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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required ________________________ What begins as a simple grievance against the passage of seasons transforms into a sharp critique of abstract philosophy. By countering the Western insights of Milton and Frost with the cosmic realities of Prakriti and Maya, these companion sonnets expose the restless, untamable nature of the intellect. A witty, rule-bending dialogue on why the mind remains the undisputed mother of all mischief. _______________________ ‘I don’t quite like the season in passage. In warming spring my mind goes to cool winter’, She said, ‘or for mangoes of the harsh summer’. ‘No, life is lived a page by turning page, It’s not the seasons dear, but your foul mood, Each season gifts us its own unique good, Look, winter's chill is why the spring is pleasant, Yet, mind, a wild horse, hurtles spot to spot Wanting it warm in cold, and cool when hot, It’s the hot sun that makes rains less reluctant, And failures, that the late success feels sweet, It’s adversity, that good times we greet. No season's born that bears a better feather, So, blame your mind as every mischief’s mother’. … … … ‘Let Milton say mind makes a hell of heaven, And Frost claim, spring is the mischief in me, Poets have licence, scenes their own to see, We are the ones by prakriti driven-- With body, mind and intellect discrete, We call ego, pretending that would pose, Yet prakriti, much as purusha, knows, And no way there’s this basic fact to beat: If she--- material nature ruling here Feels in a given way, the heart of mind, Philosophy cannot a new path find’, She argued breathless in her highest gear. ‘Call her Maya to undermine her powers, You men folk miss the seed for fruits and flowers’. ____________________________________ Tongue-in-cheek | 07.03.2006, revised Sept 2026| mind, mischief, mother, season, summer, winter, Sonnet
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