Tag Archives: philosophical

Potato & The Duke

5 Replies

“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

5 Replies

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

5 Replies

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

9 Replies

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

7 Replies

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.

Predator

3 Replies

The hook lodges in the mouth
of the fish,
the fish thinks the hook is the
only problem,
thinks if it can only get rid of it,
then all will be well again
in its world;
But it is wrong…
The hook is attached to a line
which is attached to a rod
which is held by a hand
And the hand is controlled by
a mind,
a mind which has been waiting
and watching and plotting the best
time and place and method to
catch the fish;
And so the fish struggles
to free itself,
but all it manages to do
is to embed the hook deeper,
And as it continues to wriggle
and fight it uses up its
supplies of energy until it
is too exhausted to continue
and then its struggles cease;
And the hand senses it,
and begins to wind in the reel..

Eternity,interrupted.

2 Replies

In the beginning

when all has ended,

after the last vicissitudes

I encounter are rendered

null and void,

I’ll realise that the

journey is the destination

and mornings were never

my time of day,

much preferring the

early evenings of drinks before dinner

and a reverential contemplation

of sunsets in faraway places

I’d never been nor

would ever get to

in the time allowed,

when there was never enough

time allowed;

and so,

after much ado about nothing

with nothing more to say,

I find myself

at the end,

where everything begins.

Absence of Words

3 Replies

Where are they?

where are those words

that should have been

here…. and…. here…. and here,

all arranged in neat,

ordered lines?

Where are they?

those absentees who’ve

neglected their solemn duty

and have absconded into obscurity:

Meaning like wheat

cannot be harvested if

the page like the field

isn’t planted beforehand;

so, where are they?

for….now…… gaps

are…………. evident,

the….. words……. are

…….. too

…….. few.

Notes on the Limits of the Infinite

1 Reply

On the head of a pin

as we spin,spin,spin

in circling,circling circles

around around axis

turning axis around,

as we dance with angels

on the head of a pin;

swirling,swirling,whirling

in circles,circles turning

around around again

ceaselessly,

on the head of a pin

where we find ourselves

alone.