A Godly Descent

A Godly Descent

Guess, I wanted to be a god in my previous life!
I, a mere mortal fool, with the audacity
to desire an abode and everlasting peace
atop Mount Olympus, Kailash, Fuji, Sinai
or any other name one calls it in their mother’s tongue!

    

In the beginning, like a proper fool, I thought,
I was destined to become the winged god of Love,
until I saw, two things were missing from the scene –
the bow and those little, sweetly poisoned darts, dipped in
the wild passion that proudly runs through his fair mother’s veins!

   

If I must have a bow, I thought, why not the best,
so I set my eyes for Apollo’s golden one;
for the next while or two, it seemed to work – the pen
despite its sheer lack of potency came alive
until the very dream woke me up and muttered, good night!

    

Now I rule the fiery pits of hell, though not as Hades
but a mere mortal one, setting his future bed of nails,
still dreaming of a Prometheus unbound, to bring some light
unto the dark world and succeed where this mortal fool has failed!


 

Undeserving

Undeserving
Watch and Listen to a Reading of the Poem instead

 

Wreathe me not with a laurel worthy of
adorning the aureate Archer himself
or the peacock-throated saltating Destroyer!
I am a mortal, a mere one as well,
with wild dreams and a creative spark alright
but one who came after his proper time.
     
What else could I have been but a misfit,
a complete alien in the world today,
with so many shadows of the same God
fighting one another for mastery
of a caliphate or a promised land
or to secure the black gold from below?
     
What else could I have been but a rebel
or an outlaw in today’s societies,
with the multitude of wounds inflicted on
the face of the earth, carved with a child’s wit
and the Devil’s wickedness, to safeguard
the grand illusion of national pride?
     
With a million valleys cleft almost everyday,
each wider than those of the Mariner
and a billion fabricated lies to breed
violence and anarchy, what else could I have been
but a cruel Ice age, all encompassing
or annihilating all like a forest flame?
     
Or perhaps such a time will come again
(for History is famed to be repetitious),
when both the world and its inhabitants
will overcome the silly mutations
(mostly shortsighted amid a few that were gradual)
occurred in both their feeble bodies and minds,
during the second millennium, a mere fraction
of the span they have been on earth as humankind!
     
Though none of that would change a thing for me,
since then too I shall remain as undeserving
of any praise or compliment as I am now.
In fact, if my delirious predictions
are destined to be true, for coming way before
my due time I have reasons to pine even more!

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Paris

Paris
Watch and Listen to a Reading of the Poem by me.

 

How objective in choosing wrong or right
can a biological existence be?
Even for a unicellular life
there are things preferable to other things
and the more complex in structure one grows –
with each cell multiplying their own inheritance,
more complex and inherent one’s biases become!
  

If Paris in the age of bronze lusted for
wisdom instead of the luster of human skin,
the cornerstone of knowledge would have been
as varied as Apollo is to the Nordic Thor!
   

So are we each ignoble Paris beneath our skin
or a number without biased follies or a dream?

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A Fibonacci Mirror

A Fibonacci Mirror
This is my first attempt at the poetic form named after one of my favorite Mathematicians of all time. I hope you will be lenient with my mistakes! Thanks Dajena for introducing me to this, like so many other poetic forms!

    

When
An
Arrow,
Venom tipped
Flew toward me from
The chaos ahead, of existence,
I mistook it for Cupid’s but it was Apollo’s!  
Too swift it came and pierced my heart,
Soon my love was dead
And shortly
Then, so
Was
I!

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The Poison of Bacchus

The Poison of Bacchus

As the poison of Bacchus spreads through me,
each of the eyes in my heart opens up,
with their sight growing as keen as his pards’,
this world in its true color they can see!
   

O, for a draught of such ancient sweetness
even Phoebus would surrender his bow,
and be full of ecstasy from the taste,
without a single line of frown on his brow!
    

As I move away from the reality
on his chariot, poisoned and venomous,
the more I see through the world, I care less,
for was Judas ever greeted like a foe?
    

How sweet is to me what the poison does,
to have love songs woven with threads of woe!

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