One last blessing...

The lonely stretches,ahead,windy and foreboding....
The road,speaks long unfolding story..
I want to leave,
I want to go...
I want to witness the majesty...
August decorations,impeded by honest trepidations...
Preparations for that life,
that journey,had set in motion,
my subliminal processes,
long ago...
I itch to explore,
I yearn to seek...
Impediments of doubt,yet stopping,
live swarms of humane buzzers....
Buzzing caution,
and my mind yielding ever and again to the precaution....
The hat is worn,
the food and clothe packed away,
and the stick that supports me in the journey I yearn to take,
well held tightly in my hand...
All that I wait,
under the auspicious evening,
is for that one last blessing...
The road lies ahead,
the home fallen behind...
All that I care and concern is for the feet stuck beneath...
All that I wish,
all that I wait for is one last blessing...
A blessing for a beginning....
A blessing of the first step...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

A moment inside...

Listen,hear those chords...
Believe,trust and might
as well wait...
Ease,at ease,
calm your wavering mind,
listen to your heart,
pleasant light falling,
peace in that breath...
Listen,hear those chords...
Hear,there is nothing,
nothing in you...
Void,black depths of nothingness...
That trance,
that ethereal extension of your being...
Darkness,no,it is not dark,
it is black...
A deep hole,
fire beneath...
Flames,now lower,yet so lower,those red beasts...
That spasm of images,
that spiralling chaos,
black hole in the centre,pulling,
pulling with all its might,
deep within it,trance of the deep well...
mud bricks lining the walls,
dirtied,yet smooth,
the beautiful waterfall,
the dirty mosses beneath the smoothed rock
behind the clothe of water...
That girl,falling,
falling,or rather jumping bride,
with flowers in her braid,
and before touching the dark waters beneath,
inside the well,
she hits a bed of white light,
foggy,misty brilliant sparkling light,
merges into the light...
You are pulled back,
back to the brim of the well,
and there he stands,the sage in black robes,
the man with long silky beard,white as the snow,
his deep reddened eye-bags,showing his anger
at your ignorance,and he throws flaming,
white flaming card,which merges with the light yet again,
inexplicable,
and a square sheath of of light passes,
through time and space...
It comes,and hits a body of white light,
no,it is a human,yet not entirely so...
It is a human sitting on a chair...
But not a human indeed,
a body of light...
The room around him,dark rectangular...
And there are bodies of light around him,
holding white hands of light...
Of all shapes and sizes,
floating in a circle around him...
They watch the sheath of light hit this human...
Illuminated,yet more intense,he glows...
The crown glows even more,
and as I watch,
the crown bursts,
Spraying a fountain of white light...
But this time,those are rays,
rays sourced in the human's crown,
Rays,beaded,red,blue,green and black...
All shining,sparkling,glowing...
They rise in the fountain,and they descend,
fall on the ground,
bounce away in straight lines in all directions...
I am watching,and some come,
some hit me...
I am watching in darkness,
And these rays of sparkling brilliant light,
come and hit me...
I fall down,because of their immense power,
then everything goes mute,
and I rise from the chair,
in the middle of a rectangular dark room,
rain splashing outside,in the midnight...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

A fool's hope and reward...

First they say it with ease,
then they try to please...
I saw not in those lurking shadows,
I missed the light in the darkness of the untrue...
Yet,in these flimsy depths,
yet amidst the silt that pulls me back,down,
in these green waters,
I try to swim back to surface,and to light....
And yes,there rose a devotion for that divinity,
but saw not my slavery.
Yes,had no interest in my royalty,
for I saw,in royalty one seldom reaped joy,
leading a hapless life of unconcerned responsibility,
which royalty teaches you to ignore...
Now rebelling,I have fled...
I escape the nests of night,
crawling those crevices of agony,
seeping poison into my lungs,
I escaped,
tried to get to the truth....
But the truth has led me into this darkness....
This dark tunnel,which my rebellion
has destined my journey to end at...
I know not,if it were for the devotion,
or for the faith...
Long forgotten those water and air of my life,
lay beside me,
half covered in dust,and half forsaken by my soul...
And when this faith wavers or shatters,
still I will move,I shalt move,
for I am sure,hope remains...
A fool's hope,as was said once wisely...
This quest for the untrue,
this quest to sneak out of what I am,
or what I shall be,has brought me back,
but to the surface yet again,
no,not quite yet,
but still amongst the creeping ivy,I see...
Beyond these tunnels of silted water,
There lies,what I have long sought...
It seems wondrous indeed,
that after days of search,and research,
and such desperate yearning for truth,
you shalt,but return to whence you began...
Yes,what you perceive is true my friend,
I am back home...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Face of Experience...

