On love, passion, memory, feeling and marriage – A poem

I have been a bit of an artsy loser this summer with the women, but that has lead to reflection, and I am back on track to my best in the last 3 years here, with a poem on a theme varied from what I’ve done before, passion too. There is one poem ‘Reuniting with my Love’ but that is fictitious, this is drawn from my life, mostly here, in the East, where between two people, there is always something, if not desire, something enigmatic. Something we understand, that is special. Sending love to you all. I am over, the Baroque Romanesque Sky, and yes, getting shafted. Happens to the best, or the artsy losers, and we all get old, the world belongs to the young. But it’s too young for marriage, and there’s always time to write.

____________________

It has been long since I knew love,
Passion, feeling, I understand still,
But not the sweat, and the turmoil,
And the scent of love, I am no expert,
At love, for the act of love is where I fail,
And lose, to any woman I love,
A failing I do not know, but in the past years,
Six or seven let’s say, there are a few,
Experiences in sweetness, and edge,
I stop understanding power in these times,
Few and far between that they are,
For my will, I forget, and become the kiss,
Expert, from brow to cheek, to lips,
But this I regret in my life, I have not
Kissed many lips, and some lips of those,
That I kissed, I wish, I had not kissed,
In hindsight, but yes, memories are memories,
And holding someone smaller in my arms,
That is easy, in the east, the orient,
for I am 100 kilos, and 5 foot 10 inch,
And know pleasure, and understand her,
But I wish now, for the escape, of a woman,
Another, I admire, and respect, but I do most,
And love, well, passion first, I am old and weary,
And if I’m not careful, passion will take me to marriage,
When in my heart I wait for someone, from close to home,
Who is far west, or maybe another, secretly,
Who I know, but doesn’t know, that in my heart,
I feel unrest, and the desire, for lips, and cheeks,
And hair, and to feel one, with a woman,
And give in, for that is me, and I do,
In writing, but I am careful, and wary,
Wedding bells are not in my plan,
My heart belongs to someone else,At least for a year.

On love, writing, getting blocked by a loved one for a Baroque Romanesque sky and my favourite coffee shop where I may never go again (for a different reason) and making sense of my again after a vague year – Bit of a rant

So, the title basically. Can’t say it all. I’m in Delhi-NCR, India. And basically, a lot of ‘life’ happened in the pandemic and I was blocked by this woman I’ve loved for 3 years in a distant way, I messed up, I was a bit high, on bipolar endorphins, but I didn’t say anything rude, but I was way out. And I have retired from life, in the temple of my home, recovering now from hurt, writing, and yes, I may be published soon, early next year, working next year, my poetry, so there are things to look forward to. But this year has been a mess. I also, chatted with some much younger girl, early twenties, I’m 31, I swear I didn’t know, I was following her on Instagram, in lockdown, and fell in love with her too, and she’s gone too, to a better place, the promised land, and I wrote her a letter and said farewell. What a year privately. The highlights. And rehab. My life. May coronavirus end soon, I need to travel, without an effing mask, please. I’m trying to rant, but I’m clearing my head, bear with me.

I promise, more of my standard introspection, and romanticism stuff soon. Promise. In the run-up to Christmas. Stay blessed, crazy year. Too many have died. Too young, each.

I once loved a girl

I once loved a girl, not so long ago,
And she did not love me the same,
I made the mistake of pouring my heart,
My soul, the truth of my every moment,
Almost to her, on Whatsapp, and she,
Seemed to not care, but I loved her,
And gave her gifts of writing, and then,
Was summarily forgotten. Have I told you,
Of her beauty? Her radiance? And how,
Her work has inspired me to truth,
And light and expression, but differently?
The block hurt, in society, my writing,
Is considered BS, while as art, just like this,
On social media, it holds some meaning,
What is this difference, my writing is me,
I am not ‘Content’, I am expressing,
And I have lost a love, for this difference,
For my writing to her was a waste of time,
And maybe I shouldn’t write to people,
For they hesitate to write to me,
And now I use writing, to people,
To define space, and find time, to myself,
When others wish to see me,
But I mourn the loss of this girl,
Of who I said once to the mother,
Is a rose, like Hafiz said, waiting to bloom,
And did, but then, I showed her,
A Baroque Romanesque sky, one she,
Herself could see that day, and my eyes,
And forwardness to see her, removed her,
From my life, I hope it was her choice,
And not some fools, there are too many fools,
Dictating to women, when they understand nothing,
Lost in a world, of feminism, without tools,
Destined always to fail, and be governed.

