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"Herein lies my heart exposed; My soul as bare as it could be;
My thoughts all pure and all real- herein lies the real me."
Terrorism...war...bloodshed...these have always angered me, saddened me and made me thoughtful of philosophies of life. This poem was written in just another instance of such a mood.
It was the August Bank holiday and I went for a three day trip from London to Scotland. I was so impressed by its natural beauty that I did what any poet would do. Read on. This is one of the most popular ones among my friends.
A colleague forwarded me a mail with an inspiring story. I rewrote the same story as a poem and here it is.
Simple situation: I was working on a project that looked hopelessly jinxed. My team and I needed some good inspiration, and out flowed this poetry.
This poem came after an Interview I had attended. The interviewer asked what I wanted to be in life. Well, I gave him some standard answers (no wonder), but started to reflect on that question later on that day. This poem paraphrases some of my aspirations- in fact my ambitions- of how I want to lead my life.
It was a particularly cold night and I was returning home from work- warm and cosy from my jacket and shoes. While waiting for my bus, I noticed a few beggars who had made the footpath their home for the night. It made me feel rather sad that so many millions like them spend their winters on cold footpaths and torn clothes. I wrote this in that emotion soon after I reached home.
This was written on one of those reflective moods that silent solitude so often induces. It was the middle of night, and my mind got all philosophical thinking about the virtues and vices of rest versus work. Sleeping under the open sky is a wonderful experience (minus the mosquitoes, of course). I actually wrote this poem in the dim light from the moon and other luminar sources in the street- being a studious student has the advantage that a pen and notebook are never too far. Not even in the middle of night.
It was exam time- second year, fourth semester of my Engineering. There were five days between the previous exam and the next one. Now, Metallurgy was a subject I was supremely confident I could score well so I basically loafed off the five days instead of studying. When I looked at the question paper, it dawned on me that the answers were vaguely familiar but not familiar enough. That was the first and last time I ever flunked in a paper- the lesson was learnt. I wrote this as soon as I came home from the exam hall.
I had watched scores of men labour to build a luxurious hotel in the heart of the city. It then occured to me that these people will never be able to enter it after the inauguration ceremony. Imagining myself to be one of the masons working on the building, I wrote the following.
This was written in a rather reflective mood, thinking about poetry. There isn't a story or occasion to act as a reason for this poem. It just came, and I just wrote. Just like that.
I had realized pretty early in life that "we are responsible for everything that happens in our life". And most of the time, things don't work out because our dreams were big, but our plans were small. Our aspirations were high, but our resolve was weak. This poem was a lesson from my heart to my mind to be careful of how it planned for my life.
Someone I knew, and who lived near us, had a scandalous affair with a girl from our impoverished neighbourhood. The episode, which culminated in him getting beaten up and fleeing the street, made me realise that I too had entered a stage in life where I was an easy prey to temptations of all kind. It looked like I needed some divine help to be able to lead a chaste, yet cherishable life. Hence the poem.
It wasn't the first time I read this masterpiece by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Neither was it the first time I was moved by it. The inspiration had built up over the years till the following verse of appreciation came about.
I was always (I still am) angered by the vices I see among ourselves. The realization that our all the blessings we received from God are being used for satanic purposes made me sad and angry. The following poem is one that I wrote during one such bout of anger against some quarrelsome neighbours.
1993 saw a devastating earthquake in Maharashtra-Karnataka border that killed thousands. A newspaper photograph stirred my emotions- A silently wailing mother sat on the ruins of her home and in front of her, covered in a saree, was the dead body of her little son. The scene made tears flow from my eyes and the following verse from my pen.
As I grew into latter teens, one philosophical thought that filled my mind was about my identity- my place among the billions on the planet. My fears told me I was a nobody- small and fragile. My ego told me that I was great. My humility tried to teach me that I was better than some, but there were others better than me. I thus learnt that I am just another 'Common Man'.
Many Indians remember 1993 as the year when Bombay burnt. The communal riots were probably the worst in the history of the city. This poem stemmed from the anger at propogators of such mindless violence and frustration that I am too small in the grand scheme of things to be able to do anything about it. This poem was a summon to the hero asleep in me who, I hoped, could bring peace to the world. It won me a special prize at Hollywood's Famous Poets' Society, but failed to stir this 'hero'. The idiot still sleeps.
I hardly write long verses, but this is the shortest. Also, most of my poetry has an unmistakable rhyme- a style that I sometimes forego in favour of poetic freeflow.
Ok. Ok. Poets are prone to over-reacting. I had read in the newspaper about something (I don't exactly remember) that showed how self-centered people can get. The following poem was a result of that 'anger'.
During my 12th standard, I was POOR in maths. However, I realized that I need to get better if I had to get into Engineering or else I will be filtered out in the entrance exam- a place where the Darwinian notion holds sway like nowhere else.
Typical mid-teen frustration. I found that I am clearly not a kid anymore and was a tad scared of growing up not knowing what life had in store for me. The following verse came straight from that confused teenager's concerned heart.
Please note that I was only 14 years and a few months old when I wrote this- my first "recorded" poem.