Sunday, 30 March 2014

Walking in Circles

'The problem with most of us is that we forget we were once a sperm and would probably be food to a worm!'

I never remember the day I saw light,
I don't recall the day I was named,
Nor the day my little feet first embarked
in a destined walk upon perpetual circles,
Circles of land, circles of time!

It must have been dark before birth,
Infinities of darkness! and then
a sperm (in motion and spirited),
Conquered my mother's arable land,
And disposed spores of life.

I must have been blinded by light,
Because for years to come I lost
sight of the path I should walk,
And the people I should love,
I lived aided by my mother's arm.

The pride of vision is personal,
I know of blind men who proudly say,
'We see more than you, son!'
I mocked them in disregard,
But now I realize they were true.

I sleep walked until youth,
Galloped through adolescence,
And jogged out of adulthood,
Now the pace slowed, my
solitary walks lack the desire.

Last day, I slept beside my pride
and woke up amidst my fears,
I walked the distance in my sleep,
Probably incongruous to the world,
And unnoticed even by friends.

I feel the light fading, slowly
I forget all visions I had in life,
I stumble in my walks, to my aid
a pathetic stick, lifeless and old,
Which never love me like my mother.

I become aware of the circular walk,
The one I made with all blind men,
I see an oblivion, an infinity of darkness!
And my kins dropping soil
upon my spoiled figure!

Thursday, 27 March 2014

Rhyme of all Dead Men

I hear the rustle of seas beneath,
Obvious noises of dead men weep,
The struggle of life in sultry heat,
And creeping vacuum amidst bleak.

Silver linings never do shine,
In a life below rock-bed's reign,
Yet shadows of dark and sultry tales,
Haunt the Earth and cult a way.

If the dead come back in revenge and rage,
Their target is never the hateful saint,
But the world who buried their lives,
In the Earth, terrible and black!

Sizing up the Beast

Can you curb the rising terror?
Because as I utter blunt words,
The beast's thirsty eyes glow.

The canvas on which I painted,
(torn up in fresh provocations),
Confounds my movements,
I cuddle my colors, fear drowns!

'Art on walls can never kill you!'
I repeat, to release my mind from
the large limbs, clawed and lethal.

Is reality a self created haven
where old men go out for adventure,
To torture their insanity with
the pangs of living a sane life?

Because the animal in its ferocity,
Seems a centered spot in infinity,
Where all my terrors meet abruptly.

I realized the vulnerability of it,
(my hands, destined to be bloody),
What stops me is not my will,
But my unreasonable share of mind.

The beast growls, the fear is real,
But I doubt about his claws,
I shall believe only if it kills.

The canvas on which I painted
confounds my sane movements,
I repeat (enjoying the transition),
'Arts on walls can never kill you!'

Yet I misjudged his skill, and
the size of his painful inflictions,
His vigilant eyes smiled, in triumph!

Saturday, 22 March 2014

Thoughts about a Woman

Her harsh red lips, moist with blood,
Trembled in trauma, while her breasts;
Like disoriented tombs, hung
lifeless and battered, they laid to rest
all youthful vigor and zest.

Men used to hunt her (ferociously),
Wrecking the erotic physique,
Murdering her identity,
Each night she was killed,
Each morning she resurrected,
Though without her will.

I ran my hands along her nudity,
Her robe was kept beside,
Fresh because she seldom wore it,
She closed her eyes, waiting,
But no sensual motifs rose,
I saw a portrait waiting to be made,
A poem waiting to be written!
She breathed and slept in my arms,
Her eyes drifting away into a dream,
Maybe for the first time.

Friday, 21 March 2014

Amor with Idealism

“Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it.”  - Salvador Dalí

Opening the pages of sarcasm,
Avid acumen given without empathy,
Mocks all attempts made at affection,
It is with sadness I accept,
My irrevocable yet unrequited love
with a utopian fantasy.

I remember shouldering passion,
Earnestness to correct myself,
Contemplate with virtuous skill,
And understand with empathy.
Now I sense a departing aura,
The one you associate with death.

Idealism, whatever that may mean
is intense, I doubted like many,
Mistaking conscience for my amor,
Yes they may seem peculiarly akin,
You could strive to be perfect,
But never shall triumph happen.

Sunday, 16 March 2014

Kazantzakis and his Temptation

“You will, Judas, my brother. God will give you the strength, as much as you lack, because it is necessary—it is necessary for me to be killed and for you to betray me. We two must save the world. Help me." 

Judas bowed his head. After a moment he asked, "If you had to betray your master, would you do it?"

Jesus reflected for a long time. Finally he said, "No, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to. That is why God pitied me and gave me the easier task: to be crucified.”
― Nikos Kazantzakis, Excerpts from 'The Last Temptation of Jesus Christ'

Feast in the House of Simon, 1610, El Greco
The Mag 211

I would not call Jesus a human,
Probably a martyr, but never a human!

When I stood perplexed,
Gods died all around,
Poisoned by human intellect.

Life remained obscure,
When forceful winds of humanism
careened the burial tomb of faith,
I was lost in divine debris.

Nikos, came to speak with me,
Amiable yet intense, his words
resolute, praised the wounded son,
Not with typhlotic submission,
But with conjured knowledge.

Yes I would call Jesus a martyr,
The virulent thoughts, eclectic struggle, 
And the victory over temptation,
Makes him unfit to remain a human,
A better resurrection would take place,
Nikos along with Judas shall wait,
For their hero and master to arrive!

I know that the novel by Nikos Kazantzakis would not have gone into the good books of most Christians. And a non-Christian like me expressing the novel would seem blasphemy. I apologize if the poem in anyway would disorient you spiritually. In this instance I remember Nikos's preface to the book, in which he stated that after completion of the book, he closed it and sobbed.

Holi | The Festival of all Festivals

Caste, creed and race disappears,
The makers of the kaleidoscope
multiplied the joys of existence,
An ocular panoply,
A genuine spiritual completion.

Griefs shall melt into passion,
Voices shall shatter boundaries,
When every elated sound converge,
An explosion of vivid colors
Shall gloom in all clouded eyes.

Oh, the philosophy of this festival,
The tenderness of togetherness,
The infusion of vibrant emotions,
The splendor of tousled artistry,
And the love that shall withstand!

The Holi is a Hindu spring festival (though with time it broke all badges of religion), also called the festival of colors and is celebrated primarily in India and Nepal (though now spread to various other countries). This year, it is celebrated in India on March 17th. One can associate togetherness with Holi. A heartfelt example that comes into my mind is associated with Sultan Akbar (emperor of India during the 15th century), when the Muslim king would take part in the festival along with common men, a day when the poorest person could throw colors at the emperor! Such is the love, such is the philosophical depth of this festival. A day when everyone unite, a day when all sorrows are hidden under bright hues!

Sunday, 9 March 2014

A Sad Picture

Lee Plaza Hotel, Detroit, photo by Bonnie Beechler
Courtesy : The Mag

I must forewarn,
That my words shall never heal,
Nor resurrect fallen empires.

Whom would you blame
when the distorted world
goes against you?

Would you continue
your sacred travel,
Onto spiritual ecstasies?

Collapsed upon itself,
An angry globe spits
venom and dissolves lives.

The room you see
was a room once alive,
With champagnes and smiles.

Now, shattered memories
plead for salvation,
For rebirth through words.

But very little they know,
In the rules of the world,
Past shall remain forever forgotten.