Lonely – Melancholic – Tough year – Reflecting, ‘hoping’ somewhere

It’s almost Diwali, the festival of lights, but a lot is going on in the world, from elections in the United States, to India, and South Asia etc.

I can barely think about the world now, I have to force myself too. My mother left today, to be with my father who works elsewhere, I live in the family home in India.

The immediate feeling of loneliness is always hard. I’m sad, and depressive, which is fine, melancholy. But it was a rollicking last 6 weeks, with me making decisions, and writing a lot, on social media about my personal life and what I care about.

I’ll be slow for a while I know, just low. My default normal is a little low, but I’m always hopeful, just the feeling, not optimistic at a time like this. I’m 31 you see and feel frightened, life, my mental health pills, being lonely, alone, no one to love and care for, and a writer, trying to make it.

I’m getting published in New Delhi, by a pretty prestigious editor of poetry. I’m looking forward to that, deep down, or not, I don’t know, I feel, what next? What’s the point? It’s a bit defeatist today, and I get like this often, but I don’t often write about it. Maybe not depression, cause I function well, relatively, but I’m not so social, but happy by myself, reading, writing, and embracing the writer’s life.

Just downloading thoughts on the place that’s safest to me here. This WordPress here, and my family, after 3 years of irregularly posted romanticism. This is what goes onto it. This is romanticism too in a way, the wallowing maybe, and feeling, sad and hurt. I think it heals something. I’m trying to embrace but it takes time. Maybe till Diwali, 10 days, and then a change, but I’ll walk more, and listen to music, though I don’t want much besides my staple, relaxation playlists, like jazz, chill celtic fantasy, classical piano etc.

I may edit some of my writings from the last 7 months from the pandemic times, when I really gave it everything, but I’ll abandon some to, on principle. Something new I want to try. Not to hoard. But to choose.

I wish everyone love, healing, and time, and maybe some dose of family, which I’ve been blessed with this hard year.

If you read this and you’re from America, send a note or call your congress representative, when the dust settles, to be nice to India. India’s healing, and dealing with a lot, and the American Government might be tough on us, for doing business and trading with China and having diplomatic ties with Tehran.

Tehran, Iran, is as far from New Delhi, as Houston is from Mexico City I think, a three hour flight. And China and India, have a land border, like Canada and the United States. But politics. Just being hopeful. I support such things in my ‘public’ social media life.

And wishing you a happier America. It’s been a tough year and pandemic.

Time, wounds, this year,
The year does not pass,
It lingers, autumn turns to winter,
There are those we loved,
Who are gone, Diwali is sombre for me,
I shall pray, to Goddess Lakshmi,
And Christmas will be muted too,
But maybe we will remember God,
And all of us, have some room,
To move forward in 2021.

Will be writing here.

On being a man, 2020, the year of the pandemic, and life, and moral corruption, and goodness and women – Early winter, Oct 2020- With Illustration.

Kindness, love, joy, truth and light.
Darkness, pain, emptiness, and decay.
These are maybe two sides of the same coin.
We all suffer from both at the same time.
Wounds, fester, but what is good?

Sometimes, the good is with those,
Who are damned, and suffer,
In measure, weight and balance,
For in labour, and living, surviving,
There is greatness in moral terms,

Than who? Than those who ride,
On the backs of privilege,With life easy,
Almost, but participating,
In corruption, and not moving enough,
To be of note to the sands of time.

