Power and poetry, both are opposite to each other, power is
related to wealth, physical strength or political power. Poetry
has to stand in front of power, and ask questions. The question
is, who gives power to poet or poetry to stand in front of the
power? Does the pen carry that power? Can words burn like wood
and give light to others? We don’t know, but in Rigveda and
Atharvaveda, the word or VAK is the supreme power. In the
Athervaveda, the first hymn starts with the prayer to Vak, the
power of word. In Indian philosophy “shabd” is called “brahma”.
The science also talks about Big Bang theory.
So, every word has some meaning and it has some effect also.
But, one has to learn that they should be used with care. Poetry
teaches the manner of using words powerfully. Again one has to
be careful that words should be used in powerful manner without
imposing himself as a powerful person. Poet has to remain hidden
behind the words. And also words should have some motive. It
could be any thing; it does not mean, one should write only on
the social problems, (as it happens in Social media, one death
gives birth to many poetry).
Man should come out of his own surroundings and think about
other elements of nature,
is a woman in love with me.
She dances for me till
the awaking of dawn.
And continues her seduction till
the sunset of my life.
All things have many names,
and most I do not know,
and most I cannot say.
And though this truth will never change —
a few beside infinity is none —
even stacked rocks in the desert
can shade out our blazing sun.
Two mirrors were quarreling which
one was the most beautiful
and which can be sold
with the most interesting price
The dust rises from my steps
The barbed wire’s rust
Is the organ of the barbarian wind
What is done here in sadness
There is done in joy
It is from here that I leave
The evening Kathmandu had gone sombre
Wide streets were suddenly narrowed
Falling were the marching tall Kalki trees
Concrete buildings were rising high
Kicking the heritage site
But silent and approving was Dharahara,
Being Quiet is a bliss or bane
It is up to you
Being Quiet Keeps you away from mental strain
It is up to you.
Where and when in time am I ! why
here and now ,
Popular myth called religion still reigns blasé
We are all mystified stupefied groping in the dark,
Dogma is a poor story and it’s not my story.
Like the hunter gatherer of old with none to show the path,
Entering the forest with trodden paths a hundred,
His experiences can’t be codified or factored to social
Scientific research is in paradigm shift radically changing
You can agree or disagree to agree , you can repulse,
Be baffled or be in doubt and total refuse,
A new revolution is happening in many prime labs,
Be aware , learn to change or be in denial staying at the edge.
Computers will disappear and yet be , they can now self
Communicate we will with our minds not dawdle,
Brain-net & exoskeletons controlled by our mind,
We will upload memories use Telepathy and telekinesis .
Technology is in acceleration though our intuition stays
Our thoughts are still one to two or thousand to two thousand .
These are days of miracles and wonders beyond common
From the first telescopes now resolution enough to see a candle
lit on the moon.
Dr Raji Menon
a broken willow branch
& her blue eyes
walk with us
our time collapsed
a route from here to there
visions of a land
denuded of history
leaving only parted lips
a gone song
pollen for bees
what’s the manifest
leaves and light
cruck and book
and cradle cradle
at the gate
this is the way of it
war after war
round coastal concrete
Castle Garden of Water Beyond
the night sky
women are singing
a last song stolen from time
what is the ground
Dalmeny, Long Green
Keep silent they call you stupid.
Speak to the moment precisely,
they say indiscrete
or too wordy.
Stand close to those you serve, impulsive.
Keep to yourself, timid.
Calm they call cowardice,
decisive acts, poor breeding.
The dharma of serving the state is a dark mystery.
can’t understand it.
I can please a man who
a specialist is just as easy.
But the man disfigured with a sliver of truth
not even Brahma
can talk to.
Prajāpati stirred up the wind,
food for snakes
harmless and easily had.
Wild animals chew plants,
they sleep on the ground with ease.
For humans he made
a different way—
designing our spirits to cross
samsara’s stormy froth.
Go that way.
It is a matter of
My judgment dried up.
What did I not say to advance
this little life,
worth about a drop of sap
on a bisinī leaf?
In front of rich folk,
their minds made stupid by all that wealth,
I shamelessly talked
about my own
POEMS OF BHARTRIHARI (7th century, Sanskrit)
Translated by Andrew