Long Keenest Poems
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I scale the jagged crags on wings of whispered verse,
and strew my path with beauties freshly born.
Unhindered I invade the marble palaces,
armed with weapons forged within this mortal frame.
I draw the gleaming sword from its ancient sheath,
and pierce the tyrant’s heart with keenest blade;
I sever every cable of his fragile throne,
and watch his trembling empire fade to shade.
Like eagles I ascend on currents of pure thought,
where coruscating gleams of insight dance and play.
I drink the silent music of the waking world,
and roam through fierce, uncharted shades in search of hidden jewels.
Though pulses quicken with the chill of fear or doom,
I stand caparisoned in courage, undismayed.
I see vast legions trapped within their frantic race,
blind to the filth that stains their fleeting days.
Oh, that they might awaken while the ink still flows
how brief the hour, how vague these shadowed moments!
Yet poetry, in her quiet majesty,
captures but a chosen few, and lets the rest drift on.
I
As things do return home like a refrain,
On way back from a country tour were we,
A leisurely long trip—my kin and me,
And met a quaint character on the train,
As I recall, in his late life, nigh vain,
His dress and demeanour indicative,
And we at sea the way he seemed to talk,
His deportment and dialogue of proud cock,
Who discoursed on any a theme on earth,
A Muslim sure from far, not a native,
Listening to him was, not his tale’s worth,
Yea, something sure was there that was not sane.
The Goddess of Learning and Destiny
Seemed to have blessed him— of ports so many,
Who said, forces were at work in the world
Far too secretly, underground, unheard:
Russians, say, have advanced closer to us,
Brit policies have been inauspicious,
Feuds among our leaders have come to head,
Confused and suspicious who see things red.
And flourished our newly formed friend in train
With phony smile: What might cause further pain—
More things happen under and ‘pon this earth
Than reported are as the news of worth.
The home-bound birds like us that had not seen
The world he had, struck were dumb with wonder,
What with his quotes on science, his comments
On Vedas, verses of Persian poets.
Our young ears, untutored to this knowledge,
Caused our admiring bone to turn attuned,
Sure, a magnet, occult power, an astral
Body some sort doubtless has him inspired,
We listened to him with keenest of ears,
Devout mind, he’d our heart all enraptured.
The train reaching a railhead, we waited
In a retiring room, tired and jaded,
As change of train weighed when heavy on eyes.
‘Train's running late', when someone made us wise,
Our wise man then set out a tale to spin,
And our sleep said goodbye with a wry grin!
____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
I happened upon the tiniest snail today, it's spiral patterned shell caught my eye.
Not thought of fondly by many,
would turn your legs into jelly,
would make the keenest of plant lovers cry.
An interesting truth, they have many a tooth.
In fact 14,000 of these.
They chew through your berries and flourishing plants.
I'd Most definitely prefer to keep bees.
Now, some people would take a different approach and find them a delicacy.
A hint of garlic and slathering of butter.
Voila! Escargot for tea.
But that powerful snail and it's slimy trail has a weakness that we have been taught.
If you are squeamish,
this may turn you greenish.
All you need is a sprinkle of SALT
Fittingly hallowed gods must intrinsic majesty hold.
Even before deities invoked weigh the caller's case,
The deity's potent title should alone spell the balm,
And tint with nourishing grace the supplicant's face.
Woe justly betides gods modelled by mortal skill,
Conjured to define the worshiper's creative spans.
True deity outdoes their adherent's most avid drill,
And defeats most faithful admirers' keenest scans.
If while engaged they varied ethereal trends display,
But when left alone they silent and unbothered stay;
You already got there a freaking raw deal indeed:
You're the mighty guy your own-made gods need!
The worshiped must by heart the worshiper know,
And both will ever commune as if by infallible law.
It’s the supreme being mightily seeking the follower,
Who grasps it well and submits to the bigger power.
It’s a fake god if it bends to suit whimsical desire,
Or at once plays into your infinite imaginative fire!
Sweet is equally sweet to all mortal tongues,
Choice morsels sate all men's starved pangs;
Brilliant sights of plenty charm every eye right,
And friends against foes for shinier spoils fight.
Why then do many in want of fine things stand;
Or, how come keenest mouths on gravel feed?
What alters those picky looks on life's shelves
That tell the greatest from the blandest breed?
