Sunday, August 26, 2007

poetry of the past

I must confess that I am amazed at the language skills of the young writers, mostly girls. Reading blogs of these girls, in their early twenties, has been a pleasurable passing time.

I was wondering what all things I wrote when I was in my early twenties. I know that I penned down two of my most memorable poems ever when I was 22. Titled `Framed Forever', on a lost sister and an untitled one about a young man watching his very own funeral. Both lost. I have been searching 'em for years. Yet to find them.

I stumbled upon two other pieces of paper. Here are they. The first one was written the night, I had a glimpse of two unknown women, in the same crowded market place, where we reside now. And the other, on an introspective birthday.

Little bit of editing has gone into it. Not all that bad, I think.


An ode to feminity

Walking along crowded market street
I saw the lady-little, yarned in yellow

Radiant was she, ransacking my heart
it was evident 'at she was collecting hearts

She had a poise to carrying objects
and lashes to filter animated subjects

Fortunate was I, for the twin stars
illuminated dark holes of this avatar

The creative colour had crossed me in a flash
consoling a humiliated heart heaped all in ash

A rare glimpse to cherish from a dark night
but 'at was not to be the end of that lone night

I saw a girl warped in white as
i climbed down from a complex story

Serene and simple her soul was
stranding me in a moment of victory

Creative was i before, complete i 'came
at that graceful glance of girlish purity.

Years of forlorn vanished, with 'at mind insane
planting in an untamed heart at once morality!

Away from realities of darkness and time
Light pure and new hath entered my mind

Hail the women of this world
the benign bonds of lasting love
and charming chains of continuity

Pray, my soul rests in 'at vast ocean
Of cosmic love. Called compassion.


Happy Birthday

On this day you 're born
Now seem to feel forlorn.

You wish you were not born
for the life has revealed thorns;
In the span of wishful years
that have gone concealing tears.

New rays alight the endless horizons
of earth where we all will be buried soon.
The cloudy mayhem of illness surround
the reality of existence present all around.

When there is an inner ever glowing flame
Why then seek wealth, power, place and fame?
When there is so much of light within the self
Why seek comfort in the murky, egotistic self?

Nature seems to be the only solace
relations deter the mind of its peace
Free you are to give everything in nature
attachments demand things giving pleasure

You never realise the truth within
and search for eternal liberty - wherein
you forget the beauty of being born
on a planet 'ch is being continually torn

You are the person, You are the planet.

When will humans understand this facet?
Even if you are a miniature cosmos by yourself,
Hope seems to be the only saviour of soverign selves.


Matangi Mawley said...

hey.. good posts..!
why dont you write u'r lost pieces again.. ? for who knows.. it might turn out even better thn the ones u ve lost.. coz i loved the concept.. "man in his own funeral"..

avronea said...

poetry requires time, patience, and mental something to read...for now can read and comment meaningfully only on your prose :-)

Stories From The Soul Town

There lies a magical land. Surrounded by the green ghats to the west, gurgling great rivers on the east, the valley with the very blue sky. A temple town of the tamils. Sitting on the dancing rock on the highland overlooking the valley, the writer procreates the lives of the people of this lesser known south west. Full of strange yet simple souls.