The flame

Hear me, hear me,
hear me friend,
hidden behind the mist of the ages,
by some ancient fire,
you sit, looking into the flames,
their glittering promise,
fiery amber, livened coal,
you watch and wonder, o what mystery is it,
a secret energy in the fire that burns and fades away,
as you watch.

look into the fire, and look into the stars,
look into the energy that burns,
and fades away,
as I, your brother, watches from across the mist of ages.

You have seen the fire burn,
I have seen it burn everything away.
Dear brother,
how our fates intertwine,
but for you,
there would be no fires to burn us all,
but for me, we would all be forgotten.

and so the story goes on.

Why i write: why i should not

When life overwhelms me,

as is the case much too often nowadays,

the only release is tears, or words,

now, my tears are worthless,

as is generally the case,

but at least I try to make my words mean something.

i try to make my words rhyme,

but they don’t do all the time,

and then i just sound silly.

when i begin a new poem,

my emotions are as deep as the fathomless sea.

but when i put my poem into words,

these words, they are nothing but borrowed moments,

i don’t know why i bother to write, when it would just be better to cry.


Do the Angels hear me cry?

Tell me, my friend,

Do they count tears in heaven?

Do the angels hear them fall,

Silent, soft, unseen, as they roll down my face,

Even when I’m all alone.

Does anyone hear me cry,

When I cry all alone.

Even when I don’t cry for myself,

When I cry for everything,

But nothing in particular,

When unbridled emotion overcomes me,

When the weight of humanity bears down on me,

When I feel I’m responsible for all the sin and the hate,

When I believe it is me who has to change,

So that all may change on this world.

When I am overcome, but so alone,

All I can do is cry in helpnessness,

Do, at least, the angels hear me?

And keep count of my tears?

So, somewhere, perhaps,


Even crying, all alone,

Counts for something.

Naked and alone, under the river of stars, I stand…

In oldest time,

Naked and alone, I sat,

Afraid, I looked up, Into the stars for hope,

From the river of pearls, my lord,

I gathered shining bits for my own tale.

How could any who dwelled under such glory be alone?

What dwells in the sky, I wondered,

That shines even when I am forlorn.

What is this light above

That even when it fades is more glorious.

Do you shine on my path, starry sky?

Are you my saviour, moon?

When I am weakest and alone,

There you show me ways I wouldn’t have known.

Is this a scheme, I wonder, am I ever to know,

A river of stars, above and below.

What all life garnered, Lord,

Was in a mere moment lost,

But they were only things, were they not?

There is a larger tale,

Which stars and soul bind,

Which earthly loss does but keep behind,

A veil of human suffering.

I long, I yearn, I beg,

Reach out, my lord, my love,

From behind your veil of stars.

Reach out, touch me, caress me,

Tell me my hopes are true

My life, my living, my tale,

Are one, one with you,

My life course, tell me, is like your river of stars,

That in the darkest nights shine glorious,

Down upon a man,

Naked, and alone.

Fire in a the Sylva Estate : a very short story

Lady Sylva laughed when they burned down her orange grove. It was bound to happen wasn’t it. That she had expected but she was surprised that it smelled so good. The burning essence of young orange trees, citrus fused with green wood smoke, some grass, some bush, a heady cocktail of an end to an age. The age of a Lady’s own orange grove had passed in this distant land.No such luxuries now. Now, the new men, would plant wheat, and mullets and sugar cane. Those fields would burn too after the crops had been harvested. But that burning would produce dark, bellowing smoke, that would darken the sky and choke the lungs. Nothing like the burning of a young orange grove. That age of such things was past.

She was mildly sad too. The trees were so young. All they had borne yet were the first flowers for their first fruit. Yet, such is the nature of things. Some die too young and some grow older and older never once bearing fruit.

Now, it was time to go. To go, move on, with nothing left behind. An old house which would be reclaimed by nature after her. After the vagrants had their fill. Would anyone live there after she departed? Some village woman would raise her family in the stables or her animals in the barn. No. She would have everything boarded up. She would wall up all doors and windows leaving the fetid air hanging inside. She would have to find someone to do it, though, with all the villagers busy with overthrowing the system, that would be hard. The old man across the road, maybe. He had sons. No not anymore. He had grandsons. They were too little.

The house, though. What must be done with the house? She could burn it down. Starting with the bedrooms, the upholstery, the linen, the furniture, they would catch fire quickly, then spread out, down the corridors, into the hall, seeping through the cracks of the many unopened doors, burn the many unslept in beds, fire, fire, every where. The house would burn for many days. But it would remain. Charred it would be, blackened inside and filled with the ashes of all that was, but the house was too strong to fall. Too strong to fall but too empty, too cold to be a house.

She could remain. She could live on. She could keep lining for many years. Sitting at her window and watching the world outside. The world could watch her, watching. People would make stories, children would creep up the hedge lined stone walls to catch a glimpse of the ghost, their mothers would reprimand them and make silent prayers to draw off the evil of her gaze. But she would curse no one. She would bear no hate. Or malice. She would hold no grief in her heart for what once was and what was lost. She would sit at her window and watch. The world. Outside.

