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Poetry        By         D. PARAMESWARAN   india


poems 1  to 12

01   Sometimes.......          

02   Lines to William Stafford

03.  The Other Side           

04.  Comments on  Miracles  a poem by Walt  Whitman

05.  AND,  You were an Angel !           

06.. On seeing the flag of white,  .     .

07.  the self comes to life and full bloom!!

08.  forever         

09.  only for a while

10.  faces          

11.  transcendental poetry  1

12  longing to join       


poems 13 to   21 elsewhere -not here / removed from here to another page

                  PLS READ ////..... 

poems 22 to   26




23.     A LOUDSPEAKER        

24.     the flag of white     

25.     THE NADIR             




poems 1  to 12


 1.  Sometimes


I forget I am a proper noun

And I become a verb,

the reward being a noun itself.

Then I go home,

And glass in hand I become adjective. 

Sometimes by asking,

"What are you doing?"

Somebody reminds me,

of my still being a noun.

But I don’t care

and mostly

I am adjective in her arms.

And I am relative pronoun

in my neighbor’s tongue.

And the second person

slowly turning into a 1st person

In your eyes.

I am an infinitive

to people who do not know me.

Standing in a junction

I become a conjunction.

I become an adverb

When you praise what I do.

And I become mere punctuations

when I move,

my head to say Yes or No,

Or raise my eyebrows in wonder.

However, when I wink at her

I mostly look like a semi colon;


           2.           Lines to William Stafford……

Here a season of rain begins.

Now raindrops will dance on every road,

rooftop and spread out umbrella.. 

Children will play with the rain

as mothers chide and tell them to come closer

and into the umbrella,

while they come home from school in the rain

Buffaloes will stand like statues on our streets

getting all the rain,

" A Blessing! Not a drop of it must be lost!"

Buffaloes on our Indian streets:

in India we call them funnily

as the street elephant

or the brake inspector

who arrives from nowhere so suddenly

without a clamor

and in front of a moving automobile

and checks the effectiveness of the brakes.

The other day, while I was on my bicycle,

The road was full of buffaloes

and I had to wind my way through the road

weaving through hairpin bends,

as it was milking time in the afternoon.

Poor things! Lucky! God gave them hard skin,

living with men who brandish a staff

and beat them mercilessly.

I should have a hard skin too against this world.


(appeared in West Hills Review 1981/82 v3

A Walt Whitman Journal published by 

WW Birthplace Asscn, LI, NY  11746)

  It was William Stafford who enabled this poem appear in the Journal,

when I wrote this poem to him. Every one should read his poem beginning:

Traveling through the darkness. (Elegant, graceful, matured,)


3.        The Other Side      

I on the floor.

Lizard on the wall.

Shadows dancing,

Of the dangling lamp light.

Sounds disappearing in the evening’s darkness,

with the day slowly falling.

The whimpering of a child,

heard at a distance.

Sound of the gutter

heard near.

In the wind, in the room,


Fly across.

In a split second,

Will go into the hugging dark, laughing

and will buoy,

In the sky,

as spots in a graph.

I am transported in the midst

Of the cycle.

With the lizard on the floor.




4.  Comments  on  "Miracles"        


                          a  poem -   by Walt  Whitman       


                                Part of the original  Poem


" Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart, my sight over the roofs of houses

 toward the sky.

Or wade with naked feet along the beach 

just in  the edge of the water

Or ..................."

                         - Walt Whitman



How many people today can understand what Whitman

 conveyed through these easy and  clear thoughts, for day to

 day living!  We are far, far away from the human fabric of 

love  and affection which should have brought about 

certainly a heaven  here!!