Sheer wishful cravings for tasty bites alone,
Can't tear sumptuous meat from obtuse bone;
Nor can mere oglings turn fate's mulish thread,
That pins all sojourners on the hardened tread.
Life's fortunate farers got loads of apt swag:
Maybe just a weird tooth for plaintive rhyme,
Or a bankrupt itching to benefit others' souls;
Artful ploys to outshine the sly guiles of dime.
Prized strokes of luck eschew the clinical type,
And smile on stony folks immune to their hype.
In sun and in rain,
Toils of broken soles and blistered palms.
And the journey, tedious, ends in the dank
Leaves of a breathless forest; so rancid the undergrowth,
Hissing signals of danger in the darkest foliage of mankind.
I cringed alone.
So unkempt this unholy place, where the sun is
Mocked; so ungraceful, yet so glorious.
So cautious these woods, where the panthers,
At noon, watch with the keenest of eyes, silent.
Cadaverous each leaning wood, and misleading,
Every thorny path and track . . .
I have journeyed,
And so precious my journey that I seek life among
The living, and have thus toiled until I gathered and
Garnered the speckled pages of the apothecary’s creed.
Now the leaves in the cauldron boil, squeezed!
The content stored for squirting life into the living.
So many people help me. They are concerned, they rush to see if I am okay.
They listen when I want to tell my truth. They do not call me out
When I get outrageous. They are my up-lifters, and they want
Me to succeed maybe even more than I want to succeed.
I have spent years gleaning them and preening them.
I have developed my own tribe and it is amazing.
My Facebook “friends” are the ones I virtually see every day or two.
They hear my voice, and I hear their voices. But are they my real friends?
They are more like “virtual friends” – I know they are there, and
We are aware of each other. Some are from childhood. Some from thirty
Years of inactivity, and no communication at all to daily communication at first.
Others I have collected from word games I played only a little while,
but we had fun.
But my real tribe, the ones who have my back. I know who you are.
I have so many REAL friends, real true blue “die for each other” kind of friends.
At least six, maybe eight, which I think is more than adequate,
as I have not had to use them as truck fodder yet, to save my life.
Some of my newest, keenest, most aware-of-me favorite friends
and soul-family-friends
Are fairly new.
They magnanimously pretended that I wrote poetry until I actually did.
I did not know I even WROTE poetry until a year ago when I decided to try.
You are my tribe, and you know who you are and I am pleased with you.
Thank you for being here for me. It means volumes.
Bloom Road
Wherefore be this heavenly place?
Untouched by the metropolis'
inhumane demands?
Tis in your heart, dear friend, such
a place be.
Free of political buffoonery.
One must be a bold discoverer of
the heart.
For if not, Bloom Road is naught!
In the sweetest dwelling of your wishes,
Lies Bloom Road, and warm, delicious,
awaiting kisses.
Life is not an accident for those
with drreams.
It's an actuality that's both planned
and deftly carved and schemed.
Be off now, and the hunter be....
Bloom Road and thy keenest lover,
Are at the ready, just for thee.
August 17, 2020
from the pacific rim of panama
to the emerald realm of patagonia
lies the eerie sounds the complex sequence of haunting cries and pain
and eavesdropping on the hidden world of the leviathan can be a deadly game
amid the ocean waters the whistling whales can be heard for miles
and the chorus of the whales can be a call back to the wild
as the esoteric echoes slices through the watery plain
the silhouette of the ancient creature astounds the keenest brain
the singers of the deep the harmonizers of h2o
grace us with the fabric of the songs that they bestow
as they rocket into the air they crash land like the boom of distant thunder
but even the breach of the mighty whale fills the mind with wonders
A Dar-Dar delivered, a wonderful creature,
Arriving by yak after talks with a preacher.
Wrapped up in a blanket with little instruction,
Some suction required through keenest deduction.
A Dar-Dar’s a brilliantly small woodland sprite
Instilling both fear and great gasps of delight.
But before you know it, they’ve done fully grown,
Magically producing small sprites of their own.
These Dar-Dars are likely to range far and wide;
Reports say in Utah’s where one can be spied.
October is always a time to acquaint;
They’re oft drawn to ponies all covered in paint.
Wherever you find one, it’s always the best;
The dad of a Dar-Dar is a man truly blessed.