Prithvi's Poetry Blog

Incoherence - II

2010-04-27T08:34:00.000-07:00

Time slips between my fingers,

I can hardly feel it go,

But a lot else is going;

Tearing itself from me,

Moving away. Running.

To be alone is one thing;

To be lonely is another.

But what does it matter?

I can't handle either.

Two is company, Three's a crowd,

But one just feels wrong.

Alone, and suffocated,

Stranded on a desert

Island inside my head.

The World is running away
From me, in all directions.

I can't run in all directions.

I gave up and collapsed somewhere;

The World is still running away
From me, in all directions.

Happiness is overrated,

As is life itself. In this

Moment of abject solitude,

I crave humanity.
Crave somebody to watch my back.

Crave a kind soul who will run;
Run towards me.

The World is running away

From me, in all directions.
And I can't go chasing after it.

2010-02-17T17:52:00.003-08:00

This is not a poem. In that it isn't verse, specifically. It's just rambling.
I penned this yesterday while parallely transcribing an interview for Preethi. I've been very dissapointed with the University education system in this country, and I seemed to be venting into a notepad, so I didn't stop myself. I don't expect this to make sense. It's disjointed, and largely meaningless.
There are some parts now that I cannot comprehend myself. Honestly, it may not be such a bad idea to unpublish this. Then again nobody reads this blog, anyway, so I guess we're cool.

The Muck Inside My Head

Fate sits across the table,
Smirking;
Beautiful she is,
But She's not what I want.
She leaves me no choie but
To chase her. Drag me
With her, She will.
My dreams lie ignored
In a book on my desk,
Their value now purely
Academic;
She holds my hand,
Firmly.
She walks me straight out
Of that room, and into
Life; a life where I am
Judged for all the wrong things,
A false life, that is living
A lie.
A life where right is
Wrong, and Mediocrity
Is excellence.
Grey.
God doesn't play dice
With the Universe, but
Fate? She's quite the
Gambler.

2010-02-17T17:52:00.001-08:00

This is not a poem. In that it isn't verse, specifically. It's just rambling.
I penned this yesterday while parallely transcribing an interview for Preethi. I've been very dissapointed with the University education system in this country, and I seemed to be venting into a notepad, so I didn't stop myself. I don't expect this to make sense. It's disjointed, and largely meaningless.
There are some parts now that I cannot comprehend myself. Honestly, it may not be such a bad idea to unpublish this. Then again nobody reads this blog, anyway, so I guess we're cool.

The Muck Inside My Head
Fate sits across the table,
Smirking;
Beautiful she is,
But She's not what I want.
She leaves me no choie but
To chase her. Drag me
With her, She will.
My dreams lie ignored
In a book on my desk,
Their value now purely
Academic;
She holds my hand,
Firmly.
She walks me straight out
Of that room, and into
Life; a life where I am
Judged for all the wrong things,
A false life, that is living
A lie.
A life where right is
Wrong, and Mediocrity
Is excellence.
Grey.
God doesn't play dice
With the Universe, but
Fate? She's quite the
Gambler.

The Fourth Epoch

2008-11-27T00:30:00.001-08:00

"Heaven on Earth",

Is an oxymoron;

A fairytale, more like.

The most optimistic will,

At most, call this purgatory.

I lost the little faith

That I had in us.

It feels now, more than ever,

Like the end is near.

Somehow, that's comforting.

Do what you want.

Say what you will.

The end is near;

The Fourth Epoch is here.

Life

2008-02-17T08:25:00.001-08:00

This is my first serious attempt at poetry that doesn't at all rhyme. It's a rather strange thing, if you ask me. But if, somehow, you can see through the juvenile form of expression, you might be able to get a glimpse at what I'm trying to say. I don't know whether I like or dislike this poem. I don't even know why I wrote it. It's funny how I sit at the computer at 9pm and type out four dozen lines of partially meaningful nonsense. One fair warning: don't look at it as some great sublime form of expression. It isn't. It's just a seventeen-year-old's (L Perhaps this is my last poem prior to legal adulthood) amateur attempt at abstract expression of an even more abstract sentiment.

