Best Encomium Poems
At that hour
the breeze turns around.
The fishermen are coming back
with hands splintery,
without lips,
with eyes of stone.
The bottom is empty
like a bottle at midnight.
The shore is there
where somebody’s waiting.
They’ve sleept for a long time. Dreaming.
With hands locked together.
He, the wind, the last one
an orphan, leads
them…
Son of a demon and a witch,
Fighting against harbingering the apocalypse.
The Right Hand of Doom against Heaven's sake...
Accompanies this young boy and his pancakes.
Born from Hell,
In which he will twice return;
A reputation of honor and respect,
Is one he would earn!
Goblins, ghosts, ghouls and golems;
Godly and ungodlike all to confront...
Now an honorary man and a Bureau,
Guarded by his giant punch!
His coat and belt would house items,
To balance off his fiends and occult.
And when they didn't work,
He would just go for the throat!
Ogdru-Jahad, Baba Yaga and Rasputin,
Are a few of the villains he would face,
This Anung Un Rama,
Our Hellboy, our fate.
August, 17th 2021
He has a Roman nose, bright eyes, flashy teeth,
Chocolate brown complexion,
Features which animate only when he interacts—
Otherwise, typical unscholarly looks!
A nonconformist in religion, a revolutionary in spirit,
A stoic in practice—
Epithets can be multiplied.
Sought strange experiences:
Travelling in a locomotive,
Witnessing a surgery,
Learning math on his own.
And living on a glass of lassi,
Which I would call starving!
He speaks with conviction.
His memory is prodigious;
To call him a philosopher is no cliché:
He is one by temperament and self-training;
Teaches philosophy involuntarily—as praxis,
As ‘a set of operations,’ as he’d put it.
No nonsense,
No snobbery:
He has been
To New York—as a Fulbright Scholar,
To Oxford—as a Visiting Scholar.
Never chips in to say, “When I was in England/US….”
Never affects an accent.
He is an Indian source of the Poststructuralist virus,
And I was the one immediately infected—
On his return to India
From his stint at New York.
The infection still remains—incurable!
His love of me is something like election love:
Parallels are Krishna and Kuchela,
Kopperuncholan and Picirantaiyar,
Johnson and Boswell.
Would speak for me
Without my knowledge or consent!
We have stuck together
For about five decades now,
Defying the Machiavellian dictum: There are
No permanent friends or enemies in life!
He can’t, ugh, bring himself to love a pet—
On which subject
We violently disagree:
He dubs me St. Francis of Assisi, though!
Was born at Christmas
And so christened Noel!
— Ram, .R.V.
No towering, flowering landlocked tree
Will weep for the waning life of thee
Forgive them, friend, they never saw you smile
Forgive them, friend, they never saw you smile
To mistress maritime were you married
For her you lived, so to her be buried
Below the surface of sorrowful sin
Where above there breathe hateful, hollow men
Solar systems spin and endless seas flow
Though they are bereft your supernal glow
Forgive me, father, I can't seem to smile
Since you died, father, I can't seem to smile
ENCOMIUM EXCELLENCE-:-
splendour
presents
tasteful
coloured
epthets
so NUANCED
appealing
illusions
avail
different
memories
in SIMPLE PROMPTS
complex
extensive
reportoires
culturally
characterised