Peering into closing mists

I looked and wondered as I strolled,
Along the narrow, winding road,
This very situation I had spied,
Then I was merry, now I cried.
What was it that had made me see,
that which was not, with utter glee?
Or did I look now through a glass of gloom
at color and gaiety as they ever loomed?

I drifted on forever untiring,
Meeting other travellers, many inspiring
Untold ever to me within, beautiful
feelings; emotions, tender and soulful.
I saw old friends and how such we became.
Worst foes - Alas we were still the same!
I saw gold bars waste into dust,
Hard iron left to painfully rust.

A friend I spied on his own road,
As I journeyed towards my final abode.
We had shared laughs, now he shed me a tear.
Quite enough, I had no further desire
Than my absence to cause one pain,
As we all gaze down misty memory lane.

Memories are hard to leave behind, and so, they are the only treasures we keep. At the end, all that's left is memories, both for us and for others. And after that only memories are left...

On Spamming my office email

Sometime ago, in my previous job, I had the misfortune of having an amazingly burdened schedule, while some of the people I hung out with, worked at other places in the city and were trying to find something to do to pass the time when they had not much to do (which was most days). So one day, there was this generally degenerative spam session going where these souls were discussing what they wanted to do for dinner, at 10:30 in the morning. I, as usual, was pretty swamped, and this did not interest me one bit. I could have quietly asked to be excluded from the session, but I guess I am abrasive when I am in the mood. So, I sent out this little composition:

Vikram Seth once had written for
Those mindful of burdens by night.
There are also those burdened all day,
Did he ever ponder their plight?

These men have greater loads
Than the thoughts of what next to do,
These are souls that leisure abhors,
And most of their fellows do too.

Tasks pile up like a cosmic dust pelt,
Never visible but ever they loom.
The pressure's akin to what Frodo felt
In the hot crevices of Mt.Doom

Said souls can never plan far,
Least think of dinner at lunch,
Little can they think of, but 'unsigned char',
Between sips of coke and brunch.

To those souls I dedicate my rhyme,
And pray do not take offense,
But to waste my hours is a crime,
With your electronic non-sense.

Well, Sandhya Acharya, one of the gang, a terrific albeit brooding poet, had this to say: (Thanks Sandhya!)

Happy be the souls who can jest
Inspite of endless toil without a rest
Such souls have held the burden in the night
In the day have traversed far without respite
Work shall always loom; now and forever
But there is always time for a little palaver

I said to myself, "Hey! now wait a minute! If what they were doing was 'a little palaver, then it was by no means little and certainly a greater degree of idleness than palaver! Repartee needed!" and here it came immediately. Alas, now I had been dragged into the vicious spam game :-(

Toil does not mean unjest,
Toil does not mean unrest,
Toil means you hang fast,
And it means hardest you strive
Till its time to go, and it's five!

Then be merry and forget worry,
Prepare for dinner, rightly, over tea,
Make plans for your group movie,
When others too are in no big hurry.

All I utter is a word for conscience,
Work the time for which you're compensed!

Let's get on with life

It's like that time of the year,
This moment I've just visited,
When golden leaves levitate in breezes
and trees of copper and flame delight.
But just like that blessed season,
This moment I wish to leave,
That when I blink again, I see
brown leaves at the mother's feet.
And this silence and death is better
Than many of those light, golden flights.
Isn't hard ground more comforting than
cool, whimsical, ephemeral winds?
Soil shall be motherly and tender again,
It shall again be a source of life.
Where shall life and love sprout in winds?
Except in magical golden flights...?

I wrote this on July 18th, in about 5 minutes. Words just flew out of my mind. I do not want to discuss why I wrote this.

Rain at Dusk

Empty streets, black night, thick rain,
Neon floating in a dormant whirlpool
The night singing a noisy refrain,
A grand breeze, wet, fierce and cool.

Empty streets, yet sense the superfluity!
Deluged and drowned, the dark sewers,
Music flooding the mind with serenity,
High above, the heavens brimming over.

Empty streets, yet what rhythm in the air!
Harsh drops pattering to the ground,
My feet tapping to a measure in my ear,
My heart swinging to the incessant sound.

It's the first day of November, and here I am , sitting at Starbucks on the corner of my street, trying to work on my masters thesis. It's hard with the heavy rain outside. There are very few people on the streets, and I still can't concentrate. Maybe, it's the song playing in my headphones, so apt for the scene - "November Rain" (Guns and Roses).This just slipped into my mind from the air, I guess.