Five More Tickets

I have never played blackjack or roulette, I'm a man of limited charms,

It has been drilled into me since time of birth—the gambling's many harms.

The deck is stacked against you, the house in the long run wins,

Like drugs it's strongly addictive, it's one of the cardinal sins.

 

But there is magic in buying a lottery ticket, the jackpot fantasy serves,

I know my needs inside out—no one better than me the prize deserves.

From the moment I hold the ticket, to the time the numbers are called,

There's never a dull moment, boredom and ennui from my life are recalled.   

 

When I lose this round, there's a momentary dip, but the next ticket boosts the soul,

To win the jackpot at least once in life, is my humble, determined goal.

Just yesterday I bought 5 more tickets, to increase my winning odds,

The weekly offerings made, now off to pray and appease the Gods.  

 

Writory or another competition, one poem or five others,

Enough of sending messages in a bottle, it's high time I win brothers.

The Poem I Never Wrote

The city you never re-visited, the phone call you never made,

You might've disappeared and bought peace, but a heavy price you paid.

You surrendered your edge and sharpness, to merge with the crowd,

'We have managed to domesticate you', with triumph they cry aloud.  

 

The message you typed and deleted, the poem you didn't share,

You'll regret these on your deathbed, but the world doesn't care.

As long as you fit in neat boxes, all is right with this universe,

Only death can bring you closure, then you can pay homage in verse.

 

The magazine you never applied to, the poet you couldn't become,

The ghost of un-lived life haunts you, till life ends, and then some.

The burden in the form of the Pitru Rin, your child now carries forth,

To exorcise this ghost, let your song flow out, don't die before death henceforth.  

 

The ending that built on my love for you, I've endlessly edited and modified,

That you could come across my unpolished mess, leaves me perennially mortified.

Driven To Be Better

I'm going on my morning walk, listening to a podcast,

My step counts prod me gently, and I start moving fast.

The podcast is on deep work, how attention shouldn't be spread, 

I always listen while walking, in an effort to be well-read.

 

For reading stuff is important, either on screen or on paperback,

It's the only way you can self-improve, and discover what you lack. 

I've read about compounding habits, about how to become whole,

This obsession with becoming better, has left in my pocket a hole.

 

Just yesterday I was reading, on relationships and love,

While my wife was making chapatis, in the kitchen on a stove.

I played all evening with ideas, strategies to deepen the bond,

She tossed and kneaded the dough, waiting for how I'll respond.

 

To implement my new-found learning, I went out with her on an evening walk,

I wanted her to co-listen to a deep love podcast, while all she wanted was just to talk.

Buying Some Meaning

I have the means to live, of meaning I'm not so sure,

Profit has sucked my purpose, there's a vacuum evermore.

Pristine and sanitized, I've become sterile and dead,

Passion has been drained from me, all to win some bread?

 

I need a distraction, to ward off the despair,

Sitting atop a pile of cash, in the abyss I stare.

I suffer in my bones daily, I have a tortured mind,

Can money buy me meaning, in cash or kind?

 

Of course I have become so rich, that all I have is money,

I donate to so many causes, if it weren't pathetic, it would be funny.

I toil in the day like a machine, in the night let donation receipts placate,

Money doesn't make room for meaning, it's a tenant that now won't vacate.

 

I can throw the money out of the window, spend my life creating art,

If you buy me a coffee now and then, finding meaning won't be so hard.

The Breaking of The Mug

The coffee mug breaks, I choose to ignore the hurt and pain,

Turn blind to the wounds and lacerations, let blood ooze and rain.

How could I let the coffee spill? I try to suppress my rage,

The more madly I wipe it clean, the more it fills the page.

 

Ignore or actively suppress, you get more of what you resist,

Meditate on the spilt coffee instead, lest you want it to persist.

Notice and gently accept the stain, observe it fade with time,

Acknowledge your inner stress and strain, and let it fall in line. 

 

The more you deny and struggle, reminisce about the mug,

Suppress your longing for the coffee, the more it will bug.

Accept for a while you'll be thirsty, that this partly you helped manifest,

Then you can mend and repair the broken parts, sip coffee again and rest.

