If you decide to go

Please, if you decide to go,
tell me nothing; but wait
until the buried love
is lost to time and things.
For how shall a man live
knowing that his sun
has escaped his universe;
to what shall he look
for hope and direction?
Without you, my passion
shall lie dormant, and so
will my being be sluggish –
a total dispirited existence.

The toys of childhood

Once, I found a remote in the lonely attic;
I aimed it at everything and clicked,
clicked, clicked – but nothing happened.
Then I turned the dingy toy around,
and saw a red little button warning
of danger. Because I was a young boy,
clueless about the world and wanting
only to discover its secrets, I pressed it.
And behold, in a bright, startling flash,
a beam of ardent green, greener
than the traffic light that says “Go”.
Then I remembered watching a show
where the good guys and bad guys
fought each other using these same
glowing, magical swords. I gawked.

On the fire spent

If by some chance they come back for us,
and throw down a rope that can carry
only one; promise me you’ll go first –
before the rocks begin to shudder, and the entrance
close like the wings of a giant moth.
There is still fire in your eyes,
and the world will much better off
having you alive. Give light to the cities;
go forth and become everything
you have ever wanted to be.



So hasty has the passionate man been,
That he took all his passions and turned them
into a medley of words; hoping, by this bold move
to pierce the icy exterior and reach the rubicund orb.
But little did he know, so blinded by passion and a love
for lyricism, that not all are lovers of the same things.
And thus, his medley, though thoughtful in ways,
did nothing to vanquish the yawning distance,
nor anything to soothe the undying passion.

Because everything seems to be about “practicality”

I can nearly envisage a future
where things of the truest pleasure
are reluctantly forgone so that we may
pursue what is more relevant to this day
and age, and not be encumbered by a knowledge
that society does blindly fail to acknowledge.

It is a future where most will gladly convene
as wrought parts of a purposeless machine.

Discovery of the human life, the limits of thought
and the truth about everything will be brought
down to the measly field of a nighttime hobbyist,
and there till the end of time it shall subsist
in stifling solitude, never allowed the chance
to explore beyond its naive surficial glance.

Art, too, in both images and words, is not spared.
In the harsh, cold climate it is indifferently bared.
No sooner will it freeze and be buried deep
beneath the ice; where it shall, unnoticed, sleep
until someone realizes the ridiculous humdrum
of society’s mechanical strum,
and then seeks to unearth, like an eager archeologist,
what society had so ignorantly dismissed.

I am not looking forward to that dismal future.

The gramp’s

Because I have just finished decorating my About page, which I have procrastinated for such a long time, and am now exhausted and wordless, I shall borrow a cheap, paltry poem I wrote about a year back. Pardon it if it fairs terribly for I have never had any proper experience in poetry. I have read poems, certainly, Marvell and Wordsworth being some of my favourites, and I have tried before to mimic their style or replicate their work (high ambitions I know) but alas, failed almost abysmally.

On a lifeless lane

Stands a house, dark and marooned,

guarded by a lamp

whose filament has resigned.

The gates swing open

with a centennial creaking.

I enter the mouth

of the slumbering sloven

and immediately,

I am welcomed by a whiff,

stalish and sour.

Inside, the furniture rests

on spots depressed.

Dust and grime muffles the chime

of a longcase clock.

There, on a shelf sequestered

sits a picture frame;

An immortal vestige of

dear old gramp.

Of a Poem and Presentiments

I remember writing a poem about a friend to whom I was so infinitely close and with whom I had spent then such a great majority of my time. The poem was titled “How Can We Ever Remain?” and it went, in sheer fondness of couplets, as such :

How all this will be dearly missed
When our lives shall soon consist
Of necessary chores and suited bores,
Of blinding numbers and judicial laws.

Can we ever hope to remain
As playful deviants of the sane,
To speak a language that no other
Can ever hope to properly decipher?

We know that all must come to an end;
This night, this laugh, our whimsy plan
To enact a quizzical story, a comical scene
And nose-dive into an elysian gleam.

Ever wondered how life would be
If we were droplets separated by a sea,
Never once given a chance to meet
And never once would we feel incomplete?

Remain as we are, you’d dolorously implore;
As mirthful children parading on a radiant moor.
Yet, there is no certainty that we will remain
Forever this foolish, forever the same.

How all this will be dearly missed
By the young that will soon be dismissed.

Alas, we never remained the same. We hardly speak to each other now apart from the sparse times where we are occasioned to. And when we do meet, it would always seem as if there were some mighty force compelling us to act in a decorously banal manner rather than in the redolent childish one which had before brought us so much laughter and joy. It is a wonder how everything had converged to this unfortunate present when in fact I had written the poem with a supreme confidence that we would remain always as we had been; as those foolish, mirthful children that found in each other the utmost delight, humor, entertainment, companionship and love.

I thus began to wonder whether it was by calamitous chance that we now live so separate lives or whether it simply was I who had grown into a presentiment of my own making. I do not think it impossible that presentiments may hold sway over a person’s actions. It could well be that in writing down his fears of the future, a small part of himself concedes to the inescapable materialization of those fears, and outcome was, as it were, predestined. And whensoever anything marginally resembling a fibre of the feared contingency comes into being, that small part of himself grows ever larger; and like a tumor it shall soon consume him whole, inciting through paranoia and fear, actions that he otherwise would not have performed, and that would fulfill the dastardly prophecy which he had created for himself.

So perhaps, if I had never written such a poem, we might now still be the closest of friends, the truest of companions, and perhaps, some time this week, we might lament about the lives that are to come and earnestly promise each other that we will remain forever the same.

To M.