songs of des pa ration, love and hope
TRANSCRIPT
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Songs ofDesperation, Love
and Hope
Saket Suryesh
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Copyright 2010 Saket Suryesh
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1463684029ISBN-13: 978-1463684020
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DEDICATION
To my wife, my family, my friends, my daughterAnd to Life, which broadly is little beyond those named before it
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CONTENTS
1 The Lighthouse
2 My Hands
3 The Goal
4 The Change
5 To Kill a Love
6 The Make-up
7 The Confession
8 The Flight
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
The Dreamer in Me
My Child
A Million Stars
The Moment Dew Drops
Taking up the Challenge
Spring Cleaning
Drop from the Heaven
A painter with Darkened canvas
To My Daughter
Patience
Coming Home
Solitude
The Moon, the Earth and the Ship
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know that the world exist between disaster and creation, it is in themiddle of extremes that life survives. These poems advices theyoung soul plagued with self-doubt to stay on the course for loveprepares you for the glory in a difficult way as Khalil Gibran had said
so wisely and beautifully:
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become
sacred bread for God's sacred feast.
And then tells youWhen love beckons you, follow him.Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfolds you, yield to himThough the swords hidden in his pinions may wound you
And when he speaks to you believe in himThough his voice may shatter you dreams
But then what would be the beauty of youth without itsdesperation and extremist attitude. I am amazed and astonished atthe depth of pessimism which I had thrown myself into. When youngand still survived to remain alive to be intoxicated with the nectar ofher love, as I grew older..
The two sections mark two sections of my life, if my life were a
book; it could be classified primarily into before and after her, herhere referring to my daughter.
I was the way I was when my wife found me, and though she wouldnot agree, I feel I have changed since my daughter found me.Earlier section reflects the time and age of extremes, when the calmof middle path was yet unknown and there was not room for smileslaced with sadness; the life was either at times laughing our headoff, rolling off on the mattress or was excruciating painful to the
extent of rendering everything meaningless and mundane. It was aworld full of bright colors, all vibrant and splendid, with the color ofgray missing from the splendid rainbow of youth. The poems writtensay those colors fading off as life slipped into a depressing
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SAKET SURYESH
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monotone. All the dreams dropped off like things falling off the tornbag of a tired traveler in a desert chasing a mirage. We like tobelieve that the mirage that we are chasing is a great job, a family, agreat dwelling place, and then you realize that the man who is in the
job, in the family, in the house is not you. It is some strange guy whosimply has no faith left in any of what you though as a possibledream and he rather laughs at you, and calls it an impossibledream.
It is very rarely that you come across events catastrophic or life-changing enough to shake you from your shoulder and wakes youup. I did survive through a catastrophe in my personal life some ten
years back which rather than arresting my slip on the quick-sand ofreality, further accelerated it as I slipped so fast and some of thatsand even found way into my mouth causing an unending bitternesswhich stayed on my tongue through the day. It was only three yearsback when I walked into the Nursery of Max Hospital in Delhi, on anuncharacteristically cool May morning, and saw a fascinating figurethere, which held on to my index finger with a curled palm, I didonce again think about the dream which I for long had startedconsidering as..Well and impossible dream. I clawed on the sand
over which I was slipping so fast into the abyss, as those blue,tranquil eyes looked at me. I compiled the set of essays last yearwith If Truth were to be Told and My daughter is helping me nowregaining all the idealism and romanticism which I left behindassuming it to be a necessary part of growing up, bit by bit, ( I donot know why in my poem written a decade early, in the depth ofdesperation, the ray of light came from my daughter, which I noteonly when I write it again here); hope with her help, by the time I die,
I will once again be a romantic and idealist that I was born as.
These might not be poems of great literary value, but these areof the feelings as a romantic and husband and a father. As thesepoems were written much before publishing was even a thought, itis written with the motto which to a great extent draws from whatSumerset Mugham had mentioned when he proclaimed in TheSumming Up, that I write for myself and myself alone, and I wouldfurther add that one writes the truest when one writes for oneself,
and when one does that, every single soul finds its voicesomewhere in those words. Those words written for a private worldgains public audience like a long, lost friend and magically seems to
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Late 1990s-Mumbai
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THE LIGHTHOUSE
Sitting by the Sea
My vision hits a lonely lighthouse,
Right on the other edge of the sea.