Who can say what is good and wrong?
There are laws, that is true,
Are those laws just, and are those,
Who enforce those laws, fair,
We go in circles, you and I, and she,

I have wronged the world of women recently,
But will be rewarded by them too,
And then in time, removed from society,
Hidden, in plain sight, a turquoise,
Or an opal, a treasure, but only to a few.

Why hide? When the world can be won?
Why run so fast, that stars and sky and moon,
Take note, and the sun slows, and itself,
Disappears, forgotten, when hell pauses,
And heaven says, there are seven,

Choose where you go lad, you’re almost 32,
What have you achieved? Some letters,
Some hearts won, some hearts lost,
What is your worth lad? Why insult women,
With logic, eternal, but faithless,

When time, time, has already said,
Your race is won, but you don’t do enough,
Heaven is not enough you say,
The stars above wait, for your sails,
To unfurl, there are things we must endure,

Some are born to endure, some to fight and win,
Some to shine sometimes, and some to love,
What would you say, to these voices?
That guide me always, I say,
I am the ship, sailing in a sea,

A metaphor unknown, for I have never sailed,
And I know no other feeling,
The cannon were brought out in force for once,
But they are there always, resting,
For a time again, when I know,

The stars come calling again,
And the moon chooses to aid me in sleep,
And the sun feels shame to shine,
And the world, it beckons, and says lad,
Maybe the women don’t know what to do,

For once, please, be a man, and sail, sail true.
And those who see, will see wonder,
Some substance, flawed, scarred,
With beauty, but, at heart, for a moment,

Not fair, not just, not honourable, but true.

Getting Older, a tough year, and autumn and a poem on life, finding love, mortality, and human nature

I have felt love this year, and the winter comes now,
I have felt loss this year, to all I love,
And pain for my heart and mind,
And to this earth, that I and many others love,
And the fear of sickness, that plagued, and persists,


I have also taken from that which I love,
For once, but without mercy but with grace,
I am not a prince, a human, a humanist,
One who does not feel privileged sometimes,
But maybe that is the privilege, that me,

I, someone who can go to Isfahan someday,
And has roamed Boston, and Providence,
And wonder, why Jerusalem, when there
Is also Samarkand, North, with snow due,
In Khyber Pass, unguarded to the West,

I am not a star, as they sometimes allege,

Dark, or faint, or loving, or distant,
I am me, and I believe the world can be better,
And one, any person, can make better,
If they wish, with their thought and deeds,
And it is not easy to make it worse,

But all that is good can be unmade,
And so it shall be made back,
And men love women, and women men,
And mistakes are made, I have made a few,
But time, the sands of time, forgive a soul,


And comfort the mind, but we must choose sometimes,
To give to the world, which carries on anyway,
Or be kind to ourselves, and pursue love,
For it is Autumn, and the eagles and hawks abound,
In Haryana, and in Delhi, and the Mughals are gone,

But memories linger, of a time, when princesses,
Were wed young, and did not rule the world,
And men like me had freedom, a say,
Beyond what we wrote, or our labour,
But this is a better world, a princess reads,

But this is a better world, a princess reads,
Or three, a Maharajah, a Nizam, my loves, two, or four,
And friends, old, lost, gone and found,
Landed, wealthy, not so wealth,
And those who build starry palaces in dust,


I have no time for justice, when there is time,
Yes, time, for rest, reflection, and love,
For life, the world, the people, and compassion,
In the hearts of men, women, and those,
Exalted in the eyes of God,

Who are not of them,
Not blessed, but of consequence, yes,
And capable of love, and rest, and grace,

It is hard for me to forgive,
For I have felt too much pain,
To feel forgiveness with ease,
But I am forgiving by nature,
And in this fault, I shall know my end,

This I predict, in a woman, probably,
And not a honeyed cup, a woman that I love,
For I am sweet with most women,
Most times, and for a kiss from one I love,
Most women I like and am drawn to,

Would steal with ease my life and spirit,
And I am not malleable,
But hay, straw, tied together,
Immune now to fire, for I am fire and starlight,
But prey, for any beauty, willing, to conquer.

