Unsinkable

All the water in the world, can't sink my ship,

Unless I let it in, then it'll be gone in a blip. 

So I toil day and night, to keep intact the hull,

With waves breaching daily, there's not a  moment dull.  

 

Even a hairline fracture, can eventually flood the room, 

Lowering my guard for a moment, will lead to inevitable doom. 

Imagine therefore my horror, to find a severely cracked plank,

I fill it with golden lacquer, and with beauty reach the bank.

 

You can't stop the waves, but like a captain you can ride,

Allow what to seep through, and how to fight the merciless tide.

If you pay heed to the voices, you'll surely drown,

When you build strong walls, you'll smile not frown.

 

You say to survive this world, I need to grow a thick skin,

What use are swords and knives, when I can be burst with a pin. 

If Money Were No Object

If money were no object, I'd be hunched at desk,

Writing poems of love, from dawn till dusk.

But the lure of money, is real and strong,

Selling poetry is OK, writing poems wrong.

 

If status were no object, I'd forever be in school,

Wade and wallow in what I love, with the naivety of a fool.  

But your reputation precedes, the work you do,

So I'm tempted to amass degrees, to shut the likes of you. 

 

If duty were no object, I'd just laze all day,

Run agents to do my work, and with ChatGPT play.

But responsibility is a tech debt, keeps you awake at night,

The program keeps running, till it gets the user intent right.

 

If impact were no object, I'd be stuck at a dead end job,

But I'm letting the entrepreneurial grind, my mind peace rob. 

Why So Prolific?

I craft poems, to keep getting likes, 

Modifying the themes, if I perchance get yikes.

I daily endure, to ensure you come back,

The dip in views, guarantees my comeback.

 

I craft poems, to ward off guilt, 

Around invoking muse at will, my whole life built.

If the muse deserts me, I'll die of shame, 

I pride on writing daily, it's not a hobby or game.

 

I craft poems, because I value the art,

My daily practice ensures, I can play the poet part.

The daily discipline, is now a part of me,

If I'm not a poet, who am I, you see?

 

I craft poems, because I find it fun,

I get deeply engrossed, and time doesn't run.  

Career Quests

Scuffle between offshore and onshore, strife between team and my boss,

A Hero-Saves-The-Day syndrome, that was leading to organizational loss.

I was a new dad at that time, a rookie manager at workplace,

I quietly made a lateral move, to manage life at a slower pace. 

 

Good manager replaced with an average one, that left me under utilized,

I thought I deserved, but didn't get, the promotion that was prized. 

So I ventured forth as a freelance coach, where my skills could be better used,

Aligning my work with my values, where psychology and leadership fused.

 

My new boss only talked sweet- didn't pay me for a whole year,

The ethical lines kept blurring, I felt powerless my dear.

So I decided to start afresh, I was looking for an escape hatch,

A calling that can make me live again, to which I could latch.

 

I've mastered the entrepreneurial journey, I'm ready to take the next step,

It's time to write a new chapter, let me now for poetry school prep.

 

PS: Today's post is inspired by, and tries to map, the 4 career quests identified in Lenny's substack (though not in the same order) here. 

IPO On The Horizon?

Writing poems, without a GTM plan,

Polishing drafts, for an imaginary fan.

Sliding in a bottle, letting it drift away,

But hope is not a strategy, the wise men say.   

 

Writing poems, without a business model,

Ads may grant peanuts, is it worth the coddle?

You can build an audience, can it earn you bread?

How dare you dream and cross, a line that is red. 

 

Writing poems, without a rich bottom line,

You may earn some revenue, but does the cost seem fine?

To lap some crumbs, you have to mortgage your soul,

Address themes to their liking, constantly popular trope dole. 

 

Writing poems, without a FnF round,

No investors to pressurize, so I make every poem count. 

Hi, Hello

Sawubona, I see you, 

I'm present, I'm here, are you here too?

Nigikhona, I am here,

I see you, you brought me into existence my dear.

 

Namaste, I bow to you,

The divinity within you, is verily true.

Namaste, I bow back to divine,

The God within me, sees the God in you fine.  

 

Om Namah, I prostrate before the God,

His darshan blesses me, I'm overjoyed, I'm awed.

Om Namah, the God stares back,

Being perceived by him, now my life won't lack.

 

 Good morning, Good evening, lack the magic when we meet,

 Muttered absentmindedly, can without our whole being we greet? 

Don't Observe Me Yet

Like Schrodinger's cat, I'm both alive and dead,

I haven't decided yet, how to earn my bread.

