Tag Archives: philosophical

Attributed to Hieronymus Bosch

      Attributed to Hieronymus Bosch


When all there is
is gone
and all that ever was
is no more,
There will be only empty faces
weeping tears that flood
from lidless eyes
staring into a void
that was our tomorrow;
and tomorrow
whose hours will never strike
whose pain we will never feel
nor disappointments endure,
there will be only tongueless mouths
screaming a truth
that we can no longer hear
when all is gone.

You dead or what?

You dead or what?


“There are the dead and those who claim to be dead”,
he opined;
“For someone who’s supposed to be
 dead you seem to be doing a lot of
moving around”,
he said arching an eyebrow;
“Not that I would question your right 
to identify as dead”,
his lips dripping with irony;
“Merely that your present vivacity
doesn’t immediately convey to others
an impression that you are indeed dead”.
Hearing this mortophobic prejudice,
the one identifying as dead slid back
into the coffin muttering,
they’d wait until someone sympathetic
to their lifestyle choice comes along.

Cadenza

                 Cadenza

And what have I made of life ?
What have I understood if anything at all?
I think therefore I am is just plain wrong,
I “do” therefore I am is much closer to the mark for me;
So what have I made of life ?
What has mine been other than that
which it is and was always going to be,
a Cadenza-
” a technically brilliant sometimes improvised solo passage toward the close of a concerto.”
almost done then ?
soon,
but not just yet

Potato & The Duke

“I don’t recognise that potato!

what is it doing here?”

enquired the perfumed Duc de Charlatan

with ineffable aristocratic mien;

To disturb the quotidian equilibrium

of this pastoral mise-en-scene

with the inclusion of an errant vegetable,

was in the Duc de Charlatan’s estimation

an inexcusable faux-pas traducing

countless centuries of natural order

and its attendant requisite deference;

To impugn the ethereal harmony

of form,subject and proportion

in such a profane manner according,

that is,to his Excellency,

necessitates the perpetrator of this act

once apprehended be subject to

the full penalties that the Law allows,

which the Duc de Charlatan opined,

requires,

“Death!”.

Philosopher Trees

Philosopher Trees

Trees are the living-ones, they have
Their hearts and souls, the souls
Which reverberate love in the hearts
Of philocalists, the philocalist owls.

They see, they sing, the hear, they taste,
And they sense our senses in true sense,
They are makers; they make poets,
Obliqueness is their beauty, and fragrance.

Winds are their messengers, their lovers
Are flutterbies, bees and we, the poets,
Every leaf that falls down reverberates her
Sonnet, ballad of life, and odes.

The last leaf tells her story and
Acompanies her friends- in the stack,
They tell their ballads to wandering winds
And winds sing it to buds and bees.

The ballads must be set in autumn archive,
O, poet jagdish, the philosophy must be alive.

The Wind: An Extreme Instance

The Wind: An Extreme Instance

What is the wind? -a flow in many forms, What the bards have call’d thee
All are their melodious evergreen songs, As a philocalist I see the wind in me.

Wind, a divine secret agent of the almighty, Invisibly roaming over seas, soils and nature For tidings of the colourful world slightly,
And the deeds, white and black of the creatures.

Wind, a messanger, takes the messages fairly
Of innumerable flowers’ fragrances,
Sweetness of fruits, melodies of bird-songs, tastes of poetry, And to the peasants love of animals’ disturbances.

Wind, a bondage of love and peace
Amongst the diverse hearts of its creatures,
And for a painter, wind is a moving picture
Oaf far-fatch’d fields, blue skies and solitary seas.

Wind, a wander’r rolling up the fallen leaves With her into the spelly paths making sound,
A Sufi singer; the song of herself can be listen’d In a loud silence all around.

Wind, a great saviour, a transparent shelter,
Creatures, all the three, are under her absent presence, They find haven in heaven of the lady defender,
The wind is wind, an extreme instance.

Now

Now

is forever,

now forever,

the long wait

of disappointed days

appointed

to be afar off

and away;

out of reach

of our grasp

that flails forlornly

in the air

striking at

shimmering

apparitions

that were never here

never real

in the now;

that forever now

that finds us

flailing

with outstretched

mendicant hands

grasping at pity

for pity’s sake,

until the shimmering itself

stops,

and we awake

from dreamless dreams

and sleepless sleep

staring agape

at

where we were

and are

in the now,

forever

Vanishing Point

Far,far away

in some distant place

past some vanishing point

on a horizon pan-caked flat

indivisible from the sky,

here we are

here we wander,

around and around

wondering

how we’ve come to be

here;

newly arrived somehow

at a place beyond

the Vanishing Point

where earth becomes sky

and sky itself,

we see now

even thro’ the glass darkly

all before us

the parallax view.