Mangalashtak

Auspicious day dawns, all are excited,

Arrangements are excellent, leaves everyone delighted.

Friendship culminates, into the marriage rite,

A new journey starts, towards a future bright.

Fortune smiles, on the newly wed,

They’re tied together, with the sacred thread.

Together they step, into a brand new life,

As the priest proclaims, them man and wife.

Caution best be exercised, on this journey new,

Strains are inevitable, so let’s gift Fevicol glue.

They’ll help each other grow, grow old by each’s side,

Buffered by love, they’ll take all in their stride.

Shubh, Mangal, Savdhan, all around them solemnly chant,

They remain happily married, is wish of every uncle and aunt.

A One Poem Wonder?

My failures don't define me, if no one publishes my book,

I'll simply post on my blog, and dangle on social media some hook. 

Lack of readers doesn't deter me, from pouring my heart each day,

I treat that as my personal therapy, to keep ennui at bay. 

 

My success won't define me, if my book is on the bestseller shelf,

It won't transform me overnight, I'll still be my old, next-door self. 

I'll take sweet time to write afresh, not drown in the weight of a sequel,

What the fans expect will shape it much -  I'll only write if I contribute equal. 

My mediocrity doesn't define me, I don't care if my poem imperfectly rhymes,

As long as it conveys my emotions, and shows a mirror to the existing times. 

I don't need to write on universal themes, I'm happy capturing the mundane,

There's beauty to be found in the ordinary, no puns or word plays are inane.

My genius shouldn't define me, I'm much more than my masterpiece,

I'm the drafts that came before it, and the variations that will never cease.

Surrounding Oneself

If you want to be a techie, go to Bengaluru or Silicon Valley,

Surround yourself with smart folks, not hide in a Tier II alley.  

The people you interact with daily, will set the tone for the day, 

You are the sum of five people, with whom you spend time, they say. 

 

If you want to be an artist, move to Paris or Milan, 

Mingle with the rustic countrymen, attend festival of Cannes.

As you get accepted in the fold, you'll start acting as one,

Co-create a new school of art- your initiation has begun.

 

If you want to be a philosopher, seek Himalayas, join a university,

Make books your friends for life, then you can reside in any city.  

When you live day and night, surrounded by people who are now dead,

You'll soon become like them, a brilliant thinker, and very well read.  

I just want to be human, where do I go and set camp?

Where hang the kind folks, who are humanity's champ.

Vision, Strategy, Culture

The vision is mesmerizing, to be the best,

Do not be evil, and in God leave the rest.

It inspires the onlookers, inspires rank and file,

Helps create impact, that will last a while. 

The mission is tangible, the how-to daily guide,

Analyze your competition, use strategy to decide.

As you plan your moves, account for prisoner's dilemma,

To win keep adapting, its a proven lemma.

 

The culture is phenomenal, you're a great place to work,

There's acceptance for everyone, even rebels & comrades lurk.  

It's one big and happy family, with fun and lavish offsites,

People swear by your culture deck, that the average Joe cites.  

Culture, strategy, vision; economics eats all three for all three meal,

When markets go in recession, you lay off people, whats the big deal.

My View

Let's zoom out a little, move from the dance floor to the balcony, 

We toil for it on a daily basis, but there's more to life than money. 

I know you love your work, take pride in the day's nitty gritty,

Having a purpose makes the life bearable, makes it easy, peasy, pretty. 

 

Sometimes though it may happen, you lose sight of your goal,

And being on the top without a vision, can surely take its toll.

Come down to earth on those times, find joy in everyday things, 

Get cocooned in the center of the formation, and give rest to your wings.

Shifting your perspective helps, you don't need to always lead,

There's a beauty to be led on the dance floor, its essential, I plead.

That earns you a ticket to the balcony, from where you can pull strings,

And perched aloft your vantage point, use some arrows and slings.    

I've been the victim, and the oppressor, I've been in the bystander shoe,

I can be the judge, jury and executioner, but I prefer my absurd view.

Factitious

High Pressure High Temperature, diamonds that are lab grown,

Are they the real deal though, existential crisis is full blown.

Can I feel in them art and beauty, and value that diminishes never,

On seeing on my engagement ring, would I be thrilled - are they forever?

 

Plastic surgery is the procedure, the product artificial implants,

I need to modify my body, to whatever the customer wants.  

Choosing silicone over saline, to give it a natural feel,

If I die a bit in the process, become a ghost, whats the big deal.

Fed on a corpus of texts, poems that the Bard regurgitates,

They appear by all means creative, so why the poet agitates?

Shouldn't art be appreciated on its merit, not by who gave it birth, 

Do we need Luddites with pen and paper, for what its worth?

 

Artificial may be superior, may be cheaper, it may not have any flaws,

We'll always prefer the natural, if we knew what's real, what factitious was.

My Ashes Down the Gutter

I want to set an example, won't give in to extortion,

Alimony should be reasonable, in moderation and proportion. 

I know the laws are stacked, heavily against a male,

False cases would be lodged, where you don't even get a bail. 

  

Dates after dates, harassment would follow,

Years would pass by, it's difficult to swallow.

Bribes would be demanded, on refusal to comply,

Adverse judgements passed, without hue and cry. 

 

Driven to the brink, I'm losing face,

I'm ashamed, aghast, they're winning this race.

Why don't you kill yourself, they casually taunt,

Abetment condoned by the judge, my days and nights haunt. 

 

Extortion, harassment, abetment, what more to look?

I want to set an example, so my life I took.

My CV of Failures

Did not land a good campus job, couldn't clear the civil services twice,

These don't find a place on my resume, talking about triumphs should suffice.