I can be a poet or a psychologist, if I just make up my mind,

The specter of losing a self, leaves me in a perennial bind.

 

When stakes are so large, I can't embrace in a blip,

I can leave it to God and fate, or instead use a coin flip.

With nothing in my hands, maybe the regret will be small,

My future unencumbered of me, just due to the coin's fall. 

 

Can I live with that image, a creature of circumstance,

What happens to agency, about commitment what's my stance? 

Choosing one over the other, is painful now, and in times to come,

There's no getting around agony, whether I forego or choose some.   

 

I've made my life-and-death decision, I'll remain stuck in two boats,

If you'll allow, I'll pen psych themed poems, both my poison and antidotes. 

The Sign

My mouth is turning down, the eyes have started to swell,

As I think about you darling, not everything is well.

One look at my face, and it's as clear as hell,

I'm suffering in my bones, ready to retreat in my shell.

 

 My mouth is turned down, the eyes are filled with tears,

 I've learnt how to catch your eyes, over the passing years. 

 One look at my face, you'll come running to my aide,

 We attuned at some point, that debt has to be paid.

 

My mouth I turn down, the eyes I make moist,

I may not feel broken, but my sadness I hoist.

Could I be relieved, and happy that you're gone,

But to conform to society norms, feel sad and alone?

 

My mouth I've learnt to control, I've put on a poker face,

My sadness, if there, is for me, for you no external trace.  

The Invariants

Bothra yoga, or Dixit Diet,

Bend to each fad, with all your might.

Not sure how many, will stand time's test,

To me the invariant- daily walk, proper rest.  

 

Eisenhower matrix, or Pomodoro timer,

Amp your productivity, read a new primer.

I rarely follow through; so to tick off deep work,

I stay up late in night, being an owl my quirk. 

 

Box breathing, or JPMR,

Relieve stress, with the tool of the hour.

Daily meditation practice, can help you cope,  

For me writing a poem, my daily dose of dope.  

 

A vacation every 7 months, a date night each week,

Rituals and formulas are fine elsewhere, but in love it's all Greek.

Holding On

Pain wriggles through, it has a habit to be found,

Memories pierce and stab, as you're not around.

They say suffering is optional, it's how the situation you conceive,

That you can morph your pain into poems, and with art everyone deceive.

 

Guilt is an uninvited guest, that has overstayed its due,

Who left whom charred, is known but to few.

They say guilt can make you better, sculpt your future form,

That it can goad you till you transform, and rise above the norm.

 

Loss is a sneaky intruder, that can haunt once it's left your door,

With everything precious snatched, it can leave you lonely ever more.

They say loss leads to meaning, you realize what's worth holding onto,

That no future relation would suffer the fate, that befell you two.

 

It has cost me almost everything, yet I'm staying in the fight,

Giving in to despair would imply, that it was for nothing- and that's not right.

Writing's Side Effects

Writing helps me process, the pain of a withheld goodbye,

Each poem inches closer, but cannot bridge the gap, I sigh.

To catch your eyes is a fantasy, I've risen over that now,

If it's a formal closure I'm after, by myself I'll achieve how?   

Writing helps me reminisce, the joy of that fragile bond,

Each poem helps me manifest, that relation with a magic wand.

I can draw and redraw you as an angel, each time I pour my ink anew,

That a ghost from past can make me smile, who fathomed, who knew?  

 

Writing helps me reflect, with equanimity our joint fate,

Each poem prods me forward, to back down and wait.

In time I've started adjusting, to your absence from my craft,

By etching you in my poems, don't I risk losing you from my heart?

 

Writing helps me dump on my readers, my deepest, smouldering concerns, 

That they get charred in the process, is a cost justified to heal my burns. 

The Shifting Shape of Stories

I had a blessed start, with IIT tag on my head,

The techno-managerial jobs, I did not really dread.

The lure of a different calling, sapped my energy, left me dead,

With effort I climbed out of the hole, making psychology my bread.

 

I met psychology in college, it was love at first sight,

After decades of courtship, tying the knot didn't work out right,

My earlier passion vanished, it became just another job,

Now that I've started my own venture, this might not end in a sob.  

  

Venturing on The Fools Quest, is a Cinderella story, 

Writing poems that went unread, didn't lead to fame or glory.

Till there appeared a fairy, bestowing on my poems a magical power,

Disappearing at the stroke of midnight, but in my heart poems daily flower.

 

It's ended well for me in these stories, but perhaps at a cost and curse,

On my original quest to be a good person, did I slowly go from bad to worse?

Jobs-To-Be-Done

I hired my sadness today, a poem I wanted to write,

In which I could once more showcase, the abyss I daily fight.  

