At first, He frightens my life’s ship
with monstrous tides.
But soon, He bestows assurance with mercy.
Suppressing the brutality of the waves,
He fills my heart with calm and peace.
He may appear a little unkind outwardly,
but my Lord is not prejudiced.
Doesn’t grant me agony alone all times;
Now and then, He showers me with surplus smiles.
(Self-rendering of my Telugu poem Parihara Krityam)
Taciturn men are disdained by all –
they’re always mum; that is their fall.
Shrouded in silence, seized by diffidence,
they languish in despondence.
Verbosity is a virtue
in the eyes of this banal world,
but poor taciturn men are mute and cold;
So, to many, they’re off-putting a hundredfold.
Many a tight-lipped man
may be going through the torture of
a thousand knife-thrusts every minute,
or tasting the havoc of raging storms
within, each moment.
Poor taciturn men are misinterpreted souls,
for they are closed books, subterranean dens,
unerupted volcanoes in oceans.
They need to be assessed with utmost caution;
compassion is what cures their desperation.
God has given us a mouth
to talk sparingly,
and a pair of hands to
comfort others caringly.
“Always talk less and work more”
is what should dwell in your heart’s core.
Words are ducks that swim
in the lake of a composition.
Don’t push them in large numbers;
they will give rise to congestion.
Words are gems set
in a crown – they add to elegance.
Don’t overuse them,
else they will produce repugnance.
An index finger was admitted to a hospital with twitchings. Investigations could not clinch the
diagnosis. The perplexed doctors pinned hopes on digging deep into the medical history.
Meanwhile, the finger became delirious. The interrogation was intensified. Then came the clue. “Withdrawal Syndrome,” they shouted jubilantly. But withdrawal from what? It could not be ascertained.
Correlating the patient’s past habits with the symptoms gave a clue. The doctors advised the finger to resume its habit of scrolling the posts on Facebook etc.
The patient followed the instructions again diligently.
Hurrah, the finger got well and was discharged from the hospital!
Words are babies;
They are precious like delicate dames
never exposed to the sun.
Words are infants sleeping
on beds of parchments.
Would not a poet be gratified if he placed
word babies in a book-cradle and rocks it?
Is not vocabulary more precious
than the treasure beneath the ground?
Aren’t words pure like innocent young girls
and snow-drenched jasmines?
Some words are very white;
they get smudged even when touched lightly
Others are too delicate;
burst even if held gently.
O bard,
Arranging words in lines
shouldn’t become a crucifixion
Careless use of inapt words is akin to
assaulting guileless, ill-fated syllables.
When propriety eludes,
even novelty cannot win applause.
Passing errors in the veil of charisma
equals rendering a pretty painting ugly.
Words are like babies;
Be cautious, O bard.
(Self-rendering of my Telugu poem titled ‘Padilam Kavee, Padaalu Padilam’)