A collection of all the poems written by yours truly.
You, and I
I trusted you with my life,
Body, mind, soul; all in your hands,
Never fathomed you as my strife,
Fireflies, a light of hope in this accursed night,
Crushed, without remorse, by your hands,
Died, in peace I was, in this accursed night,
Tortured, denied peace, awoken, by your hands,
Never fathomed you as my strife,
Curios, to know about you, was I,
Searched, shocked, realised that those were my hands!
I trusted myself with my life!
Mirror, a reflection of you, and of mine,
In the same body, with the same hands!
Never fathomed myself as my strife!
They call it schizophrenia, this case of you and I,
But why? Why would I with my hands?
If you trusted me with your life...
Why would I fathom your strife?!
Who am I?
I found myself in deep penance, once upon a time,
Wondering about where I am, and how things go by.
Looking into the mirror, from time to time,
Delving deep, through thoughts in my mind,
I always wondered-
“Who am I?”
Seemed like a question, rather incredulous,
But after a while, I realised this-
That all I am living in, was ignorant bliss!
And the whole world was a part of this!
The shining stars flickering in the moonlight,
In a sea of darkness, in a void of notingness,
Squinting my eyes to see through the night,
I wondered, “Is it really this?”
Haven’t you ever thought about this concept?
Who are we? Why are we here?
Haven’t you ever been curious about this concept?
The reason for our existence? The reason we are here?
The air we breathe, the tingling warmth of the sun,
The lush green trees, the pale blue sky,
Perception and nature being as one,
Throughout life, until we die.
The feeling of life, the feeling of control,
Freedom and experience,
Allurance, radiance and beauty galore!
What was the reason for this?
I pondered and pondered, wondered and thought,
As this unquenchable thirst seeped inside of me,
It was then that I pledged to find what brought,
This cause of existence, for us to be.
To this day however, this journey is perilious,
And I fear all is for naught.
But I cannot accept this ignorant bliss!
No not at all!
Until the day I reason my existence,
Until I quench my thirst for thought!
Until I give life a meaning for existence,
Until a definite reason isn’t brought!
I will always keep going on.
The joy of death
Stars shining, the dark night sky,
Tears sliding, on the pale skin dry,
Heart beating, hoping for respite,
Walking down the moonlit night.
Streams of silver, glimmering dawn,
A sight of allurance, of joy and beyond,
“Everything was perfect, everything was right,”
Walking down the moonlit night.
Restrain of abjection, grasp of discord,
Inner persistence, shallow like a ford,
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide,
Rustling of wind, the dark night sky,
Sharp searing pain, blood stains dry,
Heart ceasing, finally in respite,
Walking down the moonless night.
Darkness and gloom, never-ending sleep.
Brightness and joy, everlasting peace.
In Memory Of the Great Banyan Tree(Based on a true story)
My father told the tenants to leave
Who lived on the houses surrounding the hill
One by one the structures were demolished
Only our own house remained and the trees
Trees are sacred my grandmother used to say
Felling them is a crime but he massacred them all
The sheoga, the oudumber, the neem were all cut down
But the huge banyan tree stood like a problem
Whose roots lay deeper than all our lives
My father ordered it to be removed.
The banyan tree was three times as tall as our house
Its trunk had a circumference of fifty feet
Its scraggy aerial roots fell to the ground
From thirty feet or more, so first they cut the branches
Sawing them off for seven days and the heap was huge
Insects and birds began to leave the tree;
And then they came to its massive trunk
Fifty men with axes chopped and chopped
The great tree revealed its rings of two hundred years
We watched in terror and fascination this slaughter
As a raw mythology revealed to us its age
Soon afterwards we left Baroda for Bombay
Where there are no trees except the one
Which grows and seethes in one’s dreams, its aerial roots,
Looking for the ground to strike.
Walks around Suzy, with,
Little heels, she was in,
But then she, tripped and fell,
Failed like this, poet who,
Seeping through the welkin, radiant sunshine,
Pouring from the heavens, like a silvering waterfall,
Passing through the sill, into the house mine,
Causing me the wonder, of nature and fall;
Painful striking wind, like a tornado threatening all,
The world all around, golden, beautiful, scenic,
But then came down snow, a blanket covering all.
Mother Nature caring, for a child who was sick.
Snow and ice all around, as hard as a brick,
But then rose up Sun, as mighty as a king,
Rays of life and healing, melting the snow thick,
Joy and allurance galore, as came forth spring.
I waver back to reality, through sheer fortitude,
All I have in this wasteland, is the bliss of solitude.
Kites soaring high in the blue azure sky,
N ights with darkness, gloom, sadness go by,
Onwards, like a mighty eagle, rises the sun,
World, all around me, so mysterious and fun,
Live as I, through this time, I always brood,
Everything around me is compiled in a book,
Donning a wonderful imagery, for future generations,
Going forward, as they are, to the path of interpretations,
Even when we die,our wisdom, immortal, is alive.
The Festival of Lights.
The Festival of Lights,
A day replete with jubilance,
Sweets and delicacies,
With opportunities to dress dashingly,
Children, excited about holidays,
Adults, hoping for respite and
Elderly, appreciating memories.
From dusk to dawn the,
Is painted, in radiant colours.
Symbolizing the celebrations.
Quelquefois je pense,
quel vais-je faire, aujourd’hui?
combien de peuples,
vais-je renconter aujourd’hui?
je ne voulois pas,
je vais être là!
Là, une surface, où,
je vais être hereuse,
je vais être, vraiment,
dans pays de mervellieux!
je voulois renconter,
dans mon esprit...
I think your first two poems are particularly promising. Although in "You, and I" seems to be implying that schizophrenia is like multiple personalities disorder (a.k.a. dissociative identity disorder). Usually in schizophrenia, people will be subject to delusions and may hallucinate hearing voices or seeing people and things that aren't there. Still, this is a nise poem. "Who am I?" reminds me of the poetry of Walt Whitman-- not so much in the style, but in the themes on the nature of life and the universe. If you are going to use a rhym scheme I'd advise you revise some of the rhyms to avoid any awkward phrasing. Still, this is all very nice and you should definitetly keep writing poetry.
Yes, I wasn't really paying attention to the lines in 'who am I?' Just wanted to get forth my ideas, but I want to try and rewrite it properly now with the same theme. Thanks, I'll go through the poems of Walt Whitman then, really love these philosophical type of poems
Aw man, I completely messed up the meaning of schizophrenia! I thought it was a synonym for disassociative personality disorder.
Anyway, thank you for reading everything :)
You're welcome. Good luck with your writing. Whitman's stuff is interesting, even though he sometimes he does overdo his lists at times.