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On Poetry

(This was updated in 2015 from an earlier version  available here from 2003)

It has been in my mind for at least a decade to compile my poems into a reasonable collection.

Some people close to my heart have found my writings to affect them in refreshingly different ways. Their reviews have encouraged me to believe more in my written words. I have always been writing, I have been writing when I was ten, and I still write. On the question as to why one writes my answer is simple. Every one writes as a child and a youngster, and those who have been initiated into poetry by a good Guru continues to write and his writing transforms him, just as he transforms his written word. At the end of the day, it depends on your initiation into the beautiful world of written thoughts.

The skill of poetry, like every other form of art, is God given and innate. Most of us love to hear to a good singer, only some can actually sing. Poetry is something similar, though with a lot more restrictive audience. Good poems are one in twenty or even thirty, and once they are written, you know that this is a good one. This is so because poems in their essence are like mantras, if chanted the way they should be, they can “give life to cold clay.”

The collections in this website is not exhaustive, but it does have most of my poems and writings after 2005.
Almost as late as the early 2005, I used to write my poems instead of typing them directly onto a desktop or some other gadget. My favorite writing instrument for almost two decades was the old “Hero” Chinese pens. My favorite colors have always been the deep of green and the deepest of the browns, and I used to mixed my own inks to get the right color. Those days are now no more.

Finally, me being a student in English literature if you ask me whether I have been inspired by certain poets and authors I’ll say yes. I love the √©lan of Walt Whitman and the deep silences in Robert Frost. I am impressed by Sydney Lanier and the love in the lines of Edna St. Vincent Mille, Tennyson, Eliot, and Auden with Yeats to lead the gang, I love one and all. The best being Kipling in his poem “The Dykes.”

Thus I am, as you would have judged, inspired by one and all. Each one of them has shown me glimpses of a world so beautiful, that it definitely inspires. 

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Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda,
You would have smelt of summer roses
And Autumn pine.
There would have been sheer love
Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache
And loneliness bordering the divine.
You would have had so many secrets
Welling up as in a girly giggle
And so few friends who would hear them all.I am no Neruda
I can't paint you a Summer breeze
Amidst this long winter chill.

The Color That Blinds

Every time I close my eyes
I see the green of Kerala countryside
The dark greens of lumbering rubber trees
The even tranquil green of silent paddy fields
The light lemon yellow green from tender clover leaves 

And then I remember your dupatta
Deep red or possibly maroon
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You don't have to tell me.
I just know.
Its that little sniffle that comes through
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The slow responsesI know when you call
Just because you needed to cry.