life, Love, Nature

Life a struggle

Tiny little droplets of desires,

evaporating on the

wings of bluish helium;

like morning dew.

Life a struggle, to extract honey

out of sacks of wild weed.

History, Legend, life, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry, Self-Help, Spirtual

Devil in a Sea of Men

Disguised in the

hollow curves of

your eloquent words,

do I hear a vicious

hissing ; whispers of

a conniving heart?

Why do I visualize

a serpentine on the rock?

I’m not beguiled by

your deceptive talks.

By the tinkering of your

silver coins.

For I’ve on my hump back

burden of enough winters

to mark a

Devil in a sea of Men.

Legend, Literature, Nature

Ozymandias

PB Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Lunacy
life, Literature, Nature, poetry

Innocent

The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”

W. B Yeats

Out of ceremonial fires emerged,

tiny amber sparks of soot.

Fires were lit to please the

dormant demigod.

Saintly priest offered one thousand

ablutions to the mighty

demagogue , enthroned

on a regal Peacock Throne.

A neck was twisted, a cord broken,

out of hollow spine;

gushed ruby coloured brooks of blood.

A spectacle of blood-bath assembled

to sacrifice an Innocent at the

altar of a strapping few.

wind's tale
life, Nature, poetry

Myopia

Once again spiraling down

the bottomless pits of

all-consuming thoughts.

Is it the high tides in the sea

or simply a patch of dark clouds?

May be it’s the Northern winds

curled up by silent thoughts.

May be the dystopic reality or

my aging myopia from whose

prism , I can faintly view the

blurring horizon at whose

mid-point, saffron daylight

ceases into the kohl

darkness of night.

poetry

Sailing to Byzantium by W. B Yeats

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

( My favorite poet, W.B Yeats )