BUT, for lack of discipline in thought and action we have 

marauded the earth and its environ and life, and created a 

civilisation's waste basket, a Garbage Can of the Universe 


Today’s world of man and his mind, conscious of the

world  around him is immersed web-deep in wrong 

concepts, approaches,  ideals, and imaginations, forced by 

the manmade make believe environ around. The manmade 

environ has  obliterated the  nature made environ. You can 

write or draw on a white blank  paper, but you cannot 

draw  or enjoy writing or drawing  anything on a paper, 

already  and fully obliterated with  written words or 

scribbled  drawings or messages  or pictures.

It is in the same way, You can enjoy the Mozart or Bach in the silence 

of any  environ, and you cannot do so amidst a noisy 

environ. Day after day out ability to understand Whitman 

has reduced, starting with America, the first civilization 

and rise and fall. 

The world of man has made by its crooked ideals,

Love for humanity look like, a weak human feature, a 

laughing stock, undesirable, and unsought after.  Simply 

following Whitman is enough to deliver  goods to our 

homes,  To the nation, and To the world. The joy of seeing 

ALL, all  persons live in harmony and happiness in their 

homes, is not  the joy of today's Men in Power. It was  


NEVERTHELESS  Whitman's dream deep inside his 

HEART and  SOUL  and there were some like him, born in the

 world and disappeared. Other  methodologies cannot work and

 will  fail miserably. In this poem, Whitman says why go after a 

miracle, the unknown, the Mysterious, when what you have 

on hand is nothing but miracles. People go after miracles, 

god men, brushing aside, the Miracles of laughing children, 

dancing palm trees full of  life! People have not understood 

Life. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

Some god men are trying to see where our spirits go after 

death. They do not want to know or do what best it can do 

when  we are  alive!  Thus Whitman’s one statement or just 

a line, opens a  door to a great pathway. The enlightened 

can see  it, others  cannot it. Of all the men I have read, 

Whitman is  the ONLY  ONE who could boldly, Chalk out a 

path way  for man as  individual and as a man of a  society,

 a social human being and management methods for people  

administration and society that cannot fail under

 whatever circumstances. IT was love for humanity.

He mentions miracles as he sees walking down the streets of

Manhattan. How do we all walk the streets?

It is time we observed ourselves!

It is a miracle when my dart my sight over the roofs of 

houses toward the sky. For him every thing is a miracle. For men

of today, all things  considered, Nothing is a miracle. 

We have an insatiate spirit hanging within

 ourselves. It is searching. It cannot get anything.

Because what it searches  is not anything

much of value. Our scales are wrong. Our measures are 

wrong. We go nowhere. We are sick of ourselves, 

and don’t want to  tell others. This is the life of today.

For every line of Whitman, a book of comments and

explanations  can be written and it will be so beautiful 

to write and perhaps read too.

But there are DIFFERENT LEVELS OF comprehension, of

understanding, of emotional and Spiritual clarity among

persons. We are born  to be trying to evolve into a loveable, 

competent,  intelligent human being capable of 

 understanding  the ordinary and beyond the ordinary.

But most of us have lost the track from childhood.

For those who desire to get back into the right track, there 

is Whitman. There are many to mislead. We are easily 

misled than  led. And we mislead our children also. 

Simple  life that is given to us has  been complicated by 

Man  and  his  wrong ideas and it is now bothering  us 

day in and day out.     WHITMAN IS NOT AMERICA'S ALONE! 








As surely we were not born to this destiny of  today!                

It is surprising to learn that Whitman learned that

 All people are part of a whole -

from Indian saints like Swami Ramakrishna.,& Swami

 Vivekananda. And I absorbed this philosophy and lived it up to

 heart's full, from Whitman!! For us, material was not available

 or could not be understood at a young age. Whitman's lifestyle

 was uncomplicated, natural, free flowing like his poems, like a

 river, stream etc.


 world of survival.

                                                    -D Parameswaran




A tiny little babe !

Yours eyes full of

 the joy  of finding a new life  

on the earth!

