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Aniruddha Pathak Poems
This Game Of Golf
The game of golf nigh like this life, Though played all life perfect can’t be, The game of golf like player’s wife, Now on pedestal, now on tee,
The joy of giving
Be it no more than a glass of water, A living walking stick played by daughter, Care and concern, warm smile, none too hotter;
The spirit of sports
Sports no more let the air breathe light, Nor make laughter look somewhat bright, No more do sports entertain right, May be the spirit is laid
Death is life
Some while away their life in vain, Some in fear of death, some in pain; Some feel, death comes when life gets tired, And yet, life all its life in death is mired;
There Are Books and Books, But
A book loud and loose if not lusty, Read and re-read to the last page, Dog-eared oft gets but scarce dusty, And dies of torn limbs ere her age!
Fourteen beautiful birds on wings
A baker as packs thirteen eggs to claim A good dozen, a sonneteer— fourteen Sweet lines in praise of thine slender good frame, That thine mysterious marvels never lean
All us can a lesson learn from weather, The way a cryptic tongue it can weather, While still never agree To change but one degree
Some say, beauty is but an opinion Wrapped in wafer thin layers like onion, Had it been heftier a fact, It would be e’er the more perfect;
O to live and let go
If what I call an end beginning is, New destiny when beckons, life past lull, And every beginning an end to cease, What end be but short breath, an interval—
Joy is the way
Slow and serene when I walked at the jheel1, Sporting upon my lips a pleasant smile, Relaxed to core and deep at ease to feel, The weary thoughts were left behind a mile.
Summer solstice again, sun at its bright, At summit making longest day of light, A lover’s date lingering till late night, Leaving far behind looming wintry plight.
The silent lips of love scarce lie
Eons that I chased for a pie in sky, You not but said, no or I, hum or ho, Me always wondering what, what if, why, As you resolved were to remain just so,
To become or just be
Every man does a life in freedom crave, Be it freedom from ills of ignorance, From pangs of poverty, from plenty’s pain— The worries born of too much abundance,
Death When Challenged Life
Death once told poor life defeated by life: Life’s no life if lived as if on the edge of knife, Surfeit with struggles, nor if soaked in strife, Do ye know how many deaths is Death rife?
Comments about Aniruddha Pathak
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
This Game Of Golf
The game of golf nigh like this life,
Though played all life perfect can’t be,
The game of golf like player’s wife,
Now on pedestal, now on tee,
On roughs, on toughs, handicaps, bogies, strife,
Ah, played as if on edge of knife!
Easy to start, hard enough to finish,
And harder yet forever to master,
Pursued and practised like unfulfilled wish,
And always one stroke ‘way from disaster.
As in life in game, handicaps to cap,
Clap for birdies, try still eagles each lap.
What a rage be the game played every age,
With many a high and as many...