His nonchalance well observed...
Those obscure links,written away in an ancient tongue...
Wrinkled rivulets,meandering the magnanimity....
Pallor grim yet profound...
He sits their,his beard,
caught in the ebb time currents of his age...
He smiles down,long forgotten happiness,
it has been long forgotten,his joy...
But he smiles,remembers his vanity,
trusts his children running across his horizon...
Violin strings in the distance seem to have struck a chord
which has broken his silence...
Yet again those eyes,beady,
standing atop his magnificent pallor,
glistening like those deep clear wells,
delving into dark depths,dungeons,
wherein past has been kept away,
hidden,buried,but still...
But still,those wells,are the passive donors,
those wells,deep yet sources of the fluid essence of our life...
And again those deep wells,lay covering...
Covering the dungeons which lead to the temper..
You see that calm face,with its gorges,with its unmoving sterility...
With its immovable mountains,and unfathomable deeps,
but Lord shall speak,if he must,about the dark depths...
The greatest bearded bard of our humanity...
The face of Experience,pacified and unperturbed
in these disturbed times,still rests...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

College Magazine Article - Edited version of previous article,Poetry & Experience

There is always certain small things which inspire a great deal of thought processes,and one such incident occurred recently in our interactive classes of Literature when one of my friends posed an interesting stand on judging one of my recent poems... With all due respect and regard to my friend's intelligent observation I write this piece,as a reply to his question...
The question that I was posed with was about the authenticity of one of my poems,when I had not experienced the content I had written about,here the theme being "war"..
My friend argued that I had never been in a war,so how can I write about it in a first person perspective...

Before I venture into answering the questions posed by my friend,I shall first discuss what experience and poetry, or rather Art in general mean in my perspective...


What is Art and Poetry?

Art in its highest sense is something which forms a voice for the human soul,unshrouded,unmuffled..
One of its most accomplished diaspora,the Poetry,is the voice of the soul... Sweet as it may sound,the depth and the nature of poetry goes way beneath the mere overt vanity of its structure and symbols and figures and rhythm...
Poetry gives an individual the scope of delving into oneself,exploring those unearthed chapters of human thoughts,which lay hidden beneath the burdens of social and psychological idiosyncrasies... Poetry has been more than those few lines,which we recite in groups when we are 10,read aloud when we are 15, read silently when we are 25, and quote when we are 50...
Poetry in its essence carries the answers for everything in life... Because,the questions created in our life,have answers, more than often, in our hearts,and this art,is a key to unlock those answers...

Now,an interesting question arises,as to what are the elements that go into it?

By elements,I don't envisage the vocabulary and linguistics, as the answer; but by elements I look into much more humane concepts,which go into it,and come out bursting in colours flowing from our heart,to our mind,into our ink and onto our paper as a poetic piece...
Elements unique to man... Elements like opinions,judgements,morals,emotions and most importantly,summing up all,ideas...
Language is construction of Poetry,these elements are conception of Poetry...


What is Experience?

Seeing is believing... When you go through, is when you feel and empathise... And those two 'injustices' done upon you,altering your persona every second of your life are always grossly grouped under the tag of Experience....
Experience,is what brings out expression... An authentic expression...
Expression which can stir the hearts and touch the minds of those thinking few... Experience is what keeps the elements of our identity together,the thought,the word and the action... And it often creates memories,which last and guide us further... Experience has become synonymous with empathy in this world,where the latter has become a depleted and a rather endangered phenomenon,remaining in existence mostly only coupled with experience...
Experience is the meaningful group all the words that are typed,backspaced,ad-libbed,emboldened,italicized,deleted,and constantly rewritten into a Text document on a white paper called your Identity...


