Poetic Masterpiece

Poetic Masterpiece: A Childbirth Of Profundity.
Like delivery of Divine Revelations 
which favours calmness of wilderness;  
It's brought forth in Creative-Glory-Of-Solitude:  
an abode of Enlightenment in whose mirror of grace,  
purest passions reflect out from shady reality —
to gratify inflamed curiosity of Inward-Eye,  
as it wanders around source of enchantment,  
seeking in expanded awareness to capture
the essence of a phenomenon shrouded in mystery.

Duino Elegies: The First Elegy

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.

A Father To His Son

A father sees his son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?
'Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.'
And this might stand him for the storms
and serve him for humdrum monotony
and guide him among sudden betrayals
and tighten him for slack moments.
'Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy.'
And this too might serve him.
Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.

A Poet - 01

I call him a poet
Who beautifies his loneliness
Sitting all alone
In the dark.

Who has stopped
To compare with
The hills of status,


My fancies are fireflies, —
Specks of living light
twinkling in the dark.

The voice of wayside pansies,
that do not attract the careless glance,
murmurs in these desultory lines.

In the drowsy dark caves of the mind
dreams build their nest with fragments

Daffy Duck In Hollywood

Something strange is creeping across me.
La Celestina has only to warble the first few bars
Of "I Thought about You" or something mellow from
Amadigi di Gaula for everything--a mint-condition can
Of Rumford's Baking Powder, a celluloid earring, Speedy
Gonzales, the latest from Helen Topping Miller's fertile
Escritoire, a sheaf of suggestive pix on greige, deckle-edged
Stock--to come clattering through the rainbow trellis
Where Pistachio Avenue rams the 2300 block of Highland
Fling Terrace. He promised he'd get me out of this one,

(1) A Friendship Bridge

You made me love the teachings of Tagore.
My thoughts were mesmerized by your sitar.
I kept the little flowers from India,
Artfully pressed to span a century.

Creative journeys never really end.
Our era is a lamp that still burns on.
I send some thoughts like flowers overseas
Their fragrance will outlast both you and me.


This was its promise, held to faithfully:
The early morning sun came in this way
Until the angle of its saffron beam
Between the curtains and the sofa lay,

And with its ochre heat it spread across
The village houses, and the nearby wood,
Upon my bed and on my dampened pillow
And to the corner where the bookcase stood.

Galaxy Of Poetry

On that dark night when I was not able to sleep
When I wanted to escape from this earth
to a different galaxy..  I flew high and landed in this galaxy of poetry
Where I am happy and more satisfied than ever before
I saw lots of glittering and shooting stars
Illuminating my Darkest night
Some are glowing like sun and rendering
warmth to brighten my day
Each one is unique in their writings
The wonderful poets who cherish my life

Can Never Reach On Top

I can never reach on the top,
Many road blocks and stop,
Climbing difficult on high slope,
But still efforts more with attempts nonstop,

I am amused but is a fact,
Unhealthy competition for retaining position intact,
It is ploy, calculated and revised tactics,
Retaining position with clear statistics,


Love is a Beautiful Sweet Feeling
Love is Caring and Sharing
Love is Forever, True Happiness
Love is Sunshine, Rain; Rainbow

Love is Affection, Admiration, Adoration
Love is Bonding and Binding
Love is the Strongest Emotion
Love is Devotion and Dedication

Dirty Game

Dirty game

Blaring voice and strong signal came
Message from boy aging 9 for playing game
What game early in the morning dear son?
My uncle/auntie has wished you chase and run

You are so small and playing on somebody’s behalf, I said
“Not thinking of even your better half
You are supporting your poems on other’s name

Angel Or Demon

You call me an angel of love and of light,
A being of goodness and heavenly fire,
Sent out from God's kingdom to guide you aright,
In paths where your spirits may mount and aspire.
You say that I glow like a star on its course,
Like a ray from the alter, a spark from the source.

Now list to my answer; let all the world hear it;
I speak unafraid what I know to be true:
A pure, faithful love is the creative spirit

Elegy I

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.