The Feminine Archetype.
Getting older. 31. A white strand 😉

Travelling in Venice – With Pics- One night, 36 hours, solo 2014 – Reminiscing after a tough year when travel is tight

So, I’m just reminiscing. 2014. September. I was in Venezia. Italia was a special treat after finishing my Master’s and Thesis (which is online open source – Nuclear Energy and Sustainability for India), a rigorous internship at the United Nations ESCAP, and then me cajoling my parents. One of the highlights, was me alone, in the two weeks for a night, and two days in Venezia.This is just 12 hours, from 10 PM, to 10 AM, I slept just 5 hours that night, my one night in Florence, before waking up and having a double shot of espresso, with Dolci, with Italians at 6 AM, who were showered, bathed and ready for the day, in boots and leather. No tourists.

William Dalrymple, distinguished author and literary figure, figurehead of the Jaipur Literature Festival, India, Mughal Nawab Britisher of New Delhi currently wrote books like ‘In Xanadu’ and ‘In the Shadow of Byzantium’ which I read in the early 2000s, when I was in school. I am 31 you see, and I was 14-16 then, and 24 when travelling for this 48 hour excursion solo before Verona for 2 days and 2 nights, truly the highlight of the trip.I wanted to experience something different. I booked an Air B N B far from the touristy part of town at Ospedale, and walked maybe 40 kms over two days. Had falafel, maybe Pasta at a Florentine Steakhouse in Venezia, saw a Vivaldi Concert, can’t find the pics anymore, someone seems to have cleared up my drive. I haven’t changed my passwords in 6 years really. But I can track low-tech ‘high tech’, with a simple encrypted purchase on a secure credit card. Will find out who, someday. But it doesn’t matter.

I have memories of the Quattro Stagioni, done by a troupe in a hotel Vivaldi may have composed that famous piece Four Seasons in.If I could write like William Dalrymple, I could, I’ll try and do a more readable story on Verona, closer to my heart. Juliet, or Giuletta, after Letters to Juliet, I found her you see, and she’s never let me go, I believe in faith. I may never marry, and will always know love, this was the realisation in Verona in 2014, and that I would know love at Venezia, where I saw at 11 pm, an old couple, dance, with 40 others, to beautiful music, timeless, in the sqaure, by the Cathedral and the Doge’s palace, and I would visit with a woman someday who would understand love. I was inspired to emulate William as an Indian in Europe.Venezia and Verona are special. Verona tomorrow or day after.

I might do a small travel book on Amazon with my journeys through Italy, 60 pages, 60 pics, with the consent of my friends for pictures, I met a few in Rome, and Florence, Lucca, and Tuscany who made the trip memorable. Amalfi is off the record. The Amalfi Coast. The seafood pizza. Beauty, magic, me and my first love then. We move one. East and West. Forza. Both, Bello Della Vita.Culpe di Astra. Inclinat Siempre Italia. “Struck by stars. Inclined forever towards Italy.”

Waking up on the coldest Autumn Day – A poem – Love and the Watchful gaze of women – Baby Byron Poem

Just got up, a bit early, napped again, and now woke again for sunrise. Listening to some blast from the past music, like Billy Joel, River of Dreams, and the soundtracks of Kimi No Wa, and Spirited Away. I speak some Japanese, I lived there 03-07, went to school in Tokyo, so it’s nostalgic. I haven’t but it’s nostalgic. Here’s a poem to capture the mood.

Yesterday, I made a promise to an intended,
She has another life, in America,
But her roots are here in India,
I make promises to Japan,
And wine, and to Australia.

I met a lovely friend who works, for a consultancy group,
I am a writer who dreams of starlight,
Has been charmed by the moon, seduced,
And is lost and content, the women,
They seek me for beautiful experience,

But will I marry my heart’s desire?
When she is what I would have hoped.
To be in life, with her work, beauty,
Silliness, entrepreneur spirit, maybe I am the prince,
Of Corporate India, who says, you are blessed,

With Starlight, no more worries forever,
And she has the life of her dreams,
Our interconnections, again,
Like overlapping constellations,
But market, for most times,
Nothing ascendant with no descendants.

