"Beauty is truth,
truth beauty,
that is all Ye know on Earth,
that is all Ye need to know..." - John Keats

Monday, 27 February 2012

And they sang the world is our....

Jumping from the boulders lining the muddy fields,
paddy green and half soaked in water,
the grasses - lush and shimmering the glow from the skies...

The knicker-wearing boy pauses, and his flying paper kite drops,
all one sees is limitless skies,
white whipped cream and yoghurt strokes on the sun burnt skies of blue....

In the roads,
tarred and warm on coldest of nights,
gusts of wind beneath the concrete, whip across the faces,
as speeds across - the motorcyclist,
hands numbed to the greyscales of mind...

Pausing by the hearth,
one goes back to the moments,
the mud,
the rusted bars on a breaking building,
and the dried leaves by the side of granite graves,
covered under - the stench of a dead carcass...

Morning turns to night,
night to mid-day,
and in the sound of the grasses,
and in the smoke billowing out of the chimney of memories,
in the dream's tavern,
the boy with the knicker sits...

Kite is torn,
plastic lies about,
the greyscales mix in a tinge of green,
cold tar by the hot gusts,
and night is forgotten,
the motorcyclist finds balance,
cool water by rusted iron bar,
in an empty graveyard by the side of a field,
a little distance from road,
on the muddy steps,
sitting with the grasses lying about,
a cold wax pool,
remnants of another night of cold wind,
and life within,
while they sang that the world is our...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Saturday, 25 February 2012

Silence and Lighthouse...

It is a poet's epiphany,
the silence mute...
It is a sailor's shore,
the silence mute...

It is the greatest music,
it is the purest love,
it is the sweetest nectar,
the silence, mute...

Long forlorn winters hide in the spaces of mind,
hidden passions, and fears
engulf, capture, and chain you...

The tides hit,
storms crash against the walls,
of a lone light-house,
that jailed you inside...

The motion stops,
you drown in its bowels,
when death comes knocking,
you find silence mute...

Running hitherto inside your chamber,
pirates clambered the stormy seas...
One guided by the lantern,
standing tall,
other jailed inside,
the burning walls...

Both die of drowning,
for that is the end,
both find the silence,
in fashioned dispute...

One in a cell,
and other on the sea,
both end the struggle,
with a silence - mute...

The light-house stands...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Monday, 13 February 2012

The Moth's Tale...

Delightful as a bee scented to its flower,
flew the moth...
Creatures wild and big walked across the alleyway
and he ran through the marketplace, stealthily...
The moth followed
flying in frenzy,
flapping its wings, into the thin marketplace,
and he followed, ever silent,
stopping every time she glanced a look back,
hoping she would walk up to him and talk...
Ask him those questions,
but she would stop,
probably in expectation,
or in disdain, he couldn't tell what...

Alleys grew thinner, and distance seemed to grow larger,
there came many moths, buzzing,
and the song of the crickets and other insects,
hummed sweeter than his voice,
or so it seemed to him...

He tried to sing, but croaked like the old frog
jumping at the doorway, only to be swept away by the merciless dame...

He stopped, as the crowd grew thick,
the moth flapped those wings ever so slowly,
and the croaks lost in some distant evening music,
probably an insect, or of those bigger more beautiful creatures with richer plumes and coloured tail feathers...

Subdued by hopeless thoughts, he knelt,
only to see the struggling moth,
with bent wings and a harsh note on its song...

He got up, turned the last alley, from which she gave a fleeting glimpse teasing him to push on...

The song came on louder beyond that din in the distant corner,
he made a mad rush...

Moth's wings gave a last fight,
and once they reached against the wall, they saw,
a dainty nest perched on an unreachable ledge,
she sat there,
crickets croaked the tale of happiness,
and in the sunset, with its colourful plumes,
the bird showed off,
and she sat in their embrace,

Beneath, in the alley corner,
he sat, tired moth flew no more, rested,
in the dark space where no light reached,
and wrote, wanted to walk back,
but had strength no more...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Thursday, 2 February 2012


Wings of heaven,
oh carry me along...
Tired, destitute rest forlorn...

Eddies have flowed past,
reaching an ocean,
and the moss collects on stoic stones...

Slippery thoughts have yielded,
no direction, currents flow deep down...

What will the drops of water know,
struggle they may, but the stream is too strong...

And bereft, of its perceived sweet,
the tasteless drops reach the salty shores...

In waves of madness,
these eddies lost...
Moss grows greener,
on the stoic stone...