How to write poetry, how to be creative is a matter of reckoning, how to create something new it all depends on the way we view the things, on the way we take to, on our desire to add to, create and contribute is the main thing that we seek to put it before. Poetic images, ideas and thoughts come to as a trail of reflections. Sometimes things exhaust it not. Sometimes the river seems to be drying. But how to keep the stream flowing?
The beauty of these poems is this that the titles have been added to at the end and which too form the parts of. The titles just compliment the poems as statements without which we cannot. The mind of man is the source of poetry, the heart of man where germinates it the feeling. Idea and feeling both of them are important for poetry. The mind is the screen on which the images keep appearing on, impressions figuring and deleting automatically, but it is your duty to deal with, grapple with and to catch the moments creatively. Sensations just supply the energies to motivate.
Brahma, Vishnu, Maheshwara is the concept to be used in, to be recreated in as sometimes we want to take the names, sometimes we seek to be blest by the Divine and without getting their blessing, how to start it all? At the start of, we must take their names sometimes, if not all the times.
Brahma, Vishnu, Maheshwara,
The Holy Trinity.
(How to begin without seeking blessing from?)
The Universal Soul, Vishwatma, is the kernel which has been used and applied in to encompass it all.
The Universal Soul
We talk of,
The Spirit, the Soul
Which is inherent in it all.
Panchattatva is the Five Elements in which we vanish and disappear in which is but the residue of meaning, thought and idea, mass and matter extant. There is nothing to last it. The ashes tell of life lived here. Things decipher it here. What is it in a name?
From earth to earth,
Water to water,
Wind to wind,
Fire to fire,
Spirit to spirit,
The journey of ours.
– (The Five Elements)
Lodged in the body
Telling of my life, existence.
– (But I a traveller from far)
The Supreme Soul, there is definitely something as the Greater Soul, the Greater Self or Spirit which overlooks us.
The Greater Soul, the Greater Self,
The Greater Spirit, the Greater Mind,
The Over Mind, the Over Soul,
The Over Self, the Over Spirit,
Whatever call you.
– (He is the same)
The Blue Boy of Vrindavan comes to as imagery, Krishna as the Blue Boy with the flute piping around. But to imagine the Blue Boy is to be reminded of Madhava who is Vishnu and Nila Mahadeva taking to Vishnu art and artifacts.
The Blue Boy of Vrindavan,
How the image of his,
How the flute,
How the notes breaking,
Melodies engulfing us all?
Shyam-Ghanashyam is musical as well as one of sad and somber mood of pain and suffering. When one suffers, who stands by us? Say you?
Clouds hanging by,
Where you Shyam, Ghanashyam?
– (When the mood is somber, pensive)
Nataraja Shiva here has been pictured as an art-symbol, a replica. In the study rooms, art-galleries, metallic Nataraja Shiva can be seen decorating the shelves.
An art symbol.
– (Nataraja Shiva)
Shiva Tandava is the Dance of Delusion, Doom and Destruction. We fear to tell of the mythical and mystical dance steps. Let Siva save us from any untoward incident whose part we cannot be.
How to talk of
The Dance of Doom?
– (Shiva Tandava)
Shankara, a hymn in praise of Shiva Shankara, Mahadeva, Har Har Mahadeva, it is just a note of benediction, a prayer to Shiva, Adi Shankara.
Har Har Mahadeva,
– (How to please Shiva?)
The Spark is actually a metaphysical poem. Though I have called it The Spark, but it is actually The Divine Spark.
The Spark of Divinity
– (The Spark)
Om, how delightful, ananda-giving, shantih-imparting it Om! Leaving your things, spell you Om, Om, Hari Om, Hari Om.
Close the eyes
And meditate upon loosen it all,
Taking you far into
The realms unknown
Now the question is, who is not talented? Who has not got talent? Where is it genius? Are the wild blooms not beautiful? How to rear geniuses?
The streak of genius
In me too.
– (Talent search)
The path of life is almost the same. Life is perhaps the name of some travel to be taken and we are but travellers of some sort. Where does the path of life take to? Can one say it?
The path of life,
Where does it go to,
I know it not.
– (A traveller I)
Rajanigandha is but a love poem, a dream flower. But here it has been personified, seen as a mistress waiting under a moonlit night full of mist and dew drops. Here Rajanigandha appears to be the title starting with and the line in the bracket seems to be complimentary to the poem, but I leave it all to the reader to decide.
Had you been
So maddening with
Sweet and strong scent
– (The mistress in love, my dream girl)
Red Rose, where to find a girl like her? A red rose, a girl as a red rose, how to view her? Some strange meetings tell of the ravishingly beautiful blondes seen on the platforms or at bus terminuses. Where is beauty one cannot say it. Red Rose too is similar as you take it as for a title as well as a starting line to begin with and the line in the bracket is just complimentary to. But apart from, the lines in brackets claim to be titles of some kind which but I do not know.
