Skip to main content

On Poetry

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 élan 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. 

Updated the version written on 18-11-2003 here

Popular posts from this blog

Objects in the rear-view mirror are…

When it was time for her to go, it was also time for me to let go. Once an irritant is washed out, they say you can start seeing better immediately. All that stupid tears and all that rubbing of the soul, until your eyelids would cry out, no more, no more. 
And then, just like that, one fine day, I wake up, and she was gone.
As the train chugged out
The tracks cried out in senseless
creaks of half despair

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.


I have looked at myself
From the edges of reason
And discovered
That both my sanity and insanity
Springs forth like seasons
Out of my distances from you. Realizing thus
I have allowed the outer rims
Of my diffused sanity
To fritter away into crumbs
Of misplaced memories
From my time with you. I have often found myself being unreasonable
When I am away from you.
And generally insane
When otherwise.