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349.Destiny Dies But Once
Wise advise: live in now’s benign presence,
Scarce in unravelling life not yet made,
Nor in the past buried deep, dark and dense,
No sunshine falls on one dreaming in shed.
Take the fibre of life yet to unfold—
We dye it with rainbow colours our own,
Spin it, weave it with warps and woops unrolled
To reap for us fated fabric unknown.
Seeds sown in spring bear no fruits by next fall,
The light and dark shadows we gather here
Cast their imprint on life’s eternal wall,
The dead past often does reappear.
Man lives as if on New Year’s dying eve,
One eye on year to come, one on to leave.
The past may die, never its lasting charm,
Things die bequeathing their memories warm.
As Krishna’s Song would ne’er die on bookracks,
Nor Vedic chants stop reverberating,
Nor ever notes of Beethoven’s, of Bach’s,
Should faint to loosen their mystical ring.
So be the charm of unfolding morrow,
With seeds sown fruits are always awaited,
For taste remains, remains desire to grow,
Without desires the life is good as dead.
Ergo, life riseth time and time again,
The past liveth tell-tale marks for ever,
Man must savour or suffer fruits of pain;
Destiny dies but once journey’s when o’er.
Man ideally should live in the present moment,
but would continue still to dream that comes to
be from the world of his past. The life gets
born on the wings of this eternal dilemma.
The basis of rebirth is desire and the journey
of life ends only when all desires die. In a
way everyone’s ultimate destiny is the same.
The soul merges but once when it realises the
ultimate, and reaches the end of its long
journey. Yes, the destiny dies but once. These
concepts form the basis of this poem, which is
actually a combination of two sonnets.
The second one starts with the interlinking couplet.
- Sonnets | 08.10.08 | read more »
350.A prayer too late
As thy own spark will ye still let me stray?
Will ye, frayed art in flesh and soul thy own,
Let me fritter in such sordid a way?
Do thou re-charge my paled spark blood to bone, read more »
351.The Poetry Club
He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like vellum, blank and pale.
Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence.
He scans the room as he would a poem seeking an indent that leads to a quiet corner.
A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, ink stained. read more »
There’s no sugar in the Promised Land.
Swear by the olive in the God-kissed land.
I heard your laughter in the jackal’s howl
When the monks chanted in the Psalmist’s land. read more »
353.Master Valluvan, The Long-Misunderstood Tamil Mentor
'The Kurral owes much of its popularity to its exquisite poetic form. A kurral is a couplet containing a complete and striking idea expressed in a refined and intricate metre. No translation can convey an idea of its charming effect. […] read more »
Je les ai rencontrés en fin de journée
Leurs visages semblaient si pleins de vie
Au sortir de comptoir ou de bureau au détour de grises Bâtisses du XVIIIe siècle.
En passant je leur ai adressé un signe de la tête read more »
355.I'm a Piece of Work
I'm a piece of work.
A block of marble,
A bit of rock;
A driftwood face read more »
356.A Blank Page
When I began this page was blank and white,
But now some words in black, if not in ink
Are on the screen and a few lines delight
In their existence, so I sit and think read more »
357.I'm no composer
Beethovan, it is said,
never used an eraser;
I down my bourbon
without a chaser. read more »
A better teacher than any book
Experience gives life a new look,
Ere teaching it takes toughest of test,
And lifetime lesson follows in haste. read more »
359.Sonnet: To Death, My Love Sailed
To Death, My Love Sailed, Striding Down Bare Ground/
That Of This Molten Top, Alone i Rest/
Thou See'st Of Me In Sorrow's Den Abound/ read more »
360.Prosody of Free verse
Often see in poetry council
an innocent quarry,
is Free verse is realy verse or merely prose chopped into lines?
and what might be its Meter? read more »
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