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
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
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
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
Sunday, 5 September 2010
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
© Karthik Adithya Singaraju
Sunday, 29 August 2010
Suicidal Cult...
Its too similar,yes those stories...
Unfurled those flags of freedom,
talked into persuasion of righteousness,
only what it means,never known...
See,he bought his truth,
they bought his faith...
Lord became our teacher,
through a secret pact,
a Council,of selfish mortals...
Nicaea,its truth buried...
Washington,its truth buried...
Rome,its truth buried...
Jerusalem,its truth buried...
Its the Templars,or its the else,
its the Masons,or the else...
Its in faith,
the wheels of humanity...
Its Koran,or its the Bible...
The wheels,where none kills,
yet fights until they fail...
Martyrs unto the cause of God,
who knew,well,what truth was...
In truth,its all the same...
The mighty few,guide the masses through these lanes...
Killing,butchered,as they say for the higher cause,
but blood's all that's left,
in this Holocaust...
Now the God they say,
lives elsewhere,
its in the minds of those democratic and fair...
Those leading us,with their weapons in the fortress...
Those who fight,and kill humans,
with the strange stain...
A stain,where they kill,
and colour the victim's faces...
And with grief,etched on their masks,
mourn those victims they slayed...
Ah! The world,the wide world,
the ignorant wide world,
held at ransom,
by those few insane,
who think of their billion bills,
and their smelling fame...
Ah! The world,the simmering world,
the simmering losing world,
fooled into suicide,
by the suicidal cult...
Who but have built,
a clock that's ticking off,our time to stay
magnificently lame...
© Karthik Adithya Singaraju
Unfurled those flags of freedom,
talked into persuasion of righteousness,
only what it means,never known...
See,he bought his truth,
they bought his faith...
Lord became our teacher,
through a secret pact,
a Council,of selfish mortals...
Nicaea,its truth buried...
Washington,its truth buried...
Rome,its truth buried...
Jerusalem,its truth buried...
Its the Templars,or its the else,
its the Masons,or the else...
Its in faith,
the wheels of humanity...
Its Koran,or its the Bible...
The wheels,where none kills,
yet fights until they fail...
Martyrs unto the cause of God,
who knew,well,what truth was...
In truth,its all the same...
The mighty few,guide the masses through these lanes...
Killing,butchered,as they say for the higher cause,
but blood's all that's left,
in this Holocaust...
Now the God they say,
lives elsewhere,
its in the minds of those democratic and fair...
Those leading us,with their weapons in the fortress...
Those who fight,and kill humans,
with the strange stain...
A stain,where they kill,
and colour the victim's faces...
And with grief,etched on their masks,
mourn those victims they slayed...
Ah! The world,the wide world,
the ignorant wide world,
held at ransom,
by those few insane,
who think of their billion bills,
and their smelling fame...
Ah! The world,the simmering world,
the simmering losing world,
fooled into suicide,
by the suicidal cult...
Who but have built,
a clock that's ticking off,our time to stay
magnificently lame...
© Karthik Adithya Singaraju
Sunday, 15 August 2010
Elixir of Hope...
Its a weary presence,
my love,its an elastic existence,
that you lead...
Father,my dear father!
I know,it was painful,
when you sent your children to lead...
Mother,my dear mother!
I know,you have been,patient indeed,
with all that we call our deed...
Father,my honest old man,
Father,my dearest noble man,
I have seen your dreams,
shattered in pieces...
Yet,this day,
when we celebrate,our victory,
I remember,you grieved,
to see us,feast on madness,
that engulfed and destroyed your dreams...
Father,I remember,your daughter,
she said,you grieve...
She said,in all hope you showered upon us,
you ended losing your peace...
Father,your dream is but a distorted
untrue work here...
Here it breaks...
Complacency seeping in,on those,
vested with carrying your noble baton...
The fires,all those fires,of highest cause,
are now ashes,burning coals,
not a single flame rising...
All the fire that rises,
is of the hatred,that has besieged your dreams...
Father,I grieve not,for you died so soon...
Father,I celebrate your deliverance from this
insanity and grief...
We,who were gifted with noblest
of all seeds,
but gave way for leeches,
and the weeds...
The tree has but grown healthy,
and it is withered...
Shaking in its roots,
withering in its leaves,
hollow in its stems and branches...
And what,ah! What shall I say of the fruit??
The fruit is rotten or eaten by worming fleet...
Parasitic greed,plaguing this plant,
whose seeds you sowed,
with your honest palms and watered into a dream...
Ah! Father,
we seek you again,
a cleansing necessity we need...
An elixir of hope,
if you may,
please pass down from heavens
that we just can't reach...
For withered we may have been indeed,
but still life flows through the roots of our passive existence...
We know,we are hollow,
but still not dead,and
till this free breath remains,
remains a hope that we shall revive,
as the children of your dreams...
© Karthik Adithya Singaraju
my love,its an elastic existence,
that you lead...
Father,my dear father!
I know,it was painful,
when you sent your children to lead...
Mother,my dear mother!
I know,you have been,patient indeed,
with all that we call our deed...
Father,my honest old man,
Father,my dearest noble man,
I have seen your dreams,
shattered in pieces...
Yet,this day,
when we celebrate,our victory,
I remember,you grieved,
to see us,feast on madness,
that engulfed and destroyed your dreams...
Father,I remember,your daughter,
she said,you grieve...
She said,in all hope you showered upon us,
you ended losing your peace...
Father,your dream is but a distorted
untrue work here...
Here it breaks...
Complacency seeping in,on those,
vested with carrying your noble baton...
The fires,all those fires,of highest cause,
are now ashes,burning coals,
not a single flame rising...