Dream Land

Wonderful and creative imaginary land
No proof or evidence of anybody’s hand
Happiness all over with beautiful friends
Not to invade, not to venture and not to end

Only place where no restriction applied
Happiness in abundance always supplied
Nothing at stake and no distress call replied
Truth everywhere and nothing to be lied

The Macaroni Necklace

Lynzie Anne Mc Kenzie was a very creative girl,
She made a macaroni necklace for her teacher Mrs. Pearl.
'It's the dumbest gift I've seen! ' Laughed little Tony Maloney,
'Nobody wants a necklace made from macaroni! '
'Stupider than Jupiter' said Tony with a smirk.
But Lynzie just ignored him cause she knew he was a jerk.
Oh Mrs. Pearl just loved it and she wore it every day,
Then she bought a matching bracelet and earrings in late May.
Soon people came from miles around to buy what Lynzie made,

! My Muse

It is your company in solitude I treasure,
Those are the imaginative moments of pleasure;
I long to be within your majestic universe ever,
To seek the creative bliss beyond measure;

Everyday I find time in the midst of my schedule,
Waiting for you whole day, one or the other will ridicule;
You appear slowly with an exclusive veil of silence,
Disappearing with the pin dropp impatience;

Poetic Sense -1 (Translation)

Although the human mind has been divided into conscious, subconscious and unconscious today, yet the man had already been existing and his mind, too. Freud was of the view that he did not exactly invent the idea of unconscious mind because poets and philosophers were already familiar with it. He said that he had only presented its theory in psychological terms. According to Freud, the poetry comes into existence on account of regression and sublimation of unsatisfied longings. On regression of these conscious desires, the subcoscious and uncoscious minds apparently become symbols of sabotage but on sublimation they transform into creative subconscious and creative uncoscious respectively. It is either as the peaceful use of neuclear energy or as to irrigate the far flung barren lands from a large dam. When Plato said that even an expert of Poetic Technique could not create great poetry without intuitive insanity, he wanted to say that the poet could not depend on his conscious mind only because the source of superior creations is afterall the unconscious, the backyard of mind. Since then people have been considering the poets to be abnormal. You may call it insanity or licentiousness or poetic spell or revelation or intuition or poetic inspiration. On the other hand, a genius who is also seen at the last footstep of conscious, mostly depends upon his intuition. Therefore he is also considered to be abnormal. A litrary genius seldom turns to be normal but as a human being his best creative faculties operate during the most normal moments of his life. These are intellectual moments indeed. The analysis of revelation or intuition shows that it operates in two modes. In first mode, a totally untouched thought steps into conscious all of a sudden. It is usually considered similar to electric lightning. Therefore poets, mistics, even scientists, all are aware of it. While the second mode is more common which is also understood by people having non creative mind. This is called productive thinking and it is placed second to intuition. For example, a forgotten name or face or event comes into conscious suddenly during half-asleep. The first mode is related to unconscious while the second mode is related to subconscious. The subconscious is more important in both. In first mode, the unconscious is raised upto the level of subconscious. While in the second mode subconscious is itself a source of information. First mode is usually named as Poetic Inspiration while second as Poetic Imagination. A stream of thoughts begins to flow from subconscious towards conscious in both modes. Where in a trance-like state, the creator and his creation become two peas in a pod. At the end of the process when he observes his creation for the first time, it is no more a part of his subjective process but now he studies it objectively and makes modifications and additions in it. Thus he observes his creation as its first listener and critic, and tries to analyse what he has listened during intuition. In the first mode creative unconscious is responsible for the subjective process and creative conscious is resposible for the objective one. Likewise in the second mode creative subcoscious is responsible for the subjective process and creative conscious is responsible for the objective one. The creative conscious comes into existence by mastering the Poetic Technique. In fact, the functions of creative unconscious, creative subconscious, and creative conscious are so intercombined that they can not be isolated from one another. They are collectively known as Poetic Sense. In general terms Poetic Technique, Poetic Imagination and Poetic Inspiration are collectively called Poetic Sense.

Original Soup Of Life

Tell me, how can six feet of DNA get wound up inside a nucleus that is measured in microns?

How can so much thread get unspooled without tangling? And how does it get wound up again like a hawser?

How does DNA in a chromosome get so packed into coils and supercoils that it becomes like a big biocrystal?

When the cell needs a certain segment of coding, how does the double helix unzip to the right place?

Before the cell divides, the DNA must be copied. How can the helix possibly unwind at 100 rpm during the duplication?

I Feel Proud

I feel elated and so proud,
Creative work speak so loud,
I accepted it as simple food,
Something to think and deliver the good,

You feel burdened when heavily taxed,
Evening at home with body relaxed,
Solution in sight with problem waxed,
Junior get promotion when senior axed,