A mysterious thought comes
To my mind
What would it think?
If it could?
It would think
I would guess,
That how sad it would be
In spite of all the strength
With which it endures
The mighty waves of the sea
With all its force and unloving salinity
Day and night, year after year
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If it were to die tomorrow
How lonely and how silent and wasteful
That death would be;
Even when the great lighthouse
On which the sun is at this moment
Shedding its last splendor,
Has never known love,
It has never been the lamppost
Under which lovers have met,
And fought, and separated
And wept in desperation, still,
I believe,
If the lighthouse could think,
It would think this forlorn cold,
Colder than the coldest night it had sustained
And
Here I am
Having had experienced the brightest
Lights of loves eternal splendor,
Sit in the gloom of the dusk,
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In loneliness,
Dying bit by bit, word by word
Silently,
Suddenly
I feel, I have even started
Smelling like a corpse,
Rotting on the edge of a heartless city.
.(1999 At Bandstand, Mumbai)
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MY HANDS
My hands have
A rebel streak in them,
They remain
Outstretched in search of
Unyielding love,
Even when I tell them
What they are seeking
Is not meant to be found;
For love is what poetry is all about
And imagination is what love is all about,
Poetry is a yearning
For something
Which is not to be found,
But,
My hands are not only rebellious
They are stupid and stubborn
I believe,
Even when I die,
To my embarrassment,
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They will remain outstretched
To catch hold of
A second of that silken palm
Of love and happiness and understanding
Which does not exist,
Which only lovers dream about
And poets write about.
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THE GOAL
A goal you set,
Early in the life,
Draw map and lines
Depicting path to take you there.
You get yourself readied
For the journey
All packed with nerves and hopes
You walk through the fire and
Sleep through the rain,
Cocooning and protecting
Your real self in your arms
As a mother would protect her newborn.
The Self that you thought
Would make you likeable
To the Goal
Which stares and smiles
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At you with trace of wickedness.
You fight and choke
And break and struggle
And come out from all
With all except the self.
Which had slipped past
Your closed arm
Through the night of greatest struggle.
Lost and broken
With no one to hold on to
You look around with
Eyes blood-shot red with
Tears dried up, and find
Wind has blown away
The muddy earth
On which you had made the
Paths and blueprints.
The Goal sneers at you,
The wickedness of smile
Now open and challenging,
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As you stand lost, with head
Hanging down in shame and agony
As a traveler in desert chasing the Oasis,
With painful memories
Of the One for whom you left the world,
The One, who left you, for the world.
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THE CHANGE
All,
That I wanted
Never to change
Has changed;
And, Now,
Nothing changes.
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TO KILL A LOVE
We loved each other
And stood together;
While the world around us
Sneered and conspired
And tried hard to break us apart.
So much of time and energy
The world wasted in ignorance
For little did it know
That it would take merely
Two thousand cigarettes and
One thousand miles
To kill a love
Smoothly and silently.
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THE MAKE-UP
I make my way
Through a bunch of
Smart, buttoned-down shirts
To catch her glimpse;
She notices me
And as I extend
My bleeding palms to her
In anticipation
Of a balmy touch which I
Have kept alive in my memories;
She suddenly smiles and
Turn to people around her and says
Gosh, the blood on his skin
Looks better than
The shade of lipstick that I use.
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Jesus, when He appears
In my dream
To which He smiles with kindness
And replies
Son, I forgive sins
Not crimes, which are built
Not out of innocence
But express desires and love thus
Cannot be forgiven
But can find only one resolution
Which I have given to humanity
That, which is called death.
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THE FLIGHT
The ocean
Spread beneath in
All its sparkling vastness.
Undeterred by its immenseness
I kept on flying
Safe in the knowledge that
You would be flying right beneath me
As the night descended,
I kept on flying tirelessly
To the newer shores which
I was told carried
A great promise for us together,
But as the cold fell,
And night slowly started
To lose the might,
I thought of resting
For just a while,
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Believing in a fable
That when a kingfisher is tired,
The partner carries it through,
And stopped flapping my wings,
I kept floating and dropping,
And suddenly looked down
To find the sea
Staring at me with
All its anger and violence
And in desperation looked around for you
And found you on the shore
Singing to the melody of
The anticipated morning,
Happy in the knowledge of the day about to break,
Enjoying your happy song,
Little did you notice,
As the day was breaking on your shore,
So was I, on the other end of the Sea.