All the fire that rises,
is of the hatred,that has besieged your dreams...
Father,I grieve not,for you died so soon...
Father,I celebrate your deliverance from this
insanity and grief...
We,who were gifted with noblest
of all seeds,
but gave way for leeches,
and the weeds...
The tree has but grown healthy,
and it is withered...
Shaking in its roots,
withering in its leaves,
hollow in its stems and branches...
And what,ah! What shall I say of the fruit??
The fruit is rotten or eaten by worming fleet...
Parasitic greed,plaguing this plant,
whose seeds you sowed,
with your honest palms and watered into a dream...
Ah! Father,
we seek you again,
a cleansing necessity we need...
An elixir of hope,
if you may,
please pass down from heavens
that we just can't reach...
For withered we may have been indeed,
but still life flows through the roots of our passive existence...
We know,we are hollow,
but still not dead,and
till this free breath remains,
remains a hope that we shall revive,
as the children of your dreams...
© Karthik Adithya Singaraju
Friday, 6 August 2010
Omnipresence...
Are you there in the murky woods?
Are you there in the windy mountains?
Are you there in the flowing rivers?
Or are you in the chirping birds?
Some find you in solitude,
some find you in the middle of our brothers...
Some find you in happiness,
some find you in despondence,
some find you in chance,
some seek you in their destiny...
You seem to fulfill someone's life,
yet for some you are the life...
Sometimes you melt the very depths of one's heart,
yet in few moments,you harden the molten pains of a soul...
You bring tears to few eyes,
you wipe tears of others...
What are you?
where are you from?
We see you not,yet not stop feeling your presence...
Divine existence,worship worthy,
subtle beauty,inexpressible...
The music of silence,
the beauty inside a beast...
The life in the winds over shallow ripples of water...
The sweet joy flowing over the mist and fog...
The dew on one's soul,
always asking us to reach out,
always leading us into green,
always smiling at your children,
always making your children smile...
What are you?
Where are you from?
The subtle gift of humanity...
The beautiful mother of all souls...
One which has the wrath to start wars,
and the power to end them...
The manifestation of God,
if not God,by itself...
The subtle beauty called love...
© Karthik Adithya Singaraju
Are you there in the windy mountains?
Are you there in the flowing rivers?
Or are you in the chirping birds?
Some find you in solitude,
some find you in the middle of our brothers...
Some find you in happiness,
some find you in despondence,
some find you in chance,
some seek you in their destiny...
You seem to fulfill someone's life,
yet for some you are the life...
Sometimes you melt the very depths of one's heart,
yet in few moments,you harden the molten pains of a soul...
You bring tears to few eyes,
you wipe tears of others...
What are you?
where are you from?
We see you not,yet not stop feeling your presence...
Divine existence,worship worthy,
subtle beauty,inexpressible...
The music of silence,
the beauty inside a beast...
The life in the winds over shallow ripples of water...
The sweet joy flowing over the mist and fog...
The dew on one's soul,
always asking us to reach out,
always leading us into green,
always smiling at your children,
always making your children smile...
What are you?
Where are you from?
The subtle gift of humanity...
The beautiful mother of all souls...
One which has the wrath to start wars,
and the power to end them...
The manifestation of God,
if not God,by itself...
The subtle beauty called love...
© Karthik Adithya Singaraju
Thursday, 5 August 2010
Whispers of Silence...
When you fought a weary battle,
when you cried with your arms wide open..
When you tried to fool yourself of the untruth,
and calm your heart down...
When you strived to make people happy,
and you strived to make your self known...
When it is all talked out,and ended in a whisper..
When no matter what you say,
what you do,things don't change for better...
You sigh at that end of the day,
where your weary work has not borne any fruit,
and when you after burning your neck under hot scorchy sun,
come back and lie down and perspire...
At that end of the day,
when emotions have come and gone...
All the tears flown and dried,
and all the passion,wasted away...
You find yourself,numb,
oblivious to something called pain...
You shut yourself out,to all that hurts..
And even the faces of those people you loved,
doesn't bring a smile unto your face...
You feel there is pain to be felt,
but you don't feel any pain...
And you do what man has done for ages,
you move on,and just pale shadows remain...
At the end,with regret,perishes your speech,
and all you do,is whisper silences...
Because that is what is left behind,
when all else has left...
Even in the absence of your shadow,
you feel Pablo's infinite silence silences...
Even in the middle of nowhere,
you hear the whispers of infinite silence,silences...
© Karthik Adithya Singaraju
when you cried with your arms wide open..
When you tried to fool yourself of the untruth,
and calm your heart down...
When you strived to make people happy,
and you strived to make your self known...
When it is all talked out,and ended in a whisper..
When no matter what you say,
what you do,things don't change for better...
You sigh at that end of the day,
where your weary work has not borne any fruit,
and when you after burning your neck under hot scorchy sun,
come back and lie down and perspire...
At that end of the day,
when emotions have come and gone...
All the tears flown and dried,
and all the passion,wasted away...
You find yourself,numb,
oblivious to something called pain...
You shut yourself out,to all that hurts..
And even the faces of those people you loved,
doesn't bring a smile unto your face...
You feel there is pain to be felt,
but you don't feel any pain...
And you do what man has done for ages,
you move on,and just pale shadows remain...
At the end,with regret,perishes your speech,
and all you do,is whisper silences...
Because that is what is left behind,
when all else has left...
Even in the absence of your shadow,
you feel Pablo's infinite silence silences...
Even in the middle of nowhere,
you hear the whispers of infinite silence,silences...
© Karthik Adithya Singaraju
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