Programmer’s woes

December 31st, 2003 admin

Magic, black art, wizardry,
and spells and casts they pale,
when compared to what we do
in the realms of the nanoscale.

Programmers of the world are we
and here we are to stay
as long as the domestic electron
shall bow down and obey.

Programs, as they call our words,
uttered in many a varied tongue,
are battered and chopped and strewn and mopped
and simplified rung by rung …

Not carelessly diced and dumped mind you,
but precisely arranged and ingested
compiled and linked with other tongues before
the drops and bits are fed

to the electrons gliding drawn by forces
magnetic in their incessant lure,
through streets, under wells, over pipes, across channels
into the layers druggerd, doped, impure.

They do as we command, by the billions they heed
and question not ever their lives
pushed around under mass hypnosis,
yet, only to obey faster, they strive.

The revolution, the uprising, the overthrow,
comes when we dictators least ecpect
The ranks and files of this nanoscale
subconsciously might forget

that all the space they own and use
must one time be let go,
their holding it or changing it,
brings us dictators grief and woe.

long nights and days are lost in thought
and chases down many a narrow lane
when overworked, confused they send up the rungs,
the “Segmentation Fault” complain!

(Anil Krishna, 2003)

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Human Mind

December 31st, 2002 admin

The human mind takes up the shape,
of any space it finds itself in.
It seeks and searches and grows outward,
till it hits the walls from within.
And no sooner than it probes the edge
its restless to seek more
It does not want to take a look
at the immensity of its core.
All it frets and fumes and whines about,
is some more growing space,
that when granted is quickly old,
and thus starts an endless race.
The mistake is not in seeking more,
for curiosity must take its shot.
The folly, the trap, the cause for grief,
is the thanklessness for what you got.
Getting too used to hardness of the walls,
rather than enjoying the room,
is like plaintively pondering when you die,
if someone builds you a tomb.

(Anil Krishna, 2002)

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Backgrounds for a perfect dream

December 31st, 2001 admin

Walking through the falling leaves,
yellow, red, with a dried shade of green,
I am suddenly happy…at peace,
like at a moment when the truth is seen.
Its only just a normal day,
and my hands pull my bike as I trod,
The autumn trees played upon by the wind,
and the Gods join us and silently applaud.
The suspended animation of people
plodding through their careless lives,
blurred to perfection, its the background
for which the ideal dream strives.
The faces as they move across,
in a slow deliberate, thoughtful stream,
some in search of their moment of bliss,
And some playing me in the background
of their perfect dream.

(Anil Krishna, 2001)

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But not quite

April 1st, 2001 admin

It plays in my mind sometimes,
At a blinding speed, and a frenzied pitch,
Never quite out of tune,
Never quite off balance,
Teasing me to guess when it will fail.
Its like the old radio station you notice
Only when it turns off.
But not quite…

The frequency that makes me float
Off the ground and the pain that
Is a pain of a dying heart.
The world around turns pale and dull,
And you feel you have died.
But not quite…

This pace and grace kills me,
Life keeps you occupied and busy,
Makes you feel important, makes you run,
Till you realize you are running around dizzy,
Around a market place,
Everytime you pass by the pale green door,
You think you have been here before,
But not quite …

And off you are, lost again,
In the frenzy toward nothing,
And keep your frail heart beating,
Safely in its din, waiting
For something to change, yet not too much,
Something,
But not quite …

Till the music carries on you run
And then one day, tired, undone,
The music fades, the running slows,
The heart stops its beat, the market goes,
To those who still run, it lets you free.
And you float up,
Up into the white.
But not quite …

(Anil Krishna, April 2001)

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A weekend that was

April 1st, 2001 admin

Anything that comes,
one would suppose,
would stay awhile
before it goes.
But weekends are
a finicky breed,
they can hardly wait,
before they recede.
In they roll slowly
with a relaxed gait,
never in a hurry,
to spoil your wait.
Starry eyed and smiling,
you’re dreaming away,
the weekends coming and
its already Tuesday.
Never mind in the least,
and do not despair,
for all the backlogs,
the weekends is there.
Boy, weekdays are heavy,
loaded with stuff to do,
just pack it and stack it
into the weekend too.
So here comes Friday,
finally we are free.
There is relief in the air,
there are parties till three.
Everyone is sensing.
the weekend’s near,
even senseless boneheads,
drowned in pools of beer.
Warm and snug,
wrapped up in bed,
no jump-starts today,
just laze instead.
Early birds are
up at noon,
others relax,
twelve’s too soon.
Finally the bunch
is up by two,
and is desperately
searching for a clue,
on how to start,
and what to do,
confused and sad
that you are wasting time too.
As you painfully pick
and sorrowfully munch,
the biscuits and snacks,
that pass off as lunch
you realize you’re out,
of milk, veggies and cheese,
And there is no survival tactic,
but to go for groceries.
There goes the afternoon,
and a thought turns you pale
it’s your turn to clean the house,
then you rush to check your mail
As the moon comes up,
and the sun leaves the scene,
the stinking sweatstained
weekday clothes
are screaming for a swim
in the washing machine.
Dinner done,
you’re tired to the bone,
but there are people to call,
And you are glued to the phone.
The weekend weakened
your faith and charm,
and before you sleep,
you set the alarm.
Come Sunday you are up,
and raring to go,
but tomorrow’s Monday,
and you have a report to show.
A quick breakfast
and to office you run
to finish off all
you’d left undone.
And Sundays are
all about accepting fate,
gearing up for the next five days,
and falling into another
weekend wait.
The story never
changes a note,
It just repeats
quote unquote.
Only once was it
not quite there,
and I was surprised,
with an hour to spare.
Would have enjoyed the hour,
yet again I did fail,
When else do you think,
I wrote this tale!