It's not about how fair life is,

For you always get more

Of what you want the least.

It's all about playing the best,

With the hand you're dealt.

That's a tough call

When you can't see the dealer,

And the other chap card-counts.

Humanity is being torn apart.

We've forgotten the value of a life.

It scalds my soul,

This aimless, merciless strife.

Harmony is as distant

As the other side of a black hole,

The World is ruled by despots,

Selfish men that can't see

Beyond themselves.

Strange how we talk about peace,

Talk about love and happiness.

For that's all we seem to do. Talk.

People are dying for no fault of theirs;

Fooled into believing that

They died for a cause,

For their faith or for their land.

While deep down we all know,

That their lives were wasted in pursuit

Of an unattainable end.

We're moving deftly into the future.

Sadly, we're going the wrong way.

Selfishness has become a norm,

Almost a requisite for survival.

Every favour has an ulterior motive;

Every friendship, a reason.

That's probably how it's meant to be.

The Human Race was probably

Designed to self-destruct.

I don't think I'm making sense anymore,

I'm dazed. Drugged by the

Melancholy that comes with

Having to witness

The Twenty First Century.

The Kali Yuga, if I may.

While I know not what

You make of all this,

My heart is convinced

That there is another way.

A tunnel, with the

Proverbial light at the end.

It's getting farther, and farther,

But I can still just about see

That faint glimmer, that ray of hope.

All is not lost, but it's going fast.
We must work fast; work together.
Against a common opponent;
Towards a common goal.
For things don't fall into place
Anymore. We must make them.

Énigme

2007-12-23T17:52:00.001-08:00

No Sir! This poem isn't necessarily meant to mean anything. It's just a very random rant that I decided to type out. If you see any sense in it, well and good. If you don't, then I'm afraid you're going to have to come to terms with the fact that the verse is essentially Jabberwocky in Gobbledegook. (Yes again. Both of those words exist in the English DIctionary. I didn't invent them)

Perhaps I don't

Belong here.

Perhaps I don't

Belong anywhere.

Something's missing

Somewhere.

Where is humanity headed?

Are we going

In the right direction?

And even if we are,

Are all of us convinced that

It is the correct way?

The world

Is not ideal.

It will never be.

May be it's just me.

And the voice in my head.

But from what I can see,

Something is not right.

But does it need to be right?

If it does, then what

Is right?

One will never know.

Perchance,

One was never meant to know.

Train Journey

2007-11-24T02:33:00.000-08:00

I didn't write this poem. A friend did. I only edited it a little, for random spelling errors and the like. I like it. So, even though it's not my poetry (not fully, anyway), I'm putting it here.

Train Journey

This time, I chose to travel by train .
By bus, you don't know how
time flies; the movies distract me.
This time, I wanted to hold on.
Hold on to every moment;
Hold on to him;
Perhaps my last opportunity.
A good chance to get lost in memories,
Memories that lived in me for three excruciating years;
Thoughts, that within me were real.
I craved to see them become true.
So close, yet so far. That voice in me,
Surged like flame. Satisfyingly warm.
It told me to tell him. I didn't listen.
I didn't want to lose him.

***

Suddenly, I saw it all.
I still couldn't understand it.
It made no sense.
It had to have a meaning; some explanation;
I was doing it all for him.
I serve no purpose without him;
He is why I live; he kills me.

Hopefully, I shall unravel that mystery,
Hopefully, this journey will help;
The aimless crowd, the melancholic trees,
The unending tracks leading nowhere,
The train moves on. Consoling me.

I feel an inexplicable joy,
Whenever I think of him.
This joy, it pains me.

I begin to hear the music.
It plunges me into a river.
Dreamy, happy, unaffected by change.
But not real.

