The race is to the swift
Happy be or sad, like a long journey
Life is, and burden man aught to carry,
Heavy— let thine step be slow and steady,
That ye should stumble not in a hurry,
Old Buddhist wisdom, feeling its oats, said;
Be steady and firm like a mountain wall,
Deep like ocean, mild like moon to thine stead,
Echoed Jain thought; it matters none at all
How slow ye walk long as ye walk the way,
A Confucius creed more chaos did spread;
In too much of hurry, ye go astray,
Slow down to no movement, reach there un-sped,
Pondered Osho; the race, said Christ, not to the swift,
Shall thine goal gift; but world still races to the lift!
_____________________________________________ __________
This is a tongue-in-cheek kind of sonnet. Thoughts presented
are serious, but the underlying tone is light. All spiritual
wisdom advises men to move slow and steady to the goal, and
yet the world seems to be in a mad hurry; it's a rat race in
every field, as the Volta, just half of the last (14th) line suggests.
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poem by Aniruddha Pathak
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Save me O Lord from all this change
‘Look abroad thro' Nature's range,
‘Nature's mighty law is change'1;
Yea, change is everything, comm'ner or king,
Change is progress; or left I'm so to guess.
Open up and sooner shall thine life change,
Advised Buddha, and there's a rainbow's range
Of wisdom; so taught I thought me to change,
Soon to change mind from no mean a challenge.
‘If ye like not a thing, go ‘head, change it,
‘And if ye can't, change, change the way ye think'2,
If not, there's still a way: to wait, to wit,
Till what ye like not, changes in a wink.
And I'm convinced, ‘nought in this world endure'3,
The world may either change the way I want—
A Buddhist way when things on their own cure!
If not, to a changed me, it least does haunt.
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poem by Aniruddha Pathak
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The poem and her poet
Death once told poor life defeated by life:
Life's no life if lived on the edge of knife,
No more a struggle, nor is full of strife,
Do ye know how many deaths is Death rife?
Death's all death; the same is not true of life,
Life tries to knot her up snaps when death's knife,
But I've heard a man asking on death bed,
Pray, tell me Death, how long ere I'm all dead?
To him, said death, straightening up his head,
Moments might when look like minutes of dread,
Minutes stretch and stretch into hours, instead,
When hours take days, and days, years, you are dead.
Remember, life's lived moment to moment,
‘Tis measured too in a moving moment,
Forget not: Death alone is permanent,
I dwell in life from birth, live life dormant;
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poem by Aniruddha Pathak
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Poetic tips — but read my lips
A piece gets writ not ere ‘tis penned,
Poorly or well, hailed or hollered,
To have tried is not to have sinned.
A good one gets born from no good,
Poorly penned better is than no poem,
Get started, fodder is someone's fond food.
A poet, howso good or great,
Has poor poems writ sans number,
Without one, no'ne can a good one create.
It sure does help— a theme of some heft—
Love always is as is death, destiny,
The canvas vast is; nothing need be left.
And yet beware, heftier a theme,
Deeper does lie the devil in details,
What surfaces from bottom is fine cream.
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poem by Aniruddha Pathak (2011)
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Power paves from cave to grave
Man has paddled to the powerful and strong,
Worshipping what would not to his wish wield,
Commanding weak-kneed, committing all wrong,
E'er since the days of caves and battlefield,
Power from the days of cave, power to the grave,
Power in the name of principles to save.
He that rises to heights of stratosphere,
He that holds power to heart's near and dear,
Afraid of honest peer, always in fear
Of losing power, scared that law may interfere,
Afraid, flow of power may interrupt,
To him does power conspire to corrupt.
And today stray caps in sarkari house,
Looking holy in chair, or harmless cows,
The polling polls once return them to rule,
Turn in to bull as crown's precious jewel,
The powerhouse ready power to disburse,
To nurse cronies from people's tax-paid purse.
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Kadambs
When I see them so close from my terrace,
In sway, to and forth in the evening breeze,
Their brown leaves falling off, as if from grace,
With every little burst of monsoon squeeze,
Those yellowed waiting to fall in careless ease,
I wonder if man should learn from trees:
Their endless patience, their resigned frisson
To life, bowing to the will of Nature,
In tune with time, the mood of every season,
Standing tall still triumphant in stature;
Man but admiring from distance, and cool,
Remains the student of a condescending school.
There's something so peculiar of rains so rife,
Which do things strange to me, to trees alike;
It's not water, an elixir of life,
(Trees draw water through roots, through leaves from air,
(And plants can be watered in pots and pans.)
When I water my potted plants they smile,
My worry is o'er-watering,
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poem by Aniruddha Pathak
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If bodies of their own heal
I
Two scores of ripe years ere, remember I,
At shower, shaving mirror, shaping hair,
Bending elbow when turns annoying nigh,
I wonder when, how my hurt hushed in there
Unknown to me, as seasons oft set in
Early or late, till one day forced are we
To tune into the change though not keen;
More than the dull pain, hurt irritates me.
The medic I consult, cool as was I,
But more sure, call it a tennis elbow,
Me in protest, not having played the game,
Laugh it off a little respectfully,
The doc unmoved as e'er, letting me know:
Oh, just the same, it is no more than name.
II
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poem by Aniruddha Pathak
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