POETRY PAGE 2-
the purpose of writing poetry is ?
expression, creativity, solitude - that was enjoyed
with muses - the Goddess of creation.
You write !! to make your soul sit down
from wandering endlessly.
It is written --1st to satisfy the reader
within the Poet himself
It is written --not for the reader or the audience!
When u look at the hell of life
the commercial mammoth giant lizards of
life ; and consumer man made out by the MNCs;
challenging the Gods of theEArth!!
the creative side is the blessed HAPPY SIDE
it is like a smile from a baby or a man or a woman
whose heart is clearn as a crystal and we know that
the smile is there right from the heart and not from the
2.1In spring she was magic
2.2Hypnotized, will lost to ruling beliefs,
2.3After love (awarded poem)
2.1In spring she was magic
In summer she was magic
In autumn she was magic
In winter she was magic
Each time I thought of her
I bloomed on my stalk
My mind going all fresh and green
Crossing the bridge somewhere
I chased the light
Life was, when birds went screeching
Right over my head.
I sat up from bed and wiped my eyes
Life was in the same place
I had left it.
World was in the same place
You were in the same place
I was in the same place
The, where was I a minute ago.
Only a minute ago, you, and I
The world and the people?
I saw everything ended.
Everything that piqued me
Day and night.
I saw both of us.
Only us, alive.
And a heaven right before us.
Where went all, when I woke up.
Hypnotized, will lost to ruling beliefs,
Them I saw walking down, the street
The workers, officegoers, housewives,
Children slowly were getting nationalized.
This cannot be disaccustomed later on,
They were programming you day and night
For a nuclear world end.
By ignorance, they have become
Your enemies plotting your tragedy.
You will soon forget
How the parakeet whistled,
And the flowers bloomed in spring.
Their places filled with money, distrust,
Range and lust, and sex.
I fear to stay alive anymore.
I have realized my fingers they can do
Nothing to improve the earth.
The poems they write are not read
Or followed, nor believed.
The day passes securing the day’s food and pleasures.
Tomorrow is nobody’s concern.
Not even the parents of children.
Hypnotized, will lost to ruling beliefs.
I see them waking down the street.
They seem exactly with the image
Of Caliban, toiling and toiling
Never knowing the work should end,
And the misery can subside.
And yet some love jumps toward them
From my heart, as electric spark.
Somewhere their prettiest image
Is finding it difficult to rise up.
That plant, that image will take
More effort and sacrifice
When oneday each one is in their right
I cannot walk turning my face away, I must but kiss every
One and pass down the street, as ants do it.
You touched me
You caressed me.
You ran deep into me.
I thought you were in love.
But all you wanted.
Was a handful of gold,
I knew your live was perishable.
Whatever remained flesh on me
You took, you ate, you spat
Leaving me hone on soul.
You mined me for wealth
Which will not last.
You polluted my blood
With your blood of poison.
You carried diseases in your body
And gave them to me and I took them
Life a wife would from her husband
Along with your lugh looking life love.
The air I breathed
You made of smoke
Smothering me to an arriving and
Out of fire
The fire in my body
That assembled me with nature
You made the destroying heat,
Naming it bomb, a nuclear armament
To protect the love of yourself.
Winds were my garments
That kept me from dust once,
And the eyes of the wild
You tore them into rags
Showing out, my body, where it should not be seen
Now it is too late to put your thoughts to work
Nor can your true love
Be of any sue to me
In giving me new life.
(Unpublished poem. Winner of Ist price in the Winter contest held in
January 1979 by the Indiana State federation of poetry clubs, Indiana)
- D.Parameswaran, 56 yrs, male, awarded poet, yoga,whitmanianlove propagandist,