You were watching,

were watching eagerly,

new things and newer things to happen, 

trying to see and learn; 

your  beautiful smiles,

on innocent rosy lips; 

Your smiles were an art piece

that cannot be treasured 

or auctioned in London ;



only your mother and I  as a poet

of feelings, knew,

it was worth many tons of gold.

(they would be nipped in the bud!)

Your tiny fingers were learning,

trying to take hold of whatever

you touched ; 

Time was hanging behind you;

Time was ticking away the countdown 

that had begun; 


In a ravished rage for oil 

you will be killed mercilessly 


with the power not meant 

for your tender age. 

They did not know

what they were doing.

They will do only what they were told!


I remembered only humanists 

Emerson, Thoreau, Walt Whitman,

Don McLean, John Denver,& John Muir.

I read them and became human!


And you were an Angel !!

liberated from the monotony of a non existence

and being born into a world of morbid existence

where your fellow brethren were not brothers

but were   sadists, torturers and will never change.

The whole world is  full of them .


You will be crushed to death 

your tender neck bleeding to concrete and soil,

 as NGOs and Mother Theresas  

try to adopt with much difficulty

and give life to children--

one by one, little by little, feeling after feeling.


you disappeared!

so suddenly from the loving hands, 

of your loving mother!






          6.on seeing the flag of white.


the bull dresses up,
and waits outside,
armored ;
as the galleries fill up with bulls.
the ground is silent,
as the noise of the crowd
deafens ears,
at the galleries.
the bull and other fighting bulls
take up their positions,
waiting to see,
the violent man let out
from the man shed;
as the man comes out,
the drums sound;,
he charges into the scene,
violently, and the bull on the horse
pierces his shoulders with an arrow.
and the bull holds the banner,
the man gets more angry
seeing the flag of white.


              --------D. PARAMESWARAN


    7.   the self comes to life 

and  full  bloom!!

This face is a lifeboat.
and it sails or sinks
or is salvaged again; 
it is remembered,  
and it is forgotten;
it is received 
and responded;
it is denied, 
and displeased;
it blossoms up
with face to the Sun,
and  when the day is over,
it disappears from the crowd;
howsoever  mundane  it tries to remain,
it has that magic within, undying;
what self has it, at its back!  
and what spirit! 
and all that there is,  
is everything for the person, 
within and without!
it can hide nothing,
as long as it is tied to the inside
by ropes and threads of emotions;
what it can fabricate
does not stay forever;
the index of the mind,
the index of love,
the index of emotions,
the index of intentions,
the index of beliefs,
the index of attitudes,
the index of all such softwares 
cookies, and bundles;
O!  in the youthful days,
how plump 
with muscle and hope;
in the old days,
how rich with meaningfulness.
one listens to it, answers it,
responds to it or retorts at it. 
one longs for it, or avoids it,
or curses it.
through what oceans of turmoil,
in the world of man,
it sails;
where to,  does it sail?
what are its aspirations?
what hopes stay aboard?
for each with their own! 
sometimes it was not a boat;
it was a ship
bringing to my shores 
loads of innocent affection;
sometimes it was not a boat;
but a submarine
always at work underneath,
plotting and sub plotting secretly
for its victory in my downfall.
sometimes it was not a boat 
but a racing boat
always aiming to come out first
out winning others;
sometimes it was gratitude;
sometimes it was longing;
sometimes it was 
meaningless togetherness;
as though separation was not a thing 
in existence or unthinkable!
what the hands gave away
was not remembered;
only what the face gave as expressions,
emotions, and feelings
was remembered;
the imagery!
what it gave remained forever;
out of graveyards of memories, 
it rose as though undying;
in the crowd,
after a gap of many passing years as ages,
sometimes a sudden glimpse of it,
the same old familiar face that gave us
old worlds of living, that imagery 
opened up the rivers into floods;
sometimes like two rivers meeting,
the emotions blended through the years,
with the secretive expressions therein.
a snapshot  of it thru the crowd,
sent waves of scintillations,
through the spine.
in doubt and despair, 
crumpled like a hankie, it lay.
like the spring coming and waking up 
the land of winter,
hope and love
gave it the spirit to stand up;
in boldness it tightened up 
its muscles for the combat of life.
sometimes innocence gave up the place 
for crookedness;
sometimes a display of ego;
or an exhibit of glum consumptive satisfactions.
greed, eagerness, curiosity,
and how many more passengers in this sailing boat.
from behind the slit for eyes
the pilot of the self always stared,
out, into the open seas,
to know where he was
and where he wanted to go.
when it expressed love, true love
at least once in the course of life,
it flushed disregarding age as a small thing;
shyness gave it a green look;
ignorance and haughtiness a burnt look;
sapless then it was sweltering;
in tender children, the self  
it lingered for touch and care.
who can deny its truth?
its secret beauty?
those who deny it
deny themselves everything.
what it cannot give?
the whole new world 
is to come of heaven , why not?!
this was the gate to a heart
that lay in the dust of a millenniums;
this was the opening
to a dustbin in which lay a pearl
discarded and insulted by all and oneself.
this was the door
on the doorstep/threshold of which
i lingered
to walk in
and through 
and throw the dust and tears
of all the people who have come and gone,
that lay dumped for years neglected;
hope was sunshine for it.
love was the soil on which it grew.
sex was the breeze to it, 
but not with out love.
a lifeboat it carried 
the message and directions;
a boat of treasure!!
which none can mar, steal 
or insult, or snub?
a gentle light touch of the hand
in love, lighted it uP all !
the self comes to life and full bloom !!