The Answer

I opine of the perspective that experience is a tool,which we can utilise,when it is available... But depending solely on it for gaining our understanding and comprehension; for our judgements,for our perceptions, about the sea of knowledge and topics which cover them is plainly impossible and more importantly incomplete and is naive indeed... Experience in itself,is an excellent,and universally,acknowledged teacher,often acclaimed to be the finest in the profession; but waiting for this experience is what I find to be the most imprudent thing to do when it comes to creativity... For often in the wait,you lose the waited...
Experience,can not always be available,and sometimes asking for it serves to negate the very purpose and cause you might be willing to address...
As in the aforementioned case of war,for example,waiting for experience is one of the most foolish things to do,which as I said will negate the purpose...
Experience,when it comes by circumstance and accident,is welcome... But it is not advised to go looking for it,when you deal with the themes like war...
Well,I must allude to one more elemental ingredient of poetry,for answering his question... The element being sensitivity...
If a soldier suffers,but can't or doesn't write about his suffering,and I can empathize with his feelings,and I can voice them for him,then I feel it to be my duty,my responsibility,to voice it... And sensitizing with the soldier may not have brought out the exact emotions of the soldier in my poetry,but,if not achieve such duplication,I would at least try to align my poem and its emotional appeal in congruency with his perception...
I wrote the poem in a first person perspective,not because I was the soldier there,and not even because I was impersonating the soldier who opened his heart unto me,but rather because,I saw a movie,wherein through that movie,I thought I heard a soldier describing his horrors, most explicitly...
One doesn't need to have a first hand experience,to describe others suffering,as long as one has the heart to listen to it,and the empathy to understand his brother's suffering...
This again brings me back to the idea,I intend to emphasise through this piece...
Someone who does, need not write,and likewise someone who writes, need not necessarily have done it...
It is imperative that a reader know this...


Purpose of Literature

In literature of any form,it is always the expression of idea and the purpose it intends to meet with,that matters in the end,more than the form given to it or the character you as an writer adorn...
The very purpose of writing about war is to bring out its horrors,heroics,deaths and destruction,by which,the writer intends to warn and impede the reader from asking for it...
Literature can't rely solely upon experience,for when it does that,it becomes reduced to being merely an instrument for depiction and description; quite departing from its purpose in its highest forms,which is,expression...
Expression goes beyond mere depiction...

Now,movies,songs and so many other forms of literature talk of war and war-related themes... And every person who might have been involved in those forms of story telling might not have been involved in the story itself,if and when it happened,but it is hoped and expected that the viewer,the listener,the reader,or in general,the appreciator,appreciate the theme,the story,the message...
The message should serve the purpose,the purpose of acquainting the audience with the subject...
Acquanting and gaining the sympathy,if not,empathy from the audience...


In a manner of conclusion all I can say is that Poetry,in its didactic essence is for senstizing to issues... And how you do it is immaterial. If it is that Chance provides you with experience,so be it... Or if you find yourself capable enough to sensitize,find your agreeability,thus... As in the end,thoughts remain,voices are what make history,and let not your voices be constrained by an improbable wait for an accidental benefactor called experience...
Give your thoughts,the voice they deserve...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Poetry and Experience...

