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      'If you ask a poet," What good is it? I mean, what earthly good is it?" you may get an answer like Marianne Moore's "I, too, dislike it," or W.H. Auden's "Poetry makes nothing happen." The modern poet is not likely to make grandiose claims for his craft. And we shall try not to betray that honest and tough-minded attitude. Poetry is essentially a game, with artificial rules, and it takes two- a writer and a reader- to play it. If the reader is reluctant, the game will not work...'

                                                                                                                        - Nancy R. Comley, in 'Elements of Poetry', in Elements of Literature (Oxford:OUP,1982)


        Poetry as a game: hardly the romantic and lofty vision of verse that many associate with verse. Yet I do not  undermine the power of verse. I just think that the 'artifice' behind a poem is as attractive as its evocative imagery, haunting themes and lilting diction. The observation of a poet's craft makes poetry reading so enjoyable for me.
        Perhaps that is why I enjoy writing, although I seem to have more periods of inspirational drought than poetic fecundity. Of course, I shall have no arrogant self dillusionment of my ability, although I try and experiment just for the fun of it. 

        Here, I would like to share with the world my little attempts at poetry. Whether it is an impulse of the egotistical self I do not know, but I thought that since this webpage was made so that people can get to know me better, spilling my literary guts out for scrutiny is a good way to do it.


My first 'proper' foray into poetry writing was sparked off by a lovely little gift from a girl in school; a brown booklet of recycled paper wrapped in those coloured tissue wrappers which are getting more popular in stationery shops. On the paper, she scrawled Shelley's 'The Sensitive Plant'. With that I resolved to pen my 'best' thoughts into those brown pages. So, at least now, 4 years later, it is still very clean, very neat, very empty. The first piece of verse well reflects my inclinations towards nature and its related themes and subjects. Some might call regular rhyme and versification antiquated, but I don't really care :-).

THE LEAF

On the 27th of June 1995, I woke up feeling very bright and fresh and very aware of the golden morning that was outside the window. Perhaps that was the closest I got to a sudden moment of inspiration, because suddenly I was full of words and jumped out of bed, pulled out the booklet, and wrote steadily, with little pauses, a descriptive ode to the morning. It is, of course, most trite and derivative, but it is a perfect example of how writing with little consideration and contemplation can turn out. Nevertheless, even as I deride it (to save my face perhaps), it is a fond memory, that morning, because no other such mornings have come my way so far.

UNTITLED (ODE TO THE MORNING?)

Here is a little favourite of the time, 4th of May 1997, because it was written while I was in the army; surely the locale couldn't have been conducive!

'IN THE DARKNESS I SEE A SPARK'

About the rain, and its effects on one who craves it.

THE BIG RAIN

I was getting rather fond of this poetic form; it became instinctive to restrict myself to fourteen lines (For what? I wonder now). I had to check myself, of course, and question if the use of the form was justified. This poem is rather indulgent; as was typical of that period, it is more concerned with the sensual expression of an event, an experience.

MARCH 1998

This was for a friend; actually it was mostly for myself, to vocalise my guilt and perhaps to find release in working it out.

Its Amazing This Self of Yours (August 1999)

Something that came up while I was in the university library computer terminal. A discomfitting thought.

DEAR JANE_23 (March 2000)

Grey Morning (June 2000)
 

Outpourings after a strange afternoon tea that died a sudden death.

Thoughts of a Naive Man (March 2004)
 



A foray into something different.

BLINKING (September 1999)


BLACK WOOD (August 1999)
 
 



 Religious poetry has always figured in my writings; I would like to believe that I  write them as offerings to Him. If anything, I hope they reflect my spiritual attitudes and feelings of each period of my life.

An early attempt that betrays my 'antiquated' influences. Some may call it pretentious if they like.

METEOROLOGY (1995)
 

Written over a sermon; not a good thing to do.


 FALL  (October 1999)


  Something lost for awhile; recently found.


 YOU HAVE...  {? 2000}
 

A Cross Stick (2000)
 


The creative process has always been foremost in my mind regarding all forms of art. The observation of my output has yielded many insights about myself. Sadly, frustration and struggle is the most common reaction to the writing process. And so I seek paradoxical hope in negating dryness by writing about it!

BY CANDLELIGHT (August 1999)

STUCK (April 2000)

STONE (April 2000)


A more recent return to my pastoral roots which is really no return at all; I have left Ferngully somewhat.

I AM NOT A FLOWER (September 1999)

SONG (November 1999)