                8.      forever


away from home
i learned to find a "home".
i learned to come home,  
was to leave for the larger outdoor home.
it was to close the door upon it
and put the latch.
a black girl of 26
the most appropriate age
to know what life is
looked at me in Bihar
beseechingly with love.
another hill woman
another time beckoned me.
that was love in her eyes.
this whole crowd of population 
i wanted to stay forever with me.
i have learned to ignore
the weaknesses of people.
when you give a call of love
they are always there
to reciprocate.
i went mad at the Bihar Fair
at the country side in Gaya.
People flowing on all my sides.
sometimes when i was laid with sickness
and could not see the people for days together
how i longed to have life normal
 once again, making me see them all again. 
i am at home, outside my home;
 when i am in the street, in the open air, 
with the dog and the cat and ant and the bird 
and all creatures and above all the supremo man!! 
not only a few of them 
but the whole,
the  whole crowd of population
i want to stay with me;
not for a few hours or days of my life,
but forever, ---forever!!




      9.only for a while........

early morning  
as i walk out,
on my earth,   
i see children
there are no adults
on the streets.
one child pushes the cart.
another carrying logs on the head
goes down walking toward home.
 a girl staggers homeward
with heavy bags on both the hands.
 another  child sells mangoes.
yet another sells flowers.
i take pleasure in touching them
wading my fingers through their shabby hair.
i know they like it, too.
they have no complaints.
i do not pretend they have not.
they always allow me.
cause they know me
I am always in love with them.
even the man and his dog knows me
this way;
it was this way forever
since long, and i wish it be forever;
it was whitman who gave me the road, 
the people and since then 
they  never left me alone!
sometimes here too as elsewhere
whitman's world is uniquely
thriving amidst all the turmoil; 
not every one knows what it is all like.
the poor know and whitman knew.
but no turmoil will enter
these flowery souls.
there's nothing to care, to amass, 
and to contemplate.
as the daylight  touches their eyelids,
they get up smartly as the bees.
Whitman !  amidst misery there is
scope for relief, cause these are men.
how blessed are these people of India;
for them the day moves,
with the tiny harmless
innocent hands of children.
as the adults are asleep
fortunate, it is the children who are awake.
i know it is them who take the cattle
out to the lands to feed;
i know it is them who water the fields,
or work in the barn,
or milk the cow,
and take it to the big people's houses.
these children's voices, hands, and whips
are welcomed by the plant and the animal
and i can already hear them 
speak out loud
"thank god the adults did not bother us!"
for the children are always sweet.
and the animals and the plants know it all.
and yet, that was not all!
untouchables they said.
thank god , these were ostracized
and were kept away 
from the bad influences (in fact)
of the affluent.
these hands are human
these hearts are that of Whitman's.
these are god's souls sailing in life.
unannounced, India promises me joy,
that can never rise abroad, in another land. 
or perhaps may. 
in utter simplicity,
i am joyfully a Man.
i want to be nothing.
other than that,
i want to be nothing
short of a man, first be a man,
be a man first! 
even in the war
when there is brief silence
the soldier and the refugee
will join hands in friendship
and realize the harmful nature of man
brushing it aside, for a while.
but the scorching sun will return
the breeze will be for a while,
only for a while.....

