also lead her to Liberation spiritualy.

And so it happened.

Sound of Silence

The thousand wayside lamps that promise to illuminate
Together, a few miles, in Darkness’ engulfing senate.
Blots don’t steal a white shirt’s reverence,
Words don’t subdue the sound of silence.

Oceans have never been a thirsty throat’s feed,
My wallet that never served a single beggar’s needs,
Time doesn’t deter a heart’s loving incense,
Words don’t subdue the sound of silence.

The Sun that awakens the buds so coy,
The infant’s toddle and the mother’s joy,
His eyes that dance to her smile’s ambiance,
Many a verse penned by the sound of silence.

Just words spoken do not break the silence between people. The conversations need to be listened to, accepted and reciprocated. Words and silence, Ocean and thirst, Wallet and the needy etc are illustrations used to show that the spirit behind the action drives the results, not mere actions.
Often, we do not need words to communicate, a baby doesn't need to ask for attention and so on. Here the spirit fills in for the absence of words!

An Ode to a Ship

With her pompous horn and a winsome mast,
Those intriguing aisles and the deck so vast,
With a proud nose that were to pen glorious tales,
Amidst hurrays and cannons she did set sail.

With determined rotors to cut the demoniac currents,
With sails to guide the winds that came in torrents,
With stoic mast that stood a symbol of her esteem,
For decades she wrestled the oceans’ gory seam.

And then that one gush that undid her sail,
The valiant rotors that laboured yet failed,
Alas! That one wave that finally humbled her deck,
The seas had conspired in this project of wreck.

The winds that bowed now deemed to vow,
The unsurpassable deck now at a piteous low,
The rudder that guided now forced to abide,
Her entire self trapped in the claws of the tides.

But, gauge her not by this heart-wrenching sight,
Her victories are greater than any ocean’s might.
The winds might threaten to ravage her frame,
But Time would step forth to declare her fame.

I know not her purpose or her destination,
I am not to judge for then, how come this aberration?
Keep her mast aloft O Lord, in Thy mysterious ways,
Grant her, her esteem and gift her Thy Grace.

This is in tribute to those heroes who did countless feats in their healthy days, but now are afflicted with diseases and troubled by age. They might be a pale shadow of their earlier selves, their bodies might have broken down. The world might write them off, but beneficiaries of their heorics must stand up and pray. Not out of sympathy but out of love.

The Potter's ways

Potter:
The touch of my palm and the speed of my wheel,
Brings forth to reality my imagination’s zeal.
Burnt by the furnace and abandoned by Time,
Tested by my rod and finally worthy of a dime.

Requested by the little girl, the potter explains his process – he creates his object with his palms on the wet mud that is driven by a rotating wheel. He then burns the wet formation to high temperatures in the oven, then allows it to cool for an exceptionally long time(abandoned by time). He checks its hardness by tapping the pot with his rod. Only when he is confirmed of the quality he puts it on the selling table, else, he sends it back to the furnace. The little girl completely “mis-understood” the information as:

The little girl:

The wheel of time and that touch of Divinity,
Brings forth our lives, weighed by serendipity.
Burnt by troubles and abandoned by solutions,
Our misgivings fall prey to wisdom’s lotions.
And finally the He declares our worth proven,
Or alas the failure leads us back to the oven.

By the Will of God(the palm) and the governed by Time(the wheel), we take birth in line with our serendipity. We are then put through a lifetime of troubles and sorrow(in the furnace); we are left to feel abandoned and defeated. All this slowly only transitions our way of thinking and lifestyle from that of weaklings to strong individuals, steeped in wisdom and character. And based on our advancement(tested by the rod), we are either ready to live happily ever after, or are sent back to the cycle of seasoning.
The potter was the famous Saint Gora Khumbar and the little girl when on to become a great saint whose name I fail to recollect.

A-B-C Rhetoric

Each phrase begins with three successive letters of the English Alphabet.

Astute Business Case

Dewy Eyed Fairy

Great Himalayan Invincibility

Jokes Kindle Laughter

Male’s Nine Orifices (eyes, nostrils, ears, mouth, urethra, anus)

Pastor-Qualified Relationship (a wedding)

Sensuality Talks undercover (Sensuality – a hidden trait felt over time, rather than seen in a minute)

Vendetta Wielding Xenophobes (racists)

"Alliteration..sort of" - contd.

Poetry perturbed purists

Quests quelled Quixote. ( Don Quixote took up impossible quests and was
unsuccessful each time.)

Rum raising rascal

Soviets spread socialism

Tongue tells taste

Unplugged under umbrella (Remember the “Pyaar hua ikraar hua…” song?)

Vampire’s veiled venom.

Wield with wisdom (exercise an act with wisdom)

Yelled yet yielded (vocally revolt but give way in act)

Zoo’s zealous Zebra