If - Rudyard Kipling

One of my favourite poems.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

By Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936).

Untitled

The following poem is long and untitled. Please suggest names if you have any.
Was written in 2001 for a lark. Isn't supposed to carry any serious meaning.

The earth ended abruptly,
Near the borders of the sea,
Which splashed furiously, apparently unable
to force the stone free,
It seemed futile, a waste of tide,
Of foamy water, which sprayed the air,
Made the air misty, a white of pride,
And the rocks showed for a moment;

The sea was back again,
Cloaking the murderous stone,
'There is no stone', it claimed in disdain,
I felt a chill within my bone,
The sea tempted me to leap,
'Forget the air, the heights, the twilight,
think of the frothy water - 'tis deep.
And how about facing Poseidon in a fight?'

I was mesmerised by the power I had,
O'er life and O'er death,
Seduced by power - 'twas not so bad,
I knew it would take my breath,
Fighting this urge to give it all up,
In a final act of defiance,
To those who don't know what the mind is,
Those who make rules and create many a nuisance;

The sea was gone, back in its lair,
As it tried to recouperate, the black rocks lay bare,
I snapped out of the illusion, if only for a moment,
And I saw my life as a woman atop a mare,
Just then, the sea lumbered back,
Frothing the watery rocks, disguising them,
The air grew foggy as I lost my insanity,
And I saw the dame go lame;

The moon shone bright, that full moon night,
Though 'twas partly obscured by the clouds,
As I breathed the aslty air, I took in that sight,
I saw all my friends dressed in shrouds,
And I walked up to my good friends,
Said, 'What are you doing here?'
'We're here to make amends,
Lets go get us a beer;'

And then I realised,
My friends - my good friends didn't know me,
not as well as these that were shrouded claimed,
'twas Poseidon - the spirit of the sea,
Encouraging me to go home, like sheep,
Mocking me and my mind,
Mockery that would've made lesser men weep,
That would've made them cocoon themselves and go blind;

But I knew what I could accomplish,
Though a mortal, I could challenge the sea and win,
For If I lost, I'd be sleeping with the fish,
Forever a mangled mass of flesh and bone,
And that was unacceptable to me,
Undesirable and ridiculous,
That this ego, this mind that's free,
Should lose to a sea tempestuous;

I stood there waiting, thinking,
While waves came and went,
The cool breeze from behind me blowing
to convince me to repent,
To repent for having challenged the waves,
And having refused to step down,
I faced the ocean, palms by my side,
Like a king, ready for his crown;

The breeze was now stronger - a gale,
Trying to blow me off the cliff to a ghastly end,
I dug my feet, naked, into the earth,
And braced myself as the events turned a bend,
The clouds stole the moon from me,
'twas almost, but not quite, darkness absolute,
Then they started pouring their load,
As if they wanted to see if I was resolute;

The grass at my feet rustled and sounded
like snakes slithering, not one, many,
Around my legs, to drive me away, my ego wounded,
Away to oblivion;
I stood still, staring at the horizon which
could no longer be secerned from the sea,
The sea - grey and so was the rainy sky,
Which darkened my environs and wetted me;

't was chilly and dank,
Was the cold november air,
The wolves howled at a distance
Too close for comfort,
The sea withdrew again,
Showing the rocky surface, once concealed,
Like a heart filled with pain,
Which was hidden for long, then revealed;

So I said "goodbye" to mom,
"Goodbye" to dad, "ready to sleep forever,"
The swell grew upon the rocks,
't seemed a placid river,
I looked again, o'er my shoulder,
And saw everything I was leaving behind,
I knew some hoped I wouldn't jump,
I was cutting a part of the twine;

The water receded temporarily,
Reminding that I was insane,
Then rose rapidly,
To wash away my pain,
I let the earth go, stepped upon the sky,
Felt the wind in my hair,
The salty mist in my eye,
Before th' water, I swam thru' the air;

The sea was at its greatest,
To catch me in its tide,
Then the rocks showed again,
As the water moved aside,
And I felt a strange sanity brew within,
That overcame vanity and pride,
't made my eyes water, made me cry,
I thought 'twas the end;

And I fell closer towards them,
As the rocks grew larger,
I caught something thru' the corner of my eyes,
The swell of the sea, covering the rocks,
'twas a race against time,
As I drifted towards death,
There came a moment sublime,
When I fell upon water, and lived my bet.