 10.   faces 

naked and bare
it never bore any signs of belonging
to any man-divided ethnic group.
It remained as nature desire it to be.

It was not belonging to man.
It was a gift loaned to man.
when the time was up
it was taken back promptly.

Black or White,
smile was the same for all.
Joy or misery was the same for all.
Depression or exhilaration 
was the same for all.

 Poor or Rich, it expressed 
it's uniformity 
when it came to disease and death.
it expressed with out discrimination.
Literate or illiterate.

Life was not different for it.
When greed or ego possessed the soul
or bio sex urge dominated the mind,
it was the same for all,
including the forest tribal.

I stood stunned in front of faces
that shook my heart and soul
and announced delicately
we were together here and now 
and death stayed silent in our future.

separating or not separating us.
faces that acknowledged 
that there were man built barriers
between us.

Faces that yet challenged 
these barriers.
Across these barriers we flew like rivers
Biggest long established barriers 
became mere threads
or a just a dress separating the body from naturalness.

Thunder struck I kept
looking back at it again and again
It launched not ships
but dreams for me.
sometimes what pulls us
is fanciful
when reality and mysticism
pull me
i go with it to any great distance to any state 
or situation for i believe the faces 
easily than the written words.

faces can't cheat
what they mean to say to me
i do not despise faces
for some or many they may be rough or ugly
But like the rose plant 
there are thorns for security 
and the flower is soft 
and deep inside in every one
is there a man without a conscience
is there a man without a sensibility for love
some shall not display soft and pliant ness 
as through the rough years
they have become solidified and roughened
yet they are compositions not of ill will
 but of steady state
There are a thousand landscapes
upon the human face and a million seasons 
sweeping the territory.

and it never yet turns senseless while alive.
enclose it in your arms
or embrace it 
let it rest on the chest
it is a treasure
understand it 
and  it is enhanced in its worth 
or love it, pity it, comfort it.




I am not a God !
I could not take care of lives,
of the earth; 
If I think I am God,
it is a myth;
I am not a flower,
I could not give out fragrance;                         
I am not soft to touch I offend,
If I think I am flower,
It is a myth.
I am a dinosaur, for survival I go rampant
I ravage I've torn their bodies 
and  eaten them the people of Iraq!
I am a monster 
blood oozes from my mouth;
I 've realized it. 
It is not a myth.
Law and Order not for me.
Law of give and take are not for me.




