It is ironic that I am attempting to write poems. I don't understand poetry. I find it difficult to traverse through the imagery, metaphors and similies that reside in a poem. Then there is something called meters. I have no idea what they were. Yet, I have written many poems. Why? Poems help express or note down thoughts quickly. I look at poems as a write up in which I don't write complete sentences and let grammar float away like a he, he, he, helium balloon. Also, poems offer two challenges to my writing. First, can the idea be expressed though grammar is let loose? Second, does the poem have a rhythm? After writing a poem I read it out loud with some rhythm to see if it fits. If something does not fit, I change words or the structure of the line. I think this rhythm is probably what the concept of meter refers to. So, today I have come to accept that my poems are probably poems.
Over the past few week, I wrote three small poems based on some minor experience.
Towards a billion Trudging ahead was a man
Bag on each shoulder,
His life's belongings.
Probably needs more,
Not probably, probably.
The world around him, with me in it,
Thriving to get more
By doing more and more.
How much more should I do
To be satisfied,
To feel, enough?
A car, two cars, maybe three
One's a Benz.
One house, two, maybe three
One by the sea
One million, two, maybe one hundred
With two under the pillow.
And how long to get there?
One year, five years, maybe a hundred and fifty
With some luck.
I will get there
I might be dead by then
But i will get there.
I know, I am sure
I am gonna be a billionaire
Dead or alive!
In a circus
I 'm jumping through hoops
Like a circus lion.
No, a lion's too fierce
For me to be that.
I 'm more a donkey
A circus donkey
Carrying hoops.
Not a performer
Jumping through hoops.
A nobody
Lost in the crowd.
Considered lazy,
But is lazy
With no time
To be lazy.
Busy jumping hoops
That don't exist.
Not even jumping
Just passing through
Making no impact
But thinking it does.
Too tired to rest,
Yet lacking the zest
To live through life
Filled with loads
That don't really matter.
I am a circus donkey
Being human
It was on that day
That I got to know
About his health
Till then I had focussed
On his wealth.
Money can be distracting
For it keeps attracting
Attention and exertion.
So, I ignored his pain
Focussed on his gain
One might say, I am vain
But it should be plain
I am only being human.
Living in my own reality
Believing it's the reality,
Nothing else exists
Other than my values.
My value of utmost importance.
My world, in neat boxes
With defined edges,
More classical than quantum.
Is that cat dead?
Maybe its sleeping!
In the middle of the road?
Maybe it's tired.
Must be really tired!
Maybe it is!
It's dangerous.
Maybe it isnt!
Oh, it sure is.
Maybe it is.
It's Schrodinger's cat.
Maybe not.
It could be dead or not.
Maybe it's sleeping
One would never know.
Maybe so.
Must have been hit.
Maybe not!
By a car!
Maybe...
Should we check?
Maybe we should.
Nah! Let it be!
Maybe that's good!
Let it remain Schrodingers cat.
Fascinating is the thought That it's alright It's all okay Everything's A-OK. But don't expect to be ok All the time. In fact, you won't be ok Most of the time. But it's still ok To think life's ok. To believe life's ok As a little bit of okness Is all it takes For you to feel ok. Ok? Ok, you got it ok I hope.
But!
I am not ok
With my being not ok
At all times.
If something's not ok
I think about it
All the time
Making my oks
Not ok.
My life becomes
Not totally ok
No, that's not ok!
My life becomes
Totally not ok,
Completely not ok.
Shockay, chokay ok.
And that is not ok
I need to be ok All the time!
Someone help me please
To become ok!
Left, right Don't slip Get a grip Left, woah, right Stop, that was close Wait, wait, wait Weigh your next step Where's the spot? Spotted it! There! Left... Nooo, right. Oh no! Thud! My ass' on ice Cold seeps to my genes Right through my jeans Should get up But how? Maybe, just maybe That rock can help Slide, slide, slide Hold the rock. Rise, rise, woah, rise Hold that rock Left, right, left Oops, right, woah Nooo, thud There goes my ass Kissing the ice For the fifth time
Who taps?
We Taps!
Tap?
No, Tap, Tap and Tap.
We Taps!
Oh! Ah! Taps!
Yes, Taps!
But here?
Yes, here.
Right here?
Right by Target.
Taps?
Yap, Taps.
But, what you doing here?
Tap-tapping you.
Can I tap you back?
Yeah tap us.
But, I would rather pat.
Not too hard we hope.
A little hard?
No!
If not, pat becomes tap
We are Taps.
So?
So tap and don't pat.
Tap, tap, tap!
I don't like sitting through meetings. Meetings have too many people talking for too long on matters that don't deserve that much time. I once asked a professor why he chose to be a professor. He responded "I guess I like to hear me speaking". That is true for people who speak regularly during meetings. I once wrote about a person who starts speaking 5 minutes before the planned end time of the meeting and went on for 20 minutes. I guess he was obsessed at having the last word. Unfortunately his last word contained too many words and most of us did not listen to a word of what he said. It gives me great happiness to say that I no longer work with him.
This write-up took birth in a meeting. As is usually the case, 10 minutes into the meeting, boredom set in. It was an event where emotions were flowing around profusely and it would have been rude for me to look at social media on my mobile. So I opened the small notepad that lay in front of me and scribbled some words. This usually is good tactic as people end up thinking I am noting down points from the meeting itself. I have used this technique successfully for many years. At the end of the meeting a friend looked at the writing pad and said "What is this? This does not make sense. I thought you were noting down point for your own talk". She did not realize i did not need pen and paper to talk in front of a disinterested audience who had no choice but act interested in the nonsense I spoke. But that is not the only mistake she made. The words on the paper did make sense. I tried and the words in such a manner that they made sense. Well, you can check it for yourself a little later.
I wrote those words down in the form poems. Here, I think it is good to make clear my definition of a poem. It's a piece of writing which does not involve sentences or grammer and has a fair bit of jumbling of words. After writing it, I review it and modify it by chanting or singing it in some rythm. When the rythm satisfies me, I declare that piece of written work as a poem. I have written many such poems to no acclaim!
The first two poems were written on the writing pad during the meeting. Of course, they have changed a bit since as a result of the review process mentioned above. The thought behind this first one is the frustrating repetetiveness of life.
I wanted to play around with words that sound the same but have different meaning. I think this poem is inspired by Crazy Mohan's line about meen/mean in Michael Madana Kama Rajan. I wrote 7 lines of this poem in the meeting, the last 3 of which was absolute nonsense. So I removed them and filled it up with other lines later. I referred to the internet to find the set of words that sound the same. Such words are called homophones.
Everyday, I drive by an open graveyard as I go to and come back from my office. I love graveyards. One of my fondest memories from my school days was walking through a graveyard on my way home. This one is not that memorable but driving through that road in the night always gives me ghostbumps. I once wrote a story about meeting a ghost during a ride back home. I am hoping that would be the climax for my first novel. This small poem is dedicated to the freshy laid road by the graveyard.
For reasons beyond my comprehension, I am considered to be a person of immense intelligence by many around me. For reasons beyond my comprehension, I am annoyed by this. Out of this annoyance was born this poem.
Lord of the Books
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
It's good not to be born as a man For all men are considered chauvinist
Its good not to be born as a woman
For women are never really safe from men
It's good not be born as a dog
For they are always dependent on human kindness
It's good not be born as a cow
For they can't even feed their offsprings well
It's good not to be born as a hen
For their end is always between the teeth of humans
It's good not to be born as a rat
For only Jerry and Mickey live for long
It's good not to be born as a cat
Nevermind, it's probably good to be born as a cat
It's good not to be born as a mosquito
For their food source tends to smash them to gory death
It's good not to be born as a tiger
For they only exist in protected status
It's good not to be born as a lion
For they are considered kings of jungles that don't exist
It's good not to be born as a elephant
For they never wears phants while slogging away for humans
It's good not to be born as an ant
For they are killed in hundreds by angry humans
It's good not to be born at all
But do we have a choice?
So, might as well live once we are born
And if possible live happily
Till the very end.
People love their cats
Walking around leisurely
But this one's a sketch
Just a graffiti.
Parakeets on the tree
Chatting noisily
Looking at the cat
It's just a graffiti.
This cat's at this end
At the other end another
Neither of them real
Just graffitis.
In pops a question
Why do they exist?
Does it really matter
For they are just graffiti.
The cats come to life
To roam these streets
No longer sketches
Not just graffiti.
Terrorizing the rats
Praying fervently
For them to be sketches
Just graffiti.
But isn't it ridiculous
Writing about cats
They are only sketches
Only graffiti.
But there are no rules
On what I write
Though its about a sketch
About a graffiti.
In the end
It's all real
Yet nothing's real
For its all a sketch
A graffiti.
