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Prose and poetry

While prose limits, posits, pretends,
To narrow mundane meaning binds,
Fails to touch heart’s deepest core,
Frozen snow blocking freedom’s shore,
Fails when to explore new crests, finds
No rainbow shades, comes to dead ends,
We know why caveman chose to sing
Ere used speech communicating.

Yet, today’s cut-and-dry world speaks—
Prose to touch base, a mundane need,
Poems to reach rarefied peaks,
Oft failing still poorly indeed,
Whilst imitating a dull prose,
The rose forgets when it is rose.
This unusual sonnet is set in tetra metre. The
octave is rhymed: abccbadd, and the sestet
- Sonnets | 05.09.12 |
Aniruddha Pathak

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Evil ways are nine

If whoso fights should sure suffer defeat,
Naught is worth fighting o’er in this tired earth,
If there’s naught worth opposing, retreat,
To fight for one’s view is an idle mirth,
Like shadow fighting with a mirror’s beam,
A mere image that mimics at one’s own!
The world is good to good in world’s esteem,
Evil, the world has the worst never known.

We are taught: let not the light of lamp die,
There scarce is but one way should one walk out,
The darkling night ends to light up the sky,
Pleasure past pain, life pointing to death’s doubt;
Yet, wisdom of all books lives in one line:
The right way winds but one, wrong ways are nine.
This sonnet is inspired by a shloka (a quatrain) in Mahabharata
as under:
Shlokaardhena pravakshyaami yaduktam grantha-kotibhih |
Paropakaara poonyaaya paapaaya para-peedanam ||
- Sonnets | 12.09.12 |
Aniruddha Pathak

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We and all else

Countless creatures repair back to Death’s door
Day in and out, and yet those naught yet feign
To feel, they hail from heaven’s deathless shore;
What can be stranger still, oh, what more vain?
Men think so since thousands of years and ere,
Here in this vainest world, and heretofore,
This gulf, ah, ‘we and them’, that ‘we are rare’—
Yet, Time digests us all right to the core.

‘We’ shall rise high ‘pon angel’s soaring wings,
Evil else, hell-bound, shall grow horns on head,
The ill within us scarce to our core clings,
An alien’s smallest sin is gruesome red.
Strange, we and them sons be of the same sun,
Yet, they hell should suffer, we high heaven!
In Mahabharata (Vana Parva) , Yama, the Lord of Death,
disguised as Yaksha, a strange creature, asks Yudhishthir,
known for his righteousness and dharma: What is so
strange in this world? (See the exact verse below) . His
reply is rendered in the first four lines of this sonnet.

ahani ahani bhootaani gacchanti iha yama aalayam |
sheshaah sthaavaram icchanti kim aashcharyam atah param ||
- Vana Parva 313.116 ||
- Sonnets | 03.10.12 |
Aniruddha Pathak

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The mirage

Man’s search for freedom finds few fruits for long,
Long as in deep fear of freedom he is,
When out of tune he sings liberty’s song,
For, freedom’s not bequeathed as heaven’s bliss;
Man may oft find cosy a prison wall,
As warm and safe feels loving heart’s bondage,
Comes freedom calling when a duty’s call,
Man’s conscience in conflict while in cage,
The seeker seems in no search for few more
Roses reared with thorns of old memory,
Nor yet oases at desert’s dry shore,
And oft too tall a task makes him weary.

All my search seeks today is a couplet,
To end my quest and rest snug with sonnet!
- Sonnets, Tongue-in-cheek | 07.08.11 |
Aniruddha Pathak

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