 

The mug is for now broken, you have to this reality accept,

You can only enjoy coffee again, once you've thoroughly wept.

Coffee With Buddha

A coffee mug is given, attachment kicks in,

Parting from it now, seems almost a sin.

Clinging to gains is natural, and so is aversion to loss,

The more mugs you covet, the more life goes for a toss.

 

You take a sip from the mug, your joy knows no bound,

Pleasure is inevitable, don't let it into mania compound.

A slight slip and the mug breaks, this hurt too shall pass,

You can perhaps apply gold, and make it a whole new class.

 

You dazzle your friends with your Kintsugi art, don't let praise get to your head,

 If they blamed you for the accident instead, would you rather be dead?

Over time the repaired mugs on your shelf, seal your fate as an artist of note,

 But that you broke the mugs in the first place, people censure and you careless vote.

 

Don't let the eight worldly winds blow you offtrack, remain centered and calm,

Loosen your grip on the mugs, just let them float with ease balanced on a drunkard's palm.

The Saloon (Madhushala) [21-30]

Continuing my ambitious project to translate Madhushala in English for the benefit of those whose first language is not Hindi. You can read the original poem in Hindi here.  

Madhushala has always fascinated me and this is my way of paying homage to Late Shri Harivansh Rai Bachchan.  

The Saloon (Madhushala) [1-10] 

The Saloon (Madhushala) [11-20]  

What follows are the next 10 quatrains [21-30] 

  

Big lineages can wither or go bust, with no one to cry and mourn,

Palaces can degenerate into ruins, where once dancing courtiers were born.

Let kingdoms be overthrown, the fortune of monarchs sleep under the moon,

But the drunkards will not budge an inch, and wide awake will be the saloon. [21]

 

All will turn to ashes; what remains is the cupbearer and the dance of death,

All beauty will be drained of sustenance; only the wine and the poison will have breath.

All places of merriment and gaiety will become places of silence and doom,

Wide awake will be the busy graveyard, and wide awake will be the saloon. [22]  

 

The dashing, tipsy goblet in this world, will but be labelled a fool,

The dandy server a connoisseur of joy, on which the quirky drinker does drool.

Can the world and wine coexist in harmony- I guess, oh, not so soon,

The world deteriorates every day, while like a newly-wed the saloon.[23]

 

If you condemn the saloon without taking a sip, you’re but a drunken fool,

If you take a sip, you’ll be lip-locked and silenced forever like a buffoon.

The victory is of the cup and the wine; both slaves and rebels are fools,

Like Napoleon, to conquer the world, has arrived my saloon [24]

 

The world may go through the harshest winter; it’s always spring in the tavern,

It always burns with the fire of Holika, while the world bleeds in Muharram.

It doesn’t know sorrow and grief; it has descended on earth as heaven’s boon,

While the world recites dirges and elegies, Id is celebrated by the saloon. [25]

 

Once in a year, and only one time, the fire of Holi burns bright,

Once a year you gamble all you have, the diyas light up the night.

O people of the world, I dare you to visit any day the saloon,

In the day Holi, and in the night Diwali, daily celebrates my saloon. [26]

 

Not sure which human came first, pretending to be the nectar seeker,

Who didn’t nurse on the cupbearer's breast-definitely not this speaker,

Drinking life, they remain drunk, whether human or baboon,

That's why they first discovered, on encountering the world, the saloon. [27]

 

Let the delicate vine of grapes flourish, from which is made the wine,

Let the soil enrich and prosper, which is used to make the earthen cup shine,

Let the thirst of alcohol deepen; let it not be satiated so soon,

Let the drinkers thrive and sustain; let it remain open, this saloon [28]

 

Consider myself safe and sound, if the cupbearer feels so,

The difference between good and bad, the rowdy doesn't know.

Don’t ask whether I’m fine, but do ask how is the saloon?

Don’t greet me with a ‘Hail Mary’; if you care, greet as ‘Hail Saloon’. [29]

 

The sun is the merchant of nectar, sea the bearer, water wine,

The clouds are the cup bearer, and the earth a cup so fine.

A torrent of wine flows down, pitter patter in the monsoon,

Let me absorb it like grass and creepers; like the rainy season, be the saloon. [30]