12. longing to join the nature's joy


my heart is,
longing to join 
the festival 
here there is no lack of communication.  
everything has its own godly spirit.
everything is compassionate.
no plots are laid in their minds,
to ensnare us,
unlike men living under its shade.
in communion with everything,
one has only to undress again and again;
for a lasting relationship
a union is not ever disappointing 
but invigorating.
come, i hear the tree speak:
****""come, I've  grown for you!
only for you,
come lean on my strong shoulders. 
lean on my back, 
on my long long spine,
and as i breathe on 
through the leaves on the top.
i am proud of you, 
when you lean on me.
your weight is nothing.
it supports me.
your thoughts as pleasant as the wind/ 
only i cant think as you do."" ****
so you' ve come!! 
so says the wind;
lapping on my face,
as water on shores of a lake;
so you've come!! 
the wind god sent, 
puts her finger through  my hair
in this game; 
you' are going to look 
madder than ever! 




       poems 1  to 12 ends here  




        22.   POINT OF DEPARTURE


There is a time that arrives.
The time for departure; 
For departing from the way you came,
from all the ways, the wrong ways.
Yes this is the time, this is the point;
If you miss this,  then you miss 
the last chance of living your life.
This is the last chance 
for correcting your ways,
for changing your ways.
This is the test and challenge 
for your will.


  23.    A    L O U D S P E A K E R 

and a TV or Monitor screen
both met;
it looked as though 
a poet,
met an artist-painter!!




         24.the flag of white.  


the bull dresses up,
and waits outside,
armored ;
as the galleries fill up with bulls.
the ground is silent,
as the noise of the crowd
deafens ears,
at the galleries.
the bull and other fighting bulls
take up their positions,
waiting to see,
the violent man let out
from the man shed;
as the man comes out,
the drums sound;,
he charges into the scene,
violently, and the bull on the horse
pierces his shoulders with an arrow.
and the bull holds the banner,
the man gets more angry
seeing the flag of white.


          back to top

        25.      THE NADIR

The chief executive is the leader.

He is all alone.

As he rose in the career,

it all started happening;

People at his level

left him and discarded him

and he became

all alone.

This was the story


This can be anywhere,

in any organisation, 

be it of the Organisation

or its labour union ;

Any association of people

and of employees.

Their leader is also the same;

However for evil tasks

all came together cheerfully

cheating the institution.

They started laughing together

leaving him,, all alone,

when he did good things

doing justice to his org.

He was the leader.

The wind blew;

The sun shone;

Nobody was with the leader;

He was all alone;

Then there are those backbiters,

those grapevine dealers, and vendors,

and stoopers, 

who tried to reach the hearts 

and brains of high places

and reached  successfully

(playing psychology on the leader)

the mind of the leaders

for wanton benefits;

and thereafter the good workers

were ditched, 

the crops were killed 

and the weeds were greener and greener.

They pretend they are together

though they would not in fact be ;

The leader wanting

to do justice to all,

always remain alone, all alone;

Others keep in company

and undermine the org.

The good remain away

from all this mess

and never open their mouths;

The good without the spine.

The bad with the spine

ship shape!

The bad are organized!!

The good are not.

They are divided on petty issues.

The bad tolerate difference.

among their peers!!

and come together.

The good are divided on petty issues,

like spouses fighting over spilt milk

and getting divorced.

The chief executive is made a fool of.

He never knows, he is made 

to stay blissfully ignorant of realities.

Truth should never triumph, never

the workers know after all.

They have been there for so long.!!

The results are pretty misleading.





     26.  The Screen, The  Slate..

( in Memorium...)


There was no life.

All that that were moving,

as pictures  disappeared.

All that that was scratched

as pain and pleasures,

the griped, the revolted


the love and the hate poems,

all, all disappeared, 

from the slate. Now what? 

I garlanded the old mother 

of my friend

and came out the door;

The Old woman lay dead.

                     poems 22 to   26  end  here


-  D.Parameswaran, 56 yrs, male, US awarded poet,

   yoga naturelifestyle bio laws propagandist,  INDIA

Write  E mail



13  earth holidays, earth in spring

14.  love poems A) For the years to come ;

               B) my meaning is different 

15.     not good , even as death   

16 .    the moon of  you  and  me 

17.     your smile amidst, has been a windfall

18.    A walk at night fall

19.    not for long

20.    death poems

21.    a bird in the  middle of the road,  lay dead