Or she could leave. Go. Away. Where. Some where close to the ocean. Far away from everything. The house. What is it anyway, but an empty shell of what she could not be. A house is its people. Not its ghosts. She would go away. To the ocean. Walk on the shore every morning and let the waves wash her feet. She would raise her hands above her head and let the warm winds embrace her. She would sing to the rising sun.

The odor had changed. The fires in the grove were dying down and replaced by ashes and embers and a few solitary stumps sticking out of the earth like charred infant arms reaching out for their mother. She glimpsed a few forms, then a huddle of men amidst the smoke. They held torches. They looked up. They saw her at the window. They gestured towards the house. The choice was not hers to make.

She laughed. The house was old but it would not fall, yet everything within it would burn. Fire, fire, every where.

Illusory Pain and an incomplete rhyme about it

My pain is so unsubtle, so unlike what I want my pain to be.
I want to hurt so perceptibly, that I want the world to see,
My pain. I could bleed, perhaps, fight a war maybe.
But I’m getting older day by day.
I want to be a hero yet, a figure from a tale,
yet my longing for pain understands not,
that the quest, the travail, is the egos illusion,
Pain, you see, is no natural thing,
Hurt is, not pain,
Pain is made from an ego’s act,
To make feel of life, more than it is,
Or more than it could be.
So, unnatural, undesired pain,
Tell me what you want to feel.
Should I throw illusion back at you?
Will you be satiated by fantasy, will illusion satisfy you?
Will any illusion satisfy you, will some illusion amplify you?
I drink sometimes.
Perhaps some times too many.
But there is no perceptible change, Doctor.
Doctor I need a new drug. 
My pain you see is so unsubtle.
So much less than what it could be.
So here goes another incomplete rhyme.

A Word on Words…

So quickly do words fade into the air,

One wonders what worth they bear,

Not more than what was said, or meant,

Not more than what was left unsaid,

Words fade into the air,

But furrow deep into the soul.

What weight do words bear that they dig so deep,

That even after they have been said,

Their traces remain.

Every syllable and cadence,

Every pause, and insinuation,

Every word.

Sinks, sinks, sinks.

Dragging my weight along,

Deeper and deeper, until my mind surrounds my being,

My body fades away into insignificance and I am surrounded by the words that were said,

Outside, and inside,

The words echo from within,

The world fades.

What substance is that world,

When a few words can make it fade away.

When, I was watching…

When I was watching the evening star,
arc across the gaze of the crescent moon,
when the cloud wistfully walked the sky dome,
and the last sounds of the birds’ nest began to fade,
when the last light was long gone,
when the doorways were no more golden framed,
when the night had just now begun,
when the evening was yet not forgotten,
the bell-flowers breathed their white fragrance,
the cicada cried his night-song,
but i, alone, watched, listened and sighed,
another day gone,
another day gone –

When, I was so watching –
I recalled another night, long yet not so long ago,
When another moon, another sky, another star,
other nests, other sounds, other doors,
were still awake, were still open,
when I longed for them to be silent,
when longed for them to be shut,
when I longed for the day to pass,
But I was younger then,
And I am older now.

Then the days were too long,
now, the nights are too short.
But they pass, all the same,
they pass.
they must.

For all life is too long,
But, one, too short,
Yet, wanes the moon,
Yet waxes word and song,
But all too short, yet all too long.

The lost poet’s word

The lost poet came wandering by this lonely road.
This way and that for god knows what.
Possibly a word.
So, weary, he by this rock sat.
Wondering where the word was to be found.
Then in a sudden burst it came to his mind.
God damn the word which I have to find. I’ll make it up myself.
Let it be nice but not too long. With a good enough sound to fit in a song.
But it must be new so nothing widely known. If it must be new it should be all my own.
So, there he sat by that wayside stone.
Thinking and thinking for his word.
You might find him still if you ever wander there.
Wander onto the lonely road.
Where only the lost poets go.

Fragments of a Song from the Vedic Garden

Kapila o Kapila where is the word, the sound which is the root of all speech?

Listen o Madvi the word is in silence, the silence which is at the root of all sound.

Kapila o Kapila the word is not silence, speech is not silence, then how is silence the root of all sound, in which it is found, the word?

Stillness is the root of the storm, o Madvi, and night is the root of day, the welcoming womb is the root of all life and so, o Madvi, silence is the root of all sound. The word is in silence, in the rest of wordlessness, a rest before rest is conceived. The word is found in nothing but itself and that is the word in itself.

O Kapila o Kapila if the word is in nothing, and the word is itself, in nothing is the word but nothing itself, where is the word then found?

The word is not found in the world, o Madvi, and the world is not found in the word. For one is not one but when one is itself and one is the root of the one.

Kapila o Kapila then what must one seek for all we have known is the word?

Madvi o Madvi the world is itself, and nothing but itself and that is the root of the world. And that o Madvi is that.