***

The Journey has ended.
My journey has just begun.
I know no fear, no hesitation.
I see only him.
I see him everywhere...

~ Namita Nagaraja

2007-09-24T18:25:00.000-07:00

I've been recieving comments from atleast half a dozen totally unrelated sources, that my poetry , perhaps for the sake of rhyme, is appearing a little forced, even incomplete and abrupt at times. I enjoy constructive criticism. The fact that I'm getting any at all, gives me the impression that the audience believes that I actually have scope, so I'm going to try looking into this problem. Perhaps I have a mental block against this neo-mordern style of verse that doesn't rhyme, but for all I know, I may do a good job at it. I am in no uncertain terms going to tell you one thing though : I don't edit a poem once it's done. I agree, I have a long way to go as a poet (perhaps a VERY long way), but that poem is a "screen-capture" of my state-of-mind when I wrote it, and will be for as long as there isn't a UN supported worldwide ban on bad poetry! I see poetry as a destresser, it's a good one that seems to work for me as it is, but to further my prospects as a poet, I am going to try and break these shackles of measure and metre (I'm not promising anything, but I will make a sincere attempt.) Until then, keep the comments coming.

R.U.S.H.

2007-09-21T18:58:00.000-07:00

I started writing this poem at close to 10pm, which, as some of you already know, is well past my bed-time. Staying up however, has proven to be worth it. How often do you get to see a moody Indian all-rounder hit England's current heart-throb for thirty-six runs off an over? Back to poetry, Rush isn't really about anything in particular. It can't be. I don't seem to be catching the finer details of life anyway ! For some reason, I put it on hold for a couple of days. I only finished it a couple of hours ago.

The World moves so fast,
Nothing seems to last,
Rushing between here and there,
Finally getting nowhere.
What's the hurry?
Why do we scurry?
Has everyone a train to catch?
Or perhaps a target to match?
Haven't you noticed,
That there's so much you missed,
Is it really worth winning the race,
When all of us the same end face ?

Images

2007-09-13T18:27:00.000-07:00

“Images” is my first attempt at writing a conventional sonnet. I wrote this two days before my ISC exams started, all the way back in the last week of February. I didn't post it because I'd genuinely forgotten that I'd even written this one. Luckily for me, “The Lost Manuscript” was found in my bed-room this morning, along with “Impotent Fury”.

Our world is vile,

Every inch seems a mile,

Men, their true selves mask,

Finding them is an ardous task.

It's hard to tell facade from face;

Even venom is with sugar laced.

And when the truth hits,

It tears you to bits;

Life seems so dry,

And the universe a lie.

It helps, for anything, to be ready,

So you can hold yourself steady,

When your strongest belief breaks,

And reality its toll takes.

Impotent Fury

2007-09-13T18:26:00.000-07:00

I don't have suicidal tendencies. Not even close. I can therefore not fathom, in the least, what it was exactly that was going through my mind when I wrote this a few months ago. I'm posting late because I'd lost this one somewhere in the dark digital portals of my computer. (I still haven't found that darn file. I found the manuscript by chance this morning)

It burns in me, that proverbial flame,

But of it nothing transpires,

Life has become dull and lame,

All that I seem to get is ire.

My world seems to have ditched me,

My closest and dearest are strangers now,

I've been sapped of all that joy and glee,

Cheated by circumstances, and how!

My sweat and blood simply evaporates,

I doubt if existence is worth it at all.

To nobody and nothing I can relate;

Can I ever jump the wall?

I seem to be getting nowhere,

I'm still forced to trudge painfully on.

To take my life I may now dare-

What's the difference when I'm gone?

Morbid

2007-08-22T02:46:00.000-07:00

The title " Morbid" reflects my state of mind when I penned this earlier today. It's a typical 1/2. 1/2, with more possible interpretations than words. I don't know what most of it means - I just wrote what came to my head. (Yes ! My head ! I didn't "write from the heart" , or any such cheesy thing) I wrote it in one go, in about three minutes - linguistically, I know it isn't my best, but somehow, I liked it.