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THE DREAMER IN ME
There was always an
Idealist in me,
Who used to look across the horizon
From the windows,
And tell me strange stories
And made me dream wild dreams.
He gave me something called faith
In my childhood, which I took for a gift.
Offered me some funny colored glasses
Through which I looked at the world
And it looked wonderful.
Those glasses, though colorful,
Were so fragile, they kept breaking
One after the other,
Till there were not one left to look through
And splinters all across the floor
With no place to walk around,
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I danced and danced and danced,
Until the day when my bleeding feet could walk no more,
And suddenly your face flew away from my eyes,
The trance broke and
With broken steps I embraced the idealist
And like brothers, this time, we wept together.
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MY CHILD
It is a cold, frigid night,
And a corpse lies on the sidewalk,
A stray dog comes and licks it
Few folks stand around,
Curious, sneering;
Someone laughs as I
Embarrassed
Try to avoid the view
For I know
What lies there,
It is my unnourished love,
A love, died out of cold,
Orphan and homeless,
I am about to turn
And slip away in ignominy;
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A little girl walks to the scene.
She covers the corpse
Hushes the dog away,
And pleads with people to support the funeral
I notice only then,
She walks just like me,
She is my daughter,
My angel, trying to cover
The sins of the past
And wash away the embarrassment of my present.
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A Million Stars
I wish I could give youMillions of stars with shining lights;
Wish I could get a thousand angelsTo sing you to sleep in toughest of nights;
But so big are the wishes
And so feeble are my hands
And chained and bruisedAnd good for no ends,
Still I wish you a life which is gay and game,For writ on the sky, right under the moonIs your blessed name.
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2008-Onwards
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The Moment- the dew drop
Why should I allow others to measure me,And extending the logic,Why should I allow myself to measure meAgainst a hypothetical -what-I should be?
What I am is true at the moment.That being the only truth which mattersAnd I wish to immerse myself into being that,Completely and fully,Being best and most ofWhat I can beAt this moment,Which is most precious of all the momentsGone by and about to come, because it is.. Now,
Of the uncountable dew drops descending on this earth,This is one drop which has fallen into my folded palms.
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On account of the strength that it has
To affect all the moments that are to follow;
Scared, I try to break a glance
Look around to find some reason
For trying the escape the piercing gaze,
Some shrub to hide behind;
In a split-second the moment is gone
But the moment which follows it,
Has the same potent strength,
Same piercing gaze and same pregnant opportunity;
I blame the bush, behind which I had hid myself,
For not being able to lock my eyes
With the expectant eyes of Now,
For not being able to rise to the occasion
For being short on the promise that I am,
As time runs over ruthlessly,
Over the dead corpse of what I could be.
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Spring Cleaning
I am doing some spring cleaning,
There are some broken pieces
Of my soul,
Which I had pushed under the bed;
Some broken dreams,
As colorful and piercing as
Broken glass bangles,
Carefully kept in small boxes;
Some hope of future,
Hanging like long-unused T-shirts,
Thrown to indifference
in the damp corner of my cupboard.
I have taken all them out,
and I have spread it in front of you;
Unashamed and unembarrassed
For you to see all that
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All the artifact smells of naphthalene,
Having spent long years in dark corners,
In the cupboard of my thoughts;
I show them to light and to you.
I show them all to you,
Not so that you will mock
And make me more aware of the cowardice
That made me push all that to dark corners.
I hope, you will help me
Clean them up,
Clear the cobweb of self doubts
Help me shine them up,
And see the reflection of my face in them once again.
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Drop from Heaven
I have been in love
With you for so long
That I seem
To have almost forgotten
What it was
To have you as a friend.
I care and worry for you
And about you,
But it has been long since
The last time that
I danced to the eternal dance
Of shadows which incessantly plays in your eyes
The love, which entered
Into our relationship
In sly, while friendship
Welcomed it, courteously,
It stayed back and slowly,
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Elbowed the friendship out;
So I long to be your long lost friend,
So I long to be your companion,
And your comrade-in-arms,
I urge you to therefore,
Take some time out of the routine;
Let us put a spanner in the
Uniform cycle of life,
Kick ourselves out of the long slumber
Which does not leave us
As we wake up in the morn,
And welcome our dear friendship,
Which is waiting outside our door
Through changing weathers
Let us call it in,
Set a table for three,
Get drunk as friends and equals,
And dance once more in ecstasy.