(Anil Krishna, April 2001)

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The Net

July 1st, 1999 admin

The spider’s spinning the webs of steel,
the nets that sieve every thought you think,
free air to breathe, freedom to feel,
only through a hole or a lucky kink.

the mesh gets finer, stronger and spread
the thoughts fight hard for a piece of sky,
narrow bits squeeze through, narrow things are said,
Truth is for the large at heart, survive with a lie.

The loose fine strings of a child’s gay mind
that God made for him to play a hearty tune,
by social spiders are twisted, woven and twined,
the evening pulls in before the sun’s attained noon.

Gasping for light and a little breathing space,
they talk of rationale, simplicity and heart,
the net closes in to snuffle in a million ways,
the spider kills you quick…
the end comes before the start.

Anil Krishna
July ’99

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Death in the marketplace

December 31st, 1998 admin

Happy souls tried spreading cheer
as best as they could,
The business they knew was better than good.

The spirits were high
And so was the sun,
The crowd at the market place was finding life fun.

A shot rang out,
a voice was heard,
no one cared any more for a bird.

Blood gushed out
And on the pavement fell,
Whose face it was no one could tell.

A child began crying,
a body began to fall,
the crowd circled outward,
and became a staring wall.

Heavy was the sound of silence,
The child too stopped his cry,
Time passed as they watched in awe
the writhing body die.

Soft murmurs of dissent,
Louder began to grow,
“Why didn’t somebody call for help?”
was what everyone wanted to know.

They all moved on pretending
to have done all that could have been.
The change was fast from a crowded
to a deserted scene.

Soon they had all gone,
all except one.
A little boy was sitting tight,
waiting under the sun.

(Anil Krishna, 1998)

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To the point of no return

December 31st, 1998 admin

Time flies, they say, but you flew faster,
too many to beat before the disaster.
Things are too hard to explain, too easy to evade,
you’re gone before you came, only wishing you stayed.

You lost all you had in trying to beat
the few you hated,
the few you loved were slow,
but you couldn’t have waited.

As you higher,
in a frenzy fled,
forgot that with each step
you crushed someone’s head.

You relished no victory,
for you knew no defeat,
you stood so tall
that you forgot your feet.

You had too much to do,
too far to go,
too many people to be with,
too few to know.

You had too much to promise,
too much to dream,
till you knew you were going mad,
but had no time to scream.

Faster, faster, faster still you flew,
crossed every limit, every star you knew.
At last you knew you’d won the race,
but then it struck you that there was no one to face.

No one to see how much farther you leap,
no shoulder to rest your head on and weep,
no one to care if you laughed or cried,
no one to notice if you lived or died.

Anil Krishna
1998

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The most beautiful eyes

December 31st, 1998 admin

I saw her standing on the old overbridge,
The one that goes over the river of Ridge,
She stood there watching the sun go down,
I stood there watching her in that lovely town,
As the sun was to disappear and to go underground,
My heart leapt up as she was turning around,
Her hazel eyes were a sight to behold,
Her face was a picture worth framing in gold.
Her constant gaze made me look down and smile,
The larks returned to the rooster after a while.
I looked up at them and then at her again,
She was walking alomg the rails, in her hand a cane.
As she was tapping in the fading light,
Her cane looked pink, I knew it was white.
She vanished into the darkness and that left me,
And my memories of the most beautiful eyes
…that couldn’t see.

( This was written more as a song rather than a poem…
Anil Krishna, 1998)

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Memories of moments

May 31st, 1998 admin

Fast and slow, happy and sad,
memories of moments, good and bad.
Forlorn hopes to dazzling tomorrows,
victory of life, trampling sorrows,
Four years of the best in life,
ample in ambition, in experience rife.

Love and laughter, tales told retold,
in the warmth of the quilt in the winter cold.
Testing times demanding a lot,
Some worked worry beads some bothered not.

Holidays in high summers,
time to home depart,
and to return…with the rains,
to this heaven of your heart.

In the rains to dance, in the floods to swim,
with a will to work out every wanton whim,
After long tiring days to together lie,
and discuss just anything under the sky.

A little spark to set brushwood alight,
didn’t take much to fake a fight.
At times emotions took their toll,
a charged exchange, a hurt soul.
But touchy tales never long did reign,
drowned and overtaken by the lighter vein.

Wooing maidens by laying baits,
joining the gym and wielding weights.
Falling for every girl, playing the love game
till the girl said ‘no’, or the boyfriend’s name.

Journeying by bus over the hills and vales,
laughing, singing, relating tales.
Four years have passed in a blink,
the years that shaped the way I think.
Loved and cared every step of the way,
to grow a little wiser, a little everyday.

(This poem was the one I wrote when my days at IITG were numbered, and I realized that the dream that was IIT was drawing to the close of one chapter…)
Anil Krishna, 1999)

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