When you see,is when you believe... When you go through, is when you feel... And those two 'injustices' done upon you,altering your persona every now and then are always grossly grouped under the tag of Experience....Experience,as suggested by my friend,is what brings out expression... An authentic expression...Expression which can stir the hearts and touch the minds of those thinking few... Experience is what keeps it together,the thought,word and action... And often creates a memory,which lasts and guides us further... Art in its highest sense is something which forms a voice for the human soul,unshrouded,unmuffled..Art,and one of its most accomplished diaspora,the Poetry,is the voice of the soul... Sweet as it may sound,the depth and the nature of poetry goes way beneath the mere overt vanity of its structure and symbols and figures and rhythm...Poetry gives an individual the scope of delving into oneself,exploring those unearthed chapters of human thoughts,which lay hidden beneath the burdens of social and psychological idiosyncrasies... Poetry has been more than those few lines,which we recite in groups when we are 10,read aloud when we are 15, read silently when we are 25, and quote when we are 50...Poetry in its essence carries the answers for everything in life... Because,the questions created in our life,have answers, more than often, in our hearts,and this art,is a key to unlock those answers...Now,an interesting question arises,as to what are the elements that go into it?By elements,I don't envisage the vocabulary and linguistics, as the answer; but by elements I look into much more humane concepts,which go into it,and come out bursting in colours flowing from our heart,to our mind,into our ink and onto our paper with it...Elements unique to man... Elements like opinions,judgements,morals,emotions and most importantly,summing up all,ideas...These elements,language is construction,these elements are conception...Now,my friend questioned me quite shrewdly indeed, about the authenticity of a poem,when you haven't experienced its theme,here the theme being "war"..I opine of the perspective that experience is a tool,which we can utilise,when it is available... But depending solely on it for gaining our understanding and comprehension; for our judgements,for our perceptions, about the sea of knowledge and topics which cover them is plainly impossible and more importantly incomplete and is naive indeed... Experience in itself,is an excellent,and universally,acknowledged teacher,often acclaimed to be the finest in the profession; but waiting for this experience is what I find to be the most imprudent thing to do when it comes to creativity... For often in the wait,you lose the waited...Experience,can not always be available,and sometimes asking for it serves to negate the very purpose and cause you might be willing to address...As in the aforementioned case of war,for example,waiting for experience is one of the most foolish things to do,which as I said will negate the purpose...Experience,when it comes by circumstance and accident,is welcome... But it is not advised to go looking for it,when you deal with the themes like war... The very purpose of writing about war is to bring out its horrors,heroics,deaths and destruction,by which,the writer intends to warn and impede the reader from asking for it...Literature can't rely solely upon experience,for when it does that,it becomes reduced to being merely an instrument for depiction and description; quite departing from its purpose in its highest forms,which is,expression...Expression goes beyond mere depiction...Someone who does, need not write,and likewise someone who writes, need not always do... My friend argued that I had never been in a war,so how can I write about it in a first person perspective.. Well,I must allude to one more elemental ingredient of poetry,for answering his question,sensitivity...If a soldier suffers,but can't or doesn't write about his suffering,and I can empathize with his feelings,and I can voice them for him,then I feel it to be my duty,my responsibility,to voice it... And sensitizing with the soldier may not have brought out the exact emotions of the soldier in my poetry,but,if not achieve such duplication,I would at least try to align my poem and its emotional appeal in congruency with his perception...Now,movies,songs and so many other forms of literature talk of war and war-related themes... And every person who might have been involved in those forms of story telling might not have been involved in the story itself,if and when it happened,but it is hoped and expected that the viewer,the listener,the reader,or in general,the appreciator,appreciate the theme,the story,the message... The message should serve the purpose,the purpose of acquainting the audience with the subject... Acquainting and gaining the sympathy,if not,empathy from the audience...In literature,its is always the expression of idea and the purpose it intends to meet with,that matters in the end,more than the form given to it or the character you as an writer adorn...I wrote the poem in a first person perspective,not because I was the soldier there,and not even because I was impersonating the soldier who opened his heart unto me,but rather because,I saw a movie,wherein through that movie,I thought I heard a soldier describing their horrors, most explicitly...But again,movie is another tool,another attempt to reach out to the people,the audience... One doesn't need to have a first hand experience,to describe others suffering,as long as one has the heart to listen to it,and the empathy to understand his brother's suffering...This again brings me back to the idea,I intend to emphasize through this piece...Poetry,in its didactic essence is for sensitizing to issues... And how you do it is immaterial. If it is that Chance provides you with experience,so be it... Or if you find yourself capable enough to sensitize,find your agreeability,thus... As in the end,thoughts remain,voices are what make history,and let not your voices be constrained by an improbable wait for an accidental benefactor called experience.. Give your thoughts,the voice they deserve...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju