Round and round
Mentally unsound
On shaky ground
Insecurity abounds
The mind whirls
Emotion swirls
Dreams unwind
Destiny unkind
One hopes
To elope
But one is bound
To one’s ground
To escape this cage
Needs an adage
No need to cry
One is born to fly
I can hear what you say
I sense we’re in a bind
I can touch what you say
So what if I’m blind?
I understand you
Better than most others
Engulfed in your hair
Smelling the flowers
The perfume of your hair
Lifts me out of despair
The darkness everywhere
Asks me, do I dare?
Am I fit to be your lover?
Blind, willing to bend lower
This is what tears me apart
Our love, will it have a start?
In pursuit of a dream
Hoping you will understand
About to spill over the brim
My shaky conscience; it can’t stand
Sputnik soared
Atlas Shrugged
Mankind roared
Earth unplugged
Start of a space race
What a disgrace
Amidst all the pace
Who lost their face?
Fifty years
Communism shattered
Man yearns
His dreams shattered
Ayn Rand published
Russia extinguished
Galt spoke
The world awoke
Dagny Taggart
A railroad at heart
Torn apart
Yet, a work of art
Hank Rearden
Beneath a burden
Refused a pardon
Became a guardian
Francisco
Acted like in a disco
His character
Much like a fresco
John Galt
His life exalts
Like single malt
Pure gestalt
Yuri Gagarin
In space, rollickin’
Williams Sunita
Became a Senorita
Mir space station
An unsavory destination
Can man have affection?
Mere words, with trepidation
A pale blue dot
In an ordinary spot
Homo Sapiens
What have they got?
Freedom? Dictatorship? Democracy?
These may be human constructs
But the doomsday if Atlas really Shrugged
Is there for all to see
(In commemoration of the fifty year anniversary of Sputnik’s launch and the publication of Atlas Shrugged.)
There was once a Rambodoc
Who twisted word and mind
Along came An Unquiet Mind
And soon they were one of a kind
Not forgetting herself, Aikaterine joined
Oemar’s random musings entwined
Thiru was perched on a spot
No wonder as he was on blogspot
Priyank was flying in the cloud
While Arun thought out loud
Sree’s views, and Nita with her wide angle view
Brought many topics in everyone’s purview
Prerna loved life and explored
While we all many times deplored
The numerous human gaffes
Using philos(ophy) in Paul’s Cafe
Monday Morning Power had an attitude
Not unlike Harsha, the gentle dude
Ergo with reason as his leading motive
Held his blog readers captive
On top of all this assorted mix
Was Krish Ashok, a lover of Asterix
Dressing it all up with salsa
Using his inimitable Jalsa
This eclectic mix of characters
Reminds me of Lagaan
And that’s why on Independence Day
I say, Mera Blogosphere Mahaan!
(PS: For benefit of non-Indians, Mera Blogosphere Mahaan means My Blogosphere is Great!)
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I’m born in an artistic family. Such artistic companionship brings two things: on one hand, it inspires our own creativity. On the other hand, it hopelessly destroys any artistic creativity we may have. Because whatever we do, it is nothing compared to what we see being created in front of our own eyes.
Nevertheless, the inspiration did work some times, in my younger days. When school teachers and college professors were rambling, I used to scribble, doodle, and sometimes sketch. So here is a sampling of some of these diversions.
Note: None of the photographs of the sketches have been digitally altered in any way.
This was from a color advertisement in a glossy magazine. I was inspired by the challenge of capturing the creases of the clothes in pencil. (That’s why the faces, a low priority, are so bad).
This is not a reproduction of anything, just my imagination. The caption below in Marathi states: “What does a giant tree know about the many travelers who seek solace under its cool shade? - Mahendra: 18th March 90″. This sketch was inspired by a quote in a character study called “Sakharam Gatne” by the famous Marathi humorist P. L. Deshpande, fondly known as “Pu La”.
This is from an advertisement for Neko germicidal soap. This soap is no longer available in India. The ad was from a very old newspaper, probably from the 1960s. I was fascinated by the countenance and the expression in her eyes.
This is from a very old, black and white photograph of my mother. Again, from around 1960. The creases and wrinkles of the sari and blouse were my inspiration. Most people who see this sketch ask me, why did I leave the face out? I don’t know. I have many explanations and reasons. But as an artist, I choose not to express them and let my sketch do the talking.
For me, the highlight of this sketch is what is not sketched - the upper line of her arm. You see it, but its not there at all.
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Again, something I’d written long time back, in 1990, to be precise. All criticisms welcome!
What do I write about?
The mountains, lakes, skies;
Or birds, flowers, and the like?
Here I am, amongst my daily troubles,
Wanting some peace of mind
Thought I would write a poem
But what do I write about?
I wonder what poets possess
That makes them poets
I wonder how their creativity
Is created…
How mischievous language is!
It completely describes an entity
As complex and vague as the poetic mind
By simply calling it poetic!
Is poetry born out of
Joy, Grief, and other such
Intense emotions only?
Or can this be called a poem
If I consider it to be?
I now suspect
That it needs great concentration
For a poet
To write a poem
And further
That there is a superior logic
Behind the rhythmic passages
Of a poem
Poetry is a means for the poet
To let his imagination
And romanticism
Run wild
If we invent norms
Regarding what constitutes a poem
Would it be a restriction
Which may destroy what it’s trying to preserve?
For some, a poem is simply
A rhythmic, lucid passage
Why can’t prose
Not possessing lucidity of words
But of thought
Be called a poem?
I can better appreciate rhythm and lucidity
In ideas
Than in words
How I wish I could write a poem
Of my many enchanting thoughts
Without suffering from the curse
Of being compelled to use language
Whose words do not always rhyme…
I am now catching a glimpse
Of the poetry
That is in the world
For me
How wonderful is the fact
That I am conscious
Of myself!
Am I not the poetry of Nature?
But then I wonder
Who is the poet of Nature?
Which itself is sheer poetry?
Does poetry require a poet?
Which leads me to think
Does a poet ever create poetry?
Or does he simply catch
The already existing poetry
In words?
Finally, what is poetry?
Which, I think
Everybody should decide for oneself
If they can
For me
The lucidity of ideas in a poetic work
Transcends the superficial rhythm
Of its words
I think the best example
Of what I intend to say
Is best exemplified
In this work itself
Which has been a poetry for me
Hasn’t
The lucidity of thoughts
And the logic of the thinking mind
Combined with the flavor of romanticism
Surpassed the absence of rhyme
To create this poem?
PS: This just goes to prove that I’m not a poet by nature, irrespective of my amatuerish attempts!
Dewdrop says to raindrop,
It’s all nice for you
You’re fully grown when you drop
I go through so much pain to grow!
Raindrop says yes, but
The leaves and flowers reject me as I’m foreign
You stay with them much longer
Since you’ve spent time growing with them!
The sun’s warmth,
Nurtures life on earth
A woman’s bosom,
Nurtures life in man
Raaga said to Symphony:
“You are magnanimous, and over a 100 musicians perform you.”
Replied Symphony:
“Yet, I’m static and unchanging, but you’re evolving and ever-growing.”
Both realized:
Symphony is timeless and eternal; Raaga is living and breathing.
And thus, a new friendship was born…
Confusions galore
Misunderstandings unlimited
Communication furor
Relationship limited
Hearts broken
Emotions rising
Promises broken
Tempers rising
Eyes wet
Genitals dry
Children fret
People cry
Insouciance abounds
Coldness contagious
Harsh words
Attitudes pretentious
Silence, deadlock
Icy darkness
Chime of the clock
Empty loneliness
Deep within
Children, All
Lies therein
Innocence above all
Unexpressed affection
Unsynchronized harmony
Untouched souls
Unfinished symphony…