God, Life, Prankster

Written on my way to Diveagar, in Konkan.

As I start along my journey,
The moon - full and to my left,
The sun - young, an infant, of honey,
Of its scorch and torture bereft;

The road meanders when I use it,
Hidden by trees from heavens azure,
I want to silently sit,
'Take in' a nature that's itself, pure;

Clouds rise high along mountains,
Seek to conquer blue sky,
Instead end as beauteous fountains
On a ground nigh high;

The blue on ground matches
The heavens above, as the river
Appears from naught, ends,
Yeilding to power that makes me quiver;

The sea, the sea, the blue-brown monster,
A cuddly bear to me, to some - infinite fear,
Variously a God, a life, a prankster,
Calls out louder as I draw near.

Ode to a raven I know

This is an ode to a raven I know. I have know many sheep, a few dogs, no pigs what so ever and just one Raven. I am not talking about Brandon Lee's movie of the same name. The raven I speak of is none other than Shrimaan Girish V. Dalvi, of Pune, currently at the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad.

This poem was written in 2001 when, after I had come up with the Human Theory of Animals (inspired by a song inspired by George Orwell's Animal Farm), Girish labelled himself a raven. Why a raven? Read the ode to find out.

The raven sits high upon the tree,
Watching the animals, ever observing
Their behaviour, forming opinions based
Upon knowledge of a science deserving;

Perched solitarily upon his branch,
High above the reach of pig or dog,
And sheep don't notice him, neither do
Others, 'tis like he's surrounded by a fog;

His ears are sensitive to the slightest noise,
As he eyes the cat's overtures,
And forms biases deep rooted, entrenched
In his subconcious, as he notes arrivals and departures;

He shows no emotion as the dogs chase
Their tails, working hard, without pay,
And the pigs, semi-intelligent that they are,
Keep rooting thru' garbage come night or day;

The sheep follow their shepherd
In flocks that capture his attention,
He takes in all their behaviour
And passes judgement without apprehension;

Occasionally he swoops down into gatherings
As the others listen, enthralled as if by someone pious,
And he speaks, sometimes offering advice,
Zeus trying to be Prometheus;

He derives pleasure from pretending he's simple,
And often goes to extremes in all directions,
Yet he claims he's the most stable person,
Who has much need for my affirmation,
The affirmation of a cat.

:)

Lost - One Child : Age Unknown

No Explanation for this poem - figure it out yourself and comment.

The carefree smile has left,
Gone beyond the precipice yonder,
Left the little child bereft
Of satiety and wonder;
His laugh is cynical,
He Picked it from his teacher,
His passions are cold and clinical,
Came from his preacher,
He faintly recollects what it was to dream,
Like a movie seen in younger days,
He wakes each night with a piercing scream,
Beyond his window goes not his gaze;
Exacts hover on his mind now,
Been long since he paused to see a tree,
Or touched a flower,
His poems now spell PV = C;
His lungs burn as cinders glowing
Of coals feeding the pig-iron melt,
Smoke from his nostrils flowing,
Been forever since he understood what he felt.
The child in me is dead!
Mourn him!
I do not cry, I don't know why,
Punished for what sin,
But I'll tell you what he said
As he lay, whispering,
'LOST: ONE CHILD, AGE UNKNOWN,
Goes by my name, but not my kin,'
The child in me is dead,
The humanity that came from within,
I grieve not for soon I'll follow,
Nature following humanity into the garbage bin.

Requiem for a poet who lived

I wrote this a couple of years ago when everyone was worrying a lot about their future and the GRE, TOEFL, GMAT and what not (for an education and a sinecure of a job). We were in college and I found it disturbing, to say the least, that people in their prime were more concerned about parking their arses on cushy exec chairs rather than on hard rocks on mountain peaks. Sooner than later, I found myself thinking of that too (only two thoughts) and I ran for the hills.

Education tames the wild beast within,
An' also dries up the well of sweet wine,
Poets dream only of corporations,
Their poetry a distant dream, in rhyme,
I know for I am one such poet,
Atleast that's what it used to seem,
These days only scores matter, an' you know it,
My mind was a page scribbled over by beautiful life,
Now it's corporate clean.

Lamentations

Written while attending a particularly boring lecture about the C programming language in B8, Infy Pune campus last year.

