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Best Poems Written by Laxman Rao

Below are the all-time best Laxman Rao poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Psyche Analysis

If I have to do a psychoanalysis of self; 
I’d say, I’m of hyper anxiety ridden mind 
Constantly in some sort of mental pressure. 
The vibrations generate more conflict 
akin the communal disturbances of the social fabric.
I’m anxious to meet my expectations or much, 
To be, to do, to turn or to become.... 
When the depressive psyche -
reflects Its true content – complex psychosis originates.

I’m a patient with abnormal insight 
A rare genius in his own accord.
I mean in your thinking lies your brain 
In your living the mind; if you are as beautiful 
As you think. You are as genius as you sense.

I wish not give pseudo remarks on my being, 
for; no psychologist can read you better than self.

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The Poet

A poet is a minute caricature,                                                                                                                                                    A self made kinesthetic person.                                                                                                                                        Whilst poetry a long journey                                                                                                                                            To be traveled all alone & all along.
    
The journey with him is not that ease                                                                                                                         To bear his silence and to handle his angst  
With chaotic emotions & compressed expressions 
On the track of observatory …… poetry.

It’s not his embedded nature;                                                                                                                                                Habituated self; or his own version,                                                                                                                                      Whilst not exactly a translator of one’s mind,                                                                                                                  Nor the residue of his life’s dust.

I’m unable to capture his moods 
With my pictorial poetry and
Monitor his moody mindset
With the wavelength of my verses.

At times I feel I’m just a freelancer
Picking up points, of what all the poet speaks 
On the whole- even when, he whispers 
He makes it gleam & I just try to jot it down.

At times HE is ME and many times I’m..Him
I’m a confused BIT to know –the whole thing.

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Lost and Found

The very word Poetry…sounds rhythmic as rhyme…        
As tho; conch shells reciting their hymn
As if, the pebbles giving tunes to the streams  
As in, thoughts forming a poets dream.

Honestly; in the absence of my mind               
I don’t know what poetry is all about.          
And I don’t know, if any poet knows  …   
In their presence of mind; as well.               

What is that, that makes me know (that) its poetry?!
That which makes me write as poetry…I don’t know?
Is that the spark of a notion that makes its noise?
In the most beauteous mindset, there’s this- the mind voice!

Emitting from within or speaking from nowhere; truly
That which, in its rendition on paper; turns to be as poetry.
I go cynically insane, as an absent minded man
But to bring it down on paper- it’s a cool thing to happen.

A mathematical equation sounds abstract to me, as GOD to an atheist  
As poems might sound void for a mathematician or a scientist. 
But,a poet visualizes a thought, transforming from that of words to verse
Where from… form, shape & pattern take their editing sword.         

I go days, weeks sometimes years have passed by
Me not writing a verse, or thinking where the matter lies
Poetry; wherefore are you as my passion, savior & grit
However, I’m nothing & nowhere- as in lost & found somewhere.

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Moods

Moods are the magnetic compulsions, 
Those which compel to conceive a concept
It’s they who give a form to perception
Of what exactly they’re in need of creation. 
It’s that embedded force beneath;
The disguised emotions layered on
Which drags; the faculty of imagination
Into the deep core of, thought processing.
While sorrow as the sleeping spirit 
Awakes the mind in enticing
The moods, akin; lending the fuel to fire
Sorrow being the subjective notion 
Stimulates the mechanism of the morbid
While anguish acts as a counter-bid.

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My Beloved Art:Poesy

Knowledge in large…I have owned
And hid in my log books of poesy
Untouched and unseen for years.
Where in its discovery I found myself
Yet but to invent myself, I had to undergo
And, there took a diversion,
A Quest…for another form of art
With a longing & high level of learning
That has made me forbid my beloved art.
And once, on retrieving my past journals
I’ve my wealthy accounts realized
Of which I haven’t thought off...
Of late…I’m back, yet; But to pursue 
Once again- my beloved art:poesy.

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Poesy-My Love

Poesy…thou feminine part of me
Which I believe; thou mine secretive soul
The “origin” of very word, being; she
Am I part of you or you my whole? 
The negative impulse is still in force,
The inside, the dark and the ugly part
Are opposites; for me - it’s Thee...the source
I’m throughout in sync; beyond me & my heart
I wish to be back in love- the longing;
To live with; the yearning to love & die for,
It’s a forgotten word, in thine owning 
Ever since; I’m lost in my world, so far.

To be with you, I know I’m sure in love
That sets me up with my poesy-my love.

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The World Within

The world within -is less traveled
And much unexplored, 
I sneak into my past; 
Wherein I missed every moment 
Of my passing thoughts; 
Those excited, fantasized or repelled! 
I knew, I lost a great zeal of myself unknown…
Longing for a livelihood! 
But not from the deep core of my mind 
That I’d reveal myself…. For the fact that; 
Poetry bridges that gap of mine
The detachment from the self & the outer world.
I’m just sociable to the known world, 
But unknown to the known few.
Yet, I leave my-self; loose, so as to be understood; 
For...I‘d be left- misunderstood

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Sonnet: Crux of the Art- Poetry

The poet in me takes for a ride, through 
eccentric magnetic moods of magic 
No matter, whatever phase his life threw; 
he gives his reasoning or his logic 
I'm sure he wants to explore much of me
capture every emotion I carry 
all along the transition & that's the key 
That forms the crux of the art: poetry. 
I want the person yield to the moment
give himself to the thought submissively
sans secrecy, self hood any movement 
Diverting the poet from the person'lly'. 

The mirage of the mind should re-reflect
It self, rather thoughts having any effect

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To Be With Thou Poesy

It’s of a great immense pleasure
To be with thou poesy!
Wherein the deeper organs
 Responds to the invisible senses
And the Inquisitive knowledge  
Reacts to the world unknown
Mines a longing mind
And it’s that mystic morphosis 
That lulls on maneuvering moods.
It’s quite curious to know; 
Where the whirlwind deep within
Ahead’s to & take shape.
Gives form to the uncertain norm,
And that longs me; to be with thou poesy!

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Sonnet: Amidst Optimisim and Pessimism

Pessimism is a perplexive fine phase 
Wherein orb-adversity reign the days
The darkest hours of the desperate gaze
Those evade to every pervading rays.

No option that he could, or can opt for
For everything seems futile to adopt
Where aspirations, stretched and left afar
As to no hope & despair, he could co-opt.

No desires can expect a ray of hope
It’s here; where ones looks grow sober & griever
Ak(in) the dark the vision strives severe 
The dim, dull, dark valley strikes sans a scope

Optimism; the breath you take or inhale
Whilst the other is the one you exhale.