Category Archives: Forever

Resurfacing

TSky1

A poem by Terence Tuhinanshu

{ From poet’s  github page, Daily Verse, published on 07 Sep 2016}

 

“Can you breathe?” the man said.
“Yes, I think so,” I replied.
“You’re okay, it’s gonna be alright.”
He made my panic subside.

Once back on land, I realized
the man was me, inside my mind.
In the moment when I was almost lost
I found calmness of the warmest kind.

Trusting my capable instincts
is a gift of the highest order.
I trust my man will resurface
at every perilous border.

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Completing the Cycle

(Homage to Shri Kailash Nath Kaul by son Anupam & grand-daughter Shruti emphasizes rock-solid stature of Indian social system founded on spiritual thought)

Adieu!

His parents named him KAILASH. Neither of them lived long enough to see their eldest son live to that name, embodying every virtue that symbolizes lord Shiva, strength of character, tranquility in emotions, epitome of integrity, purity of thought and above all an infinite capacity to absorb and detoxify ill will whenever he encountered any.

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Born to be Free

Freedom was what she tasted with her first breath in this world so free.

Many ears anxious to hear, many eyes waiting to see.

Few in anxiety, few in curiosity, but all eager to know if it is HE or SHE.

And then spread the news of a new soul on earth,

Moments of gaiety but absence of glee.

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Grief of Gandhari

Siddhi T

Tears rolling down her puffed red eyes she asks, “Was the retribution so important, that lead to the brutal killing of my hundred sons?”

Refusing to leave the side of those severed bodies of her sons she says, “Though the world has abandoned them, branded them as epitomes of evil and even though they are dead I will do everything in my power to protect their bodies, the bodies which I gave birth to.”

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On food, work & Art

Complex, strange and uninspiring definitions of Art abound. To Camus a work of art is a confession, to Seneca imitation of nature. To Maugham it is expression of soul’s adventure; Lloyd Wright condemns ‘art for art’ as philosophy of the well-fed.  Marshal McLuhan finds advertising is the greatest art form while a contemporary thinker holds that Art begins where advertising ends. Yet, all of them attempt to define the dalliance of curious imaginative human spirit. Infinite museums, theatres, concert halls and libraries attempt to chart, evaluate and preserve it. Poets celebrate it in songs, potters in designs and painters through myriad moods of splashing colors.

Excerpt from O. Henry’s
A Service of Love

“My purchaser from Peoria,” said Joe, “and Gen. Pinkney are both creations of the same art–but you wouldn’t call it either painting or music.

And then they both laughed, and Joe began:

“When one loves one’s Art no service seems—” (..too hard)

But Delia stopped him with her hand on his lips. “No,” she said– “just ‘When one loves.'”

In any Indian city you can locate a busy street in its traditional bazaar known as Sarrafa. Sarrafa is group of jewelry shops (Sarraf ~ Jeweler) – some deal in finished goods, others trade in precious metals.

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Losing to Curation?

 

Banish? You couldn’t. Utilitarians, rationalists, fanatics and most kinds of men have railed against poetry for some reason or other. Followers have paled by its frailty; some mourned its demise. Like Hydra or Phoenix, it raises its head again and again.

Many fortunate ones are gloriously unaware of its existence; still more can conscientiously wave it off as immaterial to ‘life’. For those, who require a bit more than trivia to move them, attention is requested to following samplers:

Blast/Bless poems submitted to Tate Britain & Creative Review initiative, an ongoing exhibition.

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Grim’s Chore

A poem by Terence Tuhinanshu, from Lifetime

My time has come, dear boy
The time for me to die.
And quick and fast
And long at last
Life has passed me by.

Die, I must.
Not of age, no.
Nor of hunger, thirst or sorrow.
But for my frustration.
Old I may be, yet still a man
With fading dreams, drowsy desires
A far out field sub-station.

I never was as expected.
All my deeds should-have’s than well-done.
But at the lowest last few moments of my life,
How am I worse than anybody else?
We all share the same fate,
Being instances of the same group.

Life is wasted on an old man
And death too, I suppose.
Old men have to die. It is their purpose.
Were it not been so, even death would pass us by.
For nobody wants an old man
With expired solutions but evergreen problems.

I have known many friends
And lost every one.
And I said to myself each time
With exceptions none
‘The most we can do is walk alone in the moonlight…’

Well, the moon has set.
The stars have left
And the sun shall never come.
Darkness lies behind me, and darkness lies before me.
I sense the Grim come reluctantly closer as I feel my way through.
And now I wonder, flattered,
If indeed my life is worth bothering the Reaper?

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