A throbbing head,
An empty soul,
I can't get out of bed,
I don't quite feel whole.

Dark clouds in the sky,
Not one warm ray,
Hours pass by,
Today isn't my day.

The rain lashes on,
I'm sick and cold,
I'm scared even to ask:
What tomorrow holds ?

I wouldn't say I'm sad,
Just jaded and derailed,
It's driving me mad:
I feel flustered and jailed.

On Leaving VNS . . . (Thoughts on my last days in school)

2007-02-05T20:02:00.000-08:00

This one I wrote in school, in that last week when we had no classes, just "Valedictory Practice" and the likes. I still haven't decided whether VNS did me good or did me bad. That I well decide in hindsight about ten years from now.

It's been nine years for me,
More for some, less for many.
That I've learnt a lot is beyond doubt,
I grew, from within and without.

Now it's essentially all over,
As abruptly as ever.
When this hard fact seeps
In, someone laughs, someone weeps.

"Are you happy or sad ?" someone asked me,
I am both -can you not see ?
Bittersweet memories of school,
To forget them I'd be a fool.
Memories there are, more better than worse,
But in retrospect, they bring tears.

The company that greeted me everyday,
Kept boredom and sadness at bay.
The friendships that were created,
I will cherish forever.
The experiences we've had, both good and bad,
I shan't forget them, ever.

My teachers have been WOW !
That goes without saying;
I'm what I am now,
Because of their doing.

All of us did things we regret,
This however isn't the time to fret.
Come to terms with your past,
And make amends that last.

Presently as we part ways,
Not knowing what tomorrow will hold,
Shouldn't we make the best of today ?
The outside may be warm, it may be cold.

As I exit the portals of this
Institution, it all comes rushing back -
The fun, the memories; the absolute bliss.

2006-12-26T23:51:00.000-08:00

Hmm . . . I haven't posted in a while . .but may be that's because I've been upto other more productive work . .may be it's because I'm too lazy . I haven't had much to say lately, what else with this bombardment of public examinations. Anyway here's a poem that I wrote during class (English, Physics . .the likes) . . It obviously isn't a tenth as good as what classifies as readable poetry, but veryone has to make some sort of a beginning . .so here goes !

Capricious Thoughts of a Befuddled Mind

A few score times I’ve been told,
That I control my own fate;
But I’ve been watching my life unfold,
And have learnt a few things of-late.

Contrary to what the world seems to think,
Between what you do in life, and
Your destiny there’s absolutely no link.
In our fate, is God’s hand.

However poignant this seems,
It’s providence, not your dreams,
That dictates where you go.
That is why we don’t know.

This world is an unfair place,
A place that I can’t comprehend,
Fear is making us avoid the face
Of our own selves, around every bend.
At the end of the day, you are
More what the world want’s you to be;
And for all of us that day is far,
When we realise, that we are just we.

Contemplation has to me shown,
That there’s nothing in this world that we
Can actually call our own,
Because there’s no such thing as reality.
We come and we go, we cannot
Be forever. We live life in a trance,
In purgatory between what is and what’s not.
We’re just executing His plans.

Why one lives or dies, is
A question you cannot answer,
There’s a point everyone seems to miss:
Some questions just have no answer.
The answer to me is what I think it
Is; And to you, what you feel fit.

Life, they say s like a rosebush;
I agree! To every rose, there’s a dozen
Thorns. For every goal towards which we push,
Countless hurdles appear now and then.

I see no reason to fear the past
Or future; the next or the last.
What is to will happen anyway,
So why be afraid of night or day ?

That is the way I see life,
And live it as it comes,
For criticisms I hold no strife;
Compliments go as the come.

Why regret what has been lost ?
When we know we can’t change the past;
At the end of the day, it’s what
You have; what you wanted it’s not.

All of us have a common finish line,
And it’s neither yours nor mine.