The poem needed a subject, darkness came to my rescue,

Pathos stabbed me in the belly, as if waiting on a cue.

 

I hired my sadness today, to process and feel good,

If I can make sense of my suffering, don't you think I should?

When my words disfigure the page, the ink becomes less black,

So I promptly pour it in poems, though I know the feeling will be back.

 

I hired my sadness today, to dazzle you with my art and skill,

Unmindful that the wound scraped, could shatter me, or even kill.

The poem needs an audience, you love poems of agony and pain,

To catch your eyes I'll happily scratch, and fester the wound again.

 

I go through my days hunting, for moments of sadness and shame,

I perhaps need to sit with them more often, not get lost in the healing game.

On Coming 2nd

John Doe felt lonely, I figured he lived alone,

For the cracks in his society, he has to but atone.   

But when I looked at Ram Kumar, living in a family of four,

He too felt torn apart, with relationships gone sour. 

 

Almost all live together here, with families or friends,

Yet no one notices the foul smell, till the year ends,

The woman living by herself, post death of spouse and child,

Is literally unseen by the people around, is this a matter mild?

 

Each tie rendered asunder, is a soul that's lonely and sad,

It's a skeleton waiting to be discovered, while being inwardly dead.

Feeling alone brings sadness, that may morph to a depressed state,  

If we want to break this vicious loop, keep checking with your mate.  

 

Be the friend they can promptly call, when feeling blue at night,

That loneliness defines our collective identity, somehow doesn't feel right. 

The Friendship Files

Survive school or college together, chances become great,

That you'll become BFFs, proximity seals your fate.   

Even when older you can still attend, to opportunities to socialize,  

That you can't make friends at work or in neighborhood, is a pack of lies.  

 

When you notice someone of your vibe, be vulnerable and intend,  

Take actions to bring them into your fold, be caring and to them tend. 

Make them a part of your daily life, a regular book club or kitty,

And schedule a monthly zoom call, for those not in the same city.

 

Friendships can take many forms, why over family they must take a back seat,

You can switch jobs together or live nearby, it can get messy, it's not neat.

You may not be able to keep in touch, life often throws curveballs,

There's grace in making the first move, and breaking the imaginary walls.

 

I know how to revive and make new friends, I've learnt from the friendship files.

But of the one friend that I've lost for good, the distance stretches miles.

Black or White?

Bright light falls on me, I'm at my very best,

Showcased for others, I laugh and have to jest.

My light gets reflected, it can travel a hundred mile,

The mirror blinds vision, so I haven't looked in a while.

 

Darkness engulfs me, I with my shadow merge,

Hidden from others, baser instincts emerge.

Confronted with the abyss, no one dares to light a match,

The stakes are so high, that none can the black hole catch.

 

Dusk and dawn are liberating, I can finally myself be,

When others are equally hazy, there's no pressure to clearly see.

In the orange and red light, I am but a bundle of shades of gray,

The dewdrops capture delicately, the rainbow that's there to stay. 

 

Paint me in monochrome all you want, I'm neither black nor white,

The more I observe the grays in me, the more colors appear in sight.

Should I, Or Should I Not?

Poems of love, or poems of pain,

She lurks in the shadows, I'm the hero main.

Alexa kindled memories, I quickly changed the song,

Today I've been poked, excuse me if I paint her wrong.   

 

She keeps tugging at my heart, that's her cardinal sin,

She receded from my life, still this battle I couldn't win.

Perhaps she is suffering too, maybe there's grief in her art,

For she has cut me off totally, though we never did part.  

This has made me stronger, is a tale I've spun,

That reckless e-mail, destroyed my friendship for one.

Couldn't settle for less than love, aut Caeser aut nihil,

How to catch your eyes again, is now a battle uphill. 

 

I'm so sorry because of my love letter, you lost a dear friend,

To mend I write sonnets daily, without this time hitting send. 

Creating Luck

The door is not opening, have I knocked enough times? 

Do I need to master the art, of making lemonade from limes?

Let the door remain shut, can't I move to another door?

Unless I keep knocking, how will I know what's in store?

 

Knocking again and again is rude, disturbing many surely a sin,

If the road to riches is by trampling others, would it still count as a win?

Not being acknowledged comes later, I have to make the first move, reach out,  

Catch their ears amidst all the din, even if I have to my lungs shout. 

 

They say if one door closes, another will open soon,

What if the door I'm banging against, takes me to the moon?

Will I be happy with the other door, which lands me instead in a star,

Or should I barge through the door to sun, though my wax wings flying bar?