Had she been a beauty,
A belle, blonde
In flesh and blood!
– (Just see I and think )
A Dalit girl worshipping is actually the context and it is in reality the title, but the line in the bracket is also so coming to us at last. Can a Dalit girl be not a priestess? When I see none in my house, can I not ask her to show light and burn incense sticks and to blow the conch sometimes when fail I to do that?
A Dalit girl worshipping,
Showing light to the Divine,
Burning incense sticks before
And I asking her to do
As and when I unable to worship.
– (Can she be not a priestess?)
Buddha Statues is the title but here we would like to count it as a part of the poem as the things have got confused with.
Statues of Buddha
Made from different things
In different poses and postures
Just as art models
Why do I like to possess them,
So shantih-giving, aggravating mental-calm?
– (Buddha statues)
Here I want to name it Poor Singers of Rama and want to take the beginning and the last line as the parts of the poem.
A singer of Rama,
He too was
Which we could not know it, feel it,
A strange singer of Rama
Singing the songs of Rama
So soulfully, so heartfully!
– (They also sing who but silently, poor singers of Rama)
It is better to read the poems without the titles and counting them all as the parts of the poems as the things come to naught and create so much so of confusion.
It is better to be a critic of oneself before trying to criticize others, but constructive criticism is always welcome.
Before criticizing others
Criticize you yourself.
– (Be a critic of yours)
How many of us can give the anti-thesis? It is as because we are not logical and reasonable and do not take logic and reason to be our guide.
What is your thesis,
What is your anti-thesis,
– ( Learn to confute and contradict)
Abhaga, Ill-fated, what a life a life did you? Misfortunes never come alone is the thing of deliberation. Here there may be something of personal memory and reflection, los and suffering. Actually, I want to title it Abhaga.
What a life did you get,
What a fate had you!
– (The unknown domains of life)
Both the poems are so much interrelated and interconnected with each other. When the first was written, I had not been aware of the second part as for when the misfortunes rake us badly, when the things turn adverse contrary to our supposition and we find it not the refuge to take from calamity.
The falling tears from your eyes
I could not, could not wipe them,
I myself too Abhaga, Abhaga!
– (Abhaga Re, O You Ill-fated!)
When the things get worse or run out of control, whom to say to, what to say when fate turns adverse, whom to complain to? The trail of desertion, destruction and devastation brought on by fate, ill-luck and bad times, worse situations and circumstances, how to depict it? Sometimes situations make it life pitiable, so miserable that one cannot depict it.
Anandamurti, The Statue of Delight here forms the crux of the poem, an antique statue found from the rubble of the fallen terracotta temples.
Give me, give me my Anandamurti,
I shall go away,
The blackly Radha-Krishna statue!
– (Anandamurti, My Anandamurti)
The bars, ale-shops, where will these take to finally? Will all the people turn into drunkards? Really, the hard times, the times are hard to survive and sustain and life it is difficult to live. Under these circumstances, how to survive it is the question? How to live with a drinker? Where to run away from? Where to hide in? Whom to call for support when he comes heavily drunk, rambling and babbling, staggering and falling in tipsy ever ready to pick quarrels and break the things of the house? Drunken brawls, you do not know them, fierce fights and pushes. My God, God, where are you, where are you, God, save, save us from the gruesome, horrible scene! But none comes to attending the call. If you are well, everything is o.k. and if not, nothing is your own. You are left to your poor destiny.
The drinker’s poor wife,
How will she bear hardships
When nobody is to help her?
On the one the drinker husband
While on the other the small children.
– (How to support it herself?)
A memorial poem, it has been written in the memory of my youngest brother who passed away a few years ago. I just want to title it, In The Memory of My Youngest Brother as an additional one tendered to.
One day how did I burn my youngest brother
Under the solitary night
With the stars twinkling up above
At a secluded place,
I saw it silently how he turned into ashes!
– (My fallen tear drops)
The peepul tree and the asthi-kalasha hanging by are the archetypal images which often haunt us.
Under the peepul tree by the river
How did I do pinda-dana for my father
Near the hamlet house,
– (Shraddha ceremony)
Here Memory does not form a part of the poem; it has been suffixed to just as a title thought about lastly. And if it confuses you, you may count it too as a part of the poem.
When my mother burnt to ashes,
The navel kept it burning like a diya
Emitting bluish light,
As thus man comes, as thus man goes away
And it remains it not here.
Clutching The Ganesha Statue, here the title has been put in separately. It does not form a part of the poem.
The poor clumsy gypsy girl
Somewhat in a dirty frock
Going with a pink statue
Of small Ganesha
Living under the tents
By the roadside
How can they so artistic statues?
– (Clutching The Ganesha Statue)