I lament your life as I do mine,
I lament these wonderful moments in time
Spent inside, suffering boredom and pain,
While outside it doesn't cease to rain,
Birds fly from tree to tree,
Soaring eagles we wanted to be, always free,
Hummingbirds - they continue to hover
From branch to branch, flower to flower,
The rain's bathed the world,
The dust storms that swirled
For days past, washed away,
The sun's not here but it's still a beautiful day,
Nature's lecture's in session outside,
But we're in here trying to hide
Our frustration and boredom
Here in hell's kingdom,
I lament your life as I do mine,
We're wasting our best moments in time.

Cheers,
Shaunak

In Time

Since this poem is completely and utterly vague, open to radical interpretation, (some may even say I'm talking about religion) I am writing this short explanation.

This poem is about change. Change that affects this whole universe. Change which is continuous. As Marcus Aurelius (Philosopher-Emperor of Rome) put it, "The Universe is change, Life is opinion."

Every moment that you live changes you. Your senses provide your mind with stimulii every fleeting moment and every stimulus changes you. That's what this poem is about.

Simply put,
Life is a journey you undertake. A continuous one made up of uncountable discrete journeys made up of even more uncountable discrete journeys themselves, and so on. And every journey changes you. You die at the end of each infinitesimal journey and are born as someone similar, but slightly different. Maybe life as we see it is a small discrete part of a larger collection of journeys. Maybe it isn't. Why should you care about it? Complete this journey you've embarked upon a moment earlier. Then the next one. And so on.
Enjoy life.

In Time.

Every journey I begin,
Every year that goes by,
Every voyage that I undertake
Under known sky,
I know I've travelled this way before,
A long time ago,
Mayhaps even more,
As who or what, I know not,
A traveller am I
Through time and space
And life, for many have I lived
In but an instant, in days,
In the blink of an eye have I died
A hundred deaths and many many more,
In every tear have I drowned
That has ever been cried,
In every child and man old
Have I seen fear, foretold
Of the death that tiptoes, silent,
A whisper of sound,
A minute of time,
In the blink of an eye have I died
A thousand deaths and many more,
An arrow, my weapon, they say is,
A weapon! Ha! mine! They say,
As if I needed to kill someone
When I died a million deaths a day,
Every journey I began,
Every mile 'n' half that I ran,
Every length of the pool that I swam
Died I a thousand million deaths
And born again was I.

The santoor speaks through the river

I wrote this in December 2002 shortly before my trip to Jammu and Kashmir (Didn't make it to Kashmir - the tunnel was frozen).

I begin a journey on the morrow,
A land of beauty 'n' manmade sorrow,
Where life's in nature's lap but not secure,
Even under an open azure,
The santoor speaks through a river
As gunfire makes the soul quiver,
So you ask me now, where are you off to?
To Kashmir! Oh, and also to Jammu,
A land of green trees, white snow and black fear,
But anyway, wish you a Very Happy New Year.

The Machine

My child, welcome to the machine,
Fear not, the suffocating feeling
Is us stripping you of your dreams,
We'll take away those meadows green,
Mountains high beneath blue sky,
You'll forget the song you sang so long,
Replace your laugh with a cynical sigh,
And work like a dog waiting to die;
We'll turn your heart into hard stone,
Give you cold eyes that never cry,
Kill the child in that soul you own,
Blur the line between truth and lie,
You'll reap what for years was sown,
Forget how you wanted to fly,
Soar high,
You wanted trees tall, brown and green,
They're all gone from this world now,
Soon they'll be gone from your dream;
You'll work hard to earn a good life,
Build weapons to cause damage unseen,
Earn money to placate your husband or wife,
And wonder, 'What does this life mean?'
You won't hurt, won't know why,
When those you love begin to die,
You'll never drink from a clear blue stream,
You won't know what it is,
'Cause you'll never ever dream,
Butterflies - they're gone, you'll be scared,
But you won't know how to scream,
You'll see the machine with its fangs bared,
Waiting for you to step inside,
To devour you, completely prepared;
The only jungle you'll ever know,
Concrete and metal full of others like you,
Working as dogs, smiles on their face,
A veil to hide the torment inside,
Who'll smile with laugh tracks, comedy debased,
Don't run, you cannot hide
From this machine, the human race.

-Shaunak