Confessions of a born poet

July 14th, 1997 admin

It dawned upon me one fateful July night,
That there were things I always wanted to write.

And this I was sure, was the right time,
To vent my feelings, as a verse that would rhyme,

But where were the feelings? They never came,
Yet inclined I was, to write all the same.

So my ebullient soul, delved into serious thought,
About what I ought to glorify and what I ought not.

My venerable nous, praised this adventure of mine,
Said it would suit to tread a serious line.

The poem I knew, should house exotic words,
Like an aviary burdened with exotic birds.

So I took the dictionary and made a brilliant list,
Of words I never knew, did or could exist.

A few from the list expressed the title that read,
“The maieutic exegesis of juxtaposition with the dead”

A contended man I was, my countenance erupted into a smile,
But the elysian bliss, lasted only a while.

Before late I realized, I was going nowhere with the dead,
And beads of perspiration lined my forehead.

The euphoria waned, the word ‘poem’ lost its glow,
I had the words and the ideas, but together they wouldn’t flow.

I reluctantly gave up and to myself said,
Serves you right for trifling with the dead.

And emmolified my hurt soul, saying do not despair.
Everybody is not supposed to have the flair.

Then pushing aside the books in a heap,
I prepared to get some much needed sleep.

Away from the pitiless world, I dreamt that night,
That I did write a poem, about a poem I didn’t write.

(Anil Krishna, 14th July, 1997)

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With a faith in the blue sky

May 29th, 1997 admin

On a day there is no sunshine
and the gray canopy cries,
mother earth relishes the moment,
with a faith in the blue sky.
It knows the gray is not for long,
there’s a pleasant azure waiting yonder,
enjoys this darkness,
relishes the damp,
with a faith in the blue sky.

The mountaineer enchanted by the acme,
sets off up the perilous acclivity,
with a dream in his heart,
a vision in his eyes
and a faith in the blue sky.
As he ascends the weather wields its wrath,
thick mist steals his eyes of their goal.
He is surprised, yes, but not shaken though,
and he doesn’t retrace his path.
He either waits or continues to climb,
with a faith in the blue sky.

The nomad tired and thirsty,
sees an oasis, no…, life, at a distance.
His legs almost dead are suddenly alive,
for they are no longer alone.
they have a faith in the blue sky.
With every hard step, on the burning sand,
the oasis retreats by another step, and
though the nomad knows its but a mirage,
he doesn’t stop imagining,
for he has to allure his legs to carry him,
and he knows to walk is to live,
to stop is to die,
and so he walks on,
with a faith in the blue sky.

(Anil Krishna
29th May, 1997)

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Sitting in the second row of a boring class

March 1st, 1996 admin

Sitting in the second row,
how I wish I could throw,
a chalk or two at close range,
or maybe to the teacher for a change.
I am turning giddy with all this gibberish,
about a channel being n or p,
all holes and electrons are getting at me.
All my mind can barely make out,
is that it is all becoming OHT.
I feel my eyelids obeying gravity,
and my eyeballs floating up,
the teacher’s uttering turns a lullaby,
my heavenly state never does it perturb.
Am I going into unconsciousness,
or maybe I am seeing a dream.
Suddenly my elbow slips, I am awake,
did the teacher at me scream?
No, he’s busy singing his song,
I know not if I am right or wrong,
I do catch a word here and there,
but who the hell does care.
And so generously I set them free,
And they pass off over me as OHT.
I know what he’s teaching anyway,
I’ll learn it tomorrow if not today.
Thus reassuring my soul with true lies,
I wish to know the sublime state of other guys,
I turn my head and find my friend,
who’s trying hard to pretend,
that he understands what our preacher just said,
And the teacher is happy that he nods his head.
Alas the poor fellow little does know,
that his students who want to show,
that his understanding is deep,
is passing off into a state called sleep.
And the room is filled with a monotonous hiss,
of the chalk licking the blackboard,
and the students mechanically note all this,
though till death they seem bored.
The teacher writes to rub and rubs to write,
while I with myself am in a fight,
the board supposedly black with chalk turns white,
I am sorry at my own plight.
And my head turns to the wall on the right,
on which sits mighty and tight,
the mocking clock that’s always been,
the meanest of things I’ve ever seen.
I resign and start to read the jargon,
our desks are always full of,
but reading the same riddle the same rhyme,
doesn’t make you laugh,
especially the 103rd time.
At last I decide,
that before I start banging my head,
let me write a poem instead,
on how to efficiently pass,
your time, sitting on the second row,
of an unbelievably boring class.

( I wrote this one in Dr. Kakoti’s class. He is a great teacher and a very nice person…
the problem was not him…it was the semiconducter devices which were terribly boring.
OHT refers to “Over Head Transmission”
Anil Krishna 1996)

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My world, Other world

October 9th, 1995 admin

I feel I sit on the edge of a world,
on one side of a line that
divides one world from the other.

Into that other world I’d like to flee,
But I am in my world,
and in my world I have to be.

I feel I am in a world that’s a cage,
A moving cage, a shaking stage,
Characters on one side of me,
sit, laugh and seem to enjoy,
their loud harsh world.
Characters creating their image
by shouting above the din,
of my world, the speeding stage.

The other side of the barrier
I can see
the world in which I yearn to be,
An infinite plain world,
with soft blue moonlight,
pale yet serene,
this other world is so humble,
yet so powerfully attractive.

As my world pushed deeper into the night,
the world outside,
seems to become bright.
Endless gray fields,
with dark looming trees,
and distant lights show life,
all drenched in pale moonlight.

I can sense the cool wind
whiffing past me,
calling me to the other world,
ever so peaceful, so very free.
I forget my world and
get intoxicated by the night’s beauty
I feel carefree, my mind’s happy.

In my world, my busy messy world,
I have aims, ambitions and goals,
I have promises to keep,
duties to complete,
but the magic woven outside,
the simplicity and the timelessness of the night,
compel me to forget my world
they take me in their stride.
And into this other world I’d like to flee,
but I am in my world,
and in my world I have to be.

(I wrote this poem in a moving train, sitting at the window seat in the Howrah Bombay Mail while going to Guwahati after puja vacations at Bhilai.
Anil Krishna
9th October, 1995)

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