 

 Knocking many doors may lead to luck, not when you're aiming as high as me,

 Enough of waiting for doors to open, it's time to break, and fly free.

Sentience

The worm is hungry, at the other end an inviting odor,

The terrain in-between noxious, a single neuron inhibits crossing order.

That I can explain on the basis of a neuron, the behavioral response,

Makes me treat it as non-sentient, to be crushed as a sponge.  

 

The fly is courting and mating, there's a dopamine rush,

The dopamine inhibits the circuit, that makes it fly when I crush.

That levels of a neurotransmitter, can explain its readiness to act,

Makes me treat the fly as expendable, put them in the non-conscious set. 

 

The worm and the fly, are pulled between pleasure and pain,

Between a catastrophic loss, and possibilities of gain.

If chemicals and cells, can explain all their feat,

Are they conscious, have agency, can they choose or feel?

 

I think they are sentient, we can give them the benefit of doubt,

They suffer and pine like we do, though they may not cry out loud.

 

PS: This poem was inspired by reading this article today by long-time blogger-days friend Bjorn Brembs.

How Many Tabs Are Optimal?

100 tabs in my browser, I keep flitting from one to the next,

With each notification, I switch context, I'm monkey mind at best.

The Dionysian within me wants to jump, play all day around,

Can't stay in the same place for entire day, routines do not me bound.

 

I work with a single tab open, which leaves me deeply engrossed,

The topic is arcane and specialized, interaction leaves me grossed.

The Apollonian within me needs to hide, behind structure and routine,  

Only the home is a safe and familiar place, to venture out I'm not keen.

 

I can have 50 tabs open, organized in groups of 10,

Enable important notifications, take control of attention again.

I can balance my boundless energy, with calm and thought-through restraint,

Can schedule novelty on my calendar, daily make room to write and paint.

 

Between the monkey and the robot, lies a space for me to act,

I can be intentional about when to focus, and when to let dreams distract.

Eat, Move, Sleep- part 2

Eat the super foods, and you will live to see a hundred years,

But what if I don't recognize you, my brain constantly fears.

I read, do Sudoku frenetically, all to keep dementia at bay,

If only I had danced instead, that would have saved the day.

 

Move and hit the gym daily, to lower Cortisol,

Track like a maniac your steps, always be on a roll.

If you want the blood to flow, and vessels to dilate,

Laugh multiple times a day, with silliness mandate.

 

Sleep like a log for 8 hrs, it buffers against stress,

By conserving your energy, you can fight any duress.

If you are exposed to cold, and want to boost immunity,

Just hug a loved one regularly, let touch be in your kitty.

 

When you sing in a choir, or hear a poem, your hearts come into a sync,

Eat, move, sleep is fine, but live, love, laugh is the real deal- let that sink. 

Tackling Dissonance

I can win at this game of life, code my way to the very top,

Can go back to college, accumulate degrees, and never really stop.

I can publish my book of sonnets, put my money where my heart is,

I can abdicate all worldly aspirations, and just follow my bliss.

 

I must however raise a unicorn, make my Alma Mater proud,

Must become a world authority, not just one in the crowd.

I must write a sonnet daily, take time to hone my craft,

I must self-improve, not be satisfied with the unpolished draft.  

 

I am but a fighter, have picked up AI and stuff,

Am a self-taught psych expert, have read more than enough.

I am a poet par-excellence, who can invoke the muse at will,

I have made peace with the human condition, by heart know the drill.

 

My experience of life, at times doesn't fit, with my beliefs of who I am, must or can be,

At that moment I bridge the gap, by being flexible, and changing my definition of 'me'.

Here and Now

I have been swept awash in the past, with fear, hurt, rage and grief,

Many were never reconciled with, I dwelt on them but brief.

I pushed them deep in the recesses, of my unconscious mind,

They surface now and then in new contexts, how to suppress I'm in a bind.

 

 Healing feels like a loss of self. what I'm sans my patterns and quirks,

 When I start doubting who I really am, re-opening the wound works.

This accumulated energy is painful though, it holds a sway on me,

Will continue to dictate my reactions, till what it is I learn to see.

 

When I'm once more sad and angry, it's rarely about the issue or you,

It's old pain asserting its right to exist, not bound by what's in the moment true.

If I were to lessen its hold on me, I've to deal with the long-lost stuff,

Be aware of and accept what I'm feeling now, the pain of memories old and rough. 

 

The trauma that once kept me captive, if I process can set me free,

Each trigger is an opportunity to be in the now, and change what I'm unfolding to be.