Our stars, have brought us together,
Me and many of my friends,
We have seen a pandemic through,
Love is possible, if marital bliss is not,
But I find, ore, me, hitori di,

Kawaii dakara, once more, baka ni narimasu.

Onna tachi sekai no mieru ore,
Jyosama,
Kowakunai, tanoshi.

<Me alone, because I’m kawaii, I become stupid again,
The women of the world watch me,
Queens, but I am not scared, happy, in fact. >

#DR

Autumn Reflections- October in India – Silent Wedding Bells – A poem and thoughts – With pictures and art

I woke up early today, and have been going through a period of strain and stress. Well, there was the pandemic, and I did my bit as a citizen actor, you know, what I could, with what I have, and clapped when I could, and wrote to politicians and media and social media everywhere in the world. But I rest now, in my roots, and my ancestry which I understand better now through this time, one of solitude, even in public and introspection. I have socialised more with people I don’t know, servers, who struggle to make ends meet, in cafes, and books shop owners and seen the good/bad/ugly side of human nature, without death.

God bless me, maybe, my grandparents all lived to 75-89 and my maternal grandfather passed at 2016. I didn’t worry much this pandemic, but I was responsible. I have grown used to solitude, and the view from my balcony, cafes, where I sit alone, and the moon, she and I have mended our relationship with the help of Mughal Queen, Empress Jahanara, and maybe Empress Noor Jahan too, in my mind, heart, soul and even body, and the stars, well their have been starry nights, but I dream of night when I sleep, don’t fear the day, and still love Sunfall, but feel anxious at night. Vulnerable to dark forces, but so in love, from someone I sort of know from childhood and social media and so out of reach and far, pandemic magic, that I know I will marry. And it is done.

To who? It is uncertain. But I am open-minded and liberal. People realise this now. But yes, Silent Wedding Bells and me. An after pandemic poem.

I wake up, well rested, early,
An hour before sunrise,
Much like my grandfather,
And grandmother, paternal,
And maternal.

I am a confluence of North and South,
India, Karur, in Coromandel, once Golconda,
A great Hindu Kingdom, you may know,
The Nizam of Hyderabad, and the Mughal court,
Maternal, with ties to Chandni Chowk.

Silver Street, or moonlight boulevard,
That famed crossroads for tradewinds,
For 500 years in South Asia,
I will go soon to buy Turquoise,
For I wish to marry and found a worthy girl.

Will I, won’t I? I don’t know.
Her, the chance is minimal really,
There are chasms between us,
With things that bind, but I have hurt her,
For I understand women, and wonder,

How I sleep so peacefully.

Time, it is 2020, the cricket is on,
And I write, letters, finally,
To India, after practicing,
From the capital, with England,
While I take pills in India.

But, honestly, I believe in guild,
And editors, and citizen journalism,
When all else does seem lost,
Except my voice and a calling,
News I believe in,

Love, is greater, moonlight,
I love today, sleep, I lost,
An hour, for I wake after sunrise,
Not tired, not sleepy,
Dreaming of Samarqand,

And lost princesses,
While the world, our world,
Deals with herself,
And I wonder, could I romance the world,
From a French Cafe?

President Emmanuel Macron would understand.
Maybe Justin Trudeau,
Maybe a journalist, a lovely one,
Or another princess,
I enter circles, there are no exits from.

I hide, in, Samarqand,
And Chandni Chowk,
The moon last night was beautiful,
Very few stars, but lamps like fairy lights,
And the sun will rise now,
And there will be sunfall,

Sometimes, I feel fear,
But I can not, I say,
What happens if I feel fear?
I am a man, sweet, most times,
If I feel fear, I feel, my world collapses.

And then, I know, I have peace,
I am 31, older and more responsible,
What is my place in the world?
Just the same, Chandni Chowk,
Now Samarqand, maybe Lahore,

Sylhet, and marriage to a princess,
For they all are, one comparable to me,
I am 31 and taken, the inevitable occurs,
I rest, and mingle more freely,
Though for a while, I am alone.

Wedding bells.

#DR