My dream was to be an ambassador, work for peace, prevent world war, 

I can brush that aside as a fictional goal, so it doesn't count as a failure anymore!

 

There were more garden variety failures, applying to Google and not getting through, 

Or applying to be a TED fellow and realizing, I haven't even been invited to give a TEDx talk, phew. 

I've also tried my hands at entrepreneurship, trying to make a career in psychology again and again, 

And in the initial days failed to fulfill my calling- spreading happiness and alleviating pain. 

I had also failed to find publishers, for my poetry collection in college days, 

With limited books sold, post self publishing, am I failed poet, who decides, who says?  

I've never been consistent on my psychology blog, I post infrequently, its mostly archive,

But with The Fools Quest I am finding rhythm and rhyme, and on a daily basis in poetry dive. 

 

My foremost failure was with a dear friend, who decided for some time not to speak,

Like all my failures, I'll keep surmounting, you need to walk through the troughs, to reach the peak.  

PS: this post is inspired by the CV of Failure concept introduced by Melanie Stefan. I had written a prose version way back in 2016 and have managed to add a few more failures to this poetic one:-)

Being a Muggle

It's not sadness; I'm worried, I'll not reach my goal,

It's not satisfying, the journey, has started taking its toll.   

I'm indifferent, not enthused, if perchance I succeed, 

In the larger scheme of things, how that'll matter indeed. 

It's not joy, pure energy, that's looking for discharge,

I get irritated and angry, the world appears a big farce.

I start tasks a dozen, don't feel the need for much sleep,

The more the goals take over, the more the rot runs deep. 

My mood is sombre, my thoughts run fast, 

I'm obsessed with future, and mired in the past. 

I keep pacing the corridors, am restless and twitchy, 

Try to fill the inner void, by listening in loop to Lionel Richie. 

I straddle occasionally the magical worlds, of mania and depression, 

But I'm mostly a normal next door guy, is my solemn confession. 

Hold On

When hope is lost, and the debt is high,

You're boxed in a corner, and the end seems nigh,

Trapped and helpless, you can't get out, 

To make it end swiftly, you act sans doubt.

The act may be symbolic, a cry for help, 

To dissuade the people, who are after your scalp. 

Scare them enough, they'll hound you no more,

As sympathies pour in, prepare for what's next in store.

At times however, the motive is hard to make out,

Maybe you're tired, apathetic, or on the verge of burnout.

You don't mind living, you don't mind settling the debt,

You're indifferent to the outcome, indulge in Russian Roulette. 

Whether stressed, bored or seeking help, I feel the end of your rope,

Let this day pass gently, tomorrow we'll together, weave new hope.

Fly High

If I had more time, would have written a shorter letter, 

Would have schooled you less, been a parent better.  

Now that you're away, I'm still not prepared, 

To cover my true feelings, my heart I've bared.

You're happy, You're busy, distance makes one fond, 

When you get 10 minutes daily, its easy to bond.

You are at a short distance, that is within hand's reach,

The distance seems imaginary, more like a figure of speech. 

 

Living apart, we've hopefully drawn closer,

With you flying away, I'm finally getting closure. 

Most parents live vicariously, through their child, 

I've lived a prosaic life, so now you're off to the wild. 

 

Don't have unfulfilled dreams, just become a go-getter,

If I had more time, would have written a shorter letter.

Published Poet

Its just vanity publishing, they brushed it aside,

If you can get 10 books sold, it'll be a matter of pride.

Published author, my foot, you just want that added, to your name, 

You'll end up gifting books - that people will read them, is a tall claim.

 

If your poems were any good, they would have been lapped, by agents,

Publishers would line outside your house- pay you in dollars, not cents.

Critics would tear you apart, or applaud you, as per their whim, 

Not ignore as if you didn't exist, leave your poems anonym.  

Posterity would judge fairly, you cite Van Gogh,

Each creation a masterpiece, not pearls that are faux.

It takes an eye of a connoisseur, to behold their charm, 

Are you ready to go down like Vincent, driven to self harm?

You can write me off, all you like, but my poems will speak,

I'll keep sending messages in a bottle - week after week. 

PS: This is the 100th poem I have posted on this blog in this calendar year. Thanks for reading!

Sweet Memories

Memories lift you up, bring a smile to your face,

One thing leads to other, nostalgia finds space.

Positive emotions swell, you reach out to old friends,

They're same old- quirky and informal- your hesitation ends.

Sweet are the hallowed memories, memories of sweet nothings,

Sweet were the old friends, and I, a sweeter version, methinks. 

The more I reminiscence, the more stuff I unearth that's sweet,

I can go on a roller coaster of memories, without missing a beat. 

I am a connoisseur of sweets, some say I am diabetes prone,

Excess of anything is harmful, I'm now feeling all alone.

The more fun I seemed to have in the past, the more I am missing now, 

That my golden years would be my nemesis, who would've thought, holy cow!   

Memories weigh you down, take their toll,

Past looms larger, and the future seems small.

Regenerating In This Life Only

Scorned by her father-in-law, not invited to the ceremony, 

Shiva was indifferent- he cared for neither fame, nor money.  

Sati was however different, her anger turned inward,

She chose to self-immolate, rather than move forward.  

His ardhangani dead, Shiva's indifference was tested, 

He performed a deadly Tandav, and only after divine intervention rested.

Attached to the corpse, furious at the world,

Tragedy averted only, after the sudarshan was hurled.

If you are a woman, and wronged upon,

You can burn internally, and in a jiffy be gone.

If you are a man, and rubbed wrong way,

No one bears your wrath, let's hope and pray. 

 

The myths are seductive, from destructive urges, even Gods weren't immune,

Just hold on, you will become Shankar-Parvati, when the time is opportune.