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I have been wanting it so much, my friend,
That one slight, hazy view of it,
Reminds me of that heavenly drop,
Which drenched our collective souls.
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The Painter with a Darkened Canvas
Artists of all hues,
Are drawn to the mountains,
To lush green landscapes
And a weather lovelier than the land,
Where wind blows as if
Giving the background score
To an opera;
Some are drawn
To the lovely sea shores,
Where the sound of the waves,
Coming and hitting on the shores,
Like long-separated lovers,
Gives rhythm to their brush-strokes,
As they paint their white canvases
With bright and vibrant colors
Of red and blue and gold.
I am a strange artist,
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Who sits in a desert,
Amidst the spread of immense sands;
A mirage appears in the front,
Right where the vision ends.
I stand there under the sun,
Which stares down at me with unforgiving eyes,
Waiting for the right view and the moment.
As the day begins to melt into the night,
And sun seems like the molten steel
Flowing down the conveyer of a steel factory,
I pick up the brush,
And with determined steps, return to the easel,
Alas, only to find the canvas
Smeared with dark ink all over,
How do I paint, with dark writ all over my canvas?
Alas, a masterpiece seems destined to
Die unpainted, in its own darkness.
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To My Daughter.
You are the blessed hope
Amidst the wretched dream that life is.
When you grow up,
You will become like me,
Ask me to prove my love for you;
Sometime by asking me to
give up all that I have lived by,
as an outdated idea;
Sometime, by asking me to give up my old man banter
As a proof of my love for you.
But for now,
My hand on your tiny shoulder
And a small pat
Is big enough a gesture
To make you feel the love and trust
And safety of your father's cuddle.
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As you briefly cry in your sleep,
And go back to your innocent dreams
The moment I pull you close on my shoulder..
I savor this love
Beyond demands and proofs,
Beyond doubts and questions,
Beyond trust and Betrayals.
As I feel a tiny, soft hand,
Closely holding to my fingers,
And silently hope against hope,
Pray to stretch this moment till eternity.
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Patience
I have heard,
That the patience is the calm,
That true love is noted for.
Forbearance and forgiveness,
Are two wings on which
Human soul soars up in the sky,
To reach out to the
Woolen and silken clouds,
Which,
Within its folds,
Keep hidden the diamond called love.
I for one, could never,
Understand this,
For me love was always,
A feeling in a hurry,
In a rush to be expressed and
Responded to.
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A violent, tempestuous
Rage, which
Certainly was dressed better than
The plain fury
As it wanted to give in a hurry,
and get in a flash.
I am amazed
When I leave you home,
Every morning, one after another;
You with sage-like serenity
And an understanding sagacity,
Blink your eyes to me,
With a charm, I had so far not known,
And a smile touches my cheeks
Like a feather, fallen from an angels wings.
I so much am struck with the little wisdom,
Of those little hands
Which let go of my finger,
At the right moment,
So I could fly away in solitude,
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Soaring high, soaring wide,
And come back to you, when tired,
Again in your little corner of comfort.
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Coming Home- To Raipur
Today I am back in an old city,
It is rather an old town
Which is struggling with a new city.
This is the city
Which knows me better than I know myself,
The way only a mother could know her child.
This land once saw
A young man, landing on its edge,
Holding dear to the dreams
Handed over to him by his parents,
And also ideals,
Which he hoped to hand over to his offspring.
This is the city,
Which stood witness to this sacred fusion,
Of what went before and what is to follow.
This City, so watched with so much
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Of indulgence and love
The struggles and the sparks
Rising out of the friction between what is and what should be
The boy, bruised the knees and knuckles
Of his souls,
Bleeding through drunken stupor of long, hot nights
Till an angel, who was watching him,
Silently, intently, as if waiting for the opportune moment,
Picked him up, washed and cooked for him.
As the boy got better,
Moved to a new city,
Which accommodated him but
could never take him as its own,
The angel offered him a future,
So sweet and as fragile as a dream.
And carrying that dream
He comes back into the city.
With one solemn dream in his heart,
The dream which is to be
Custodian of his all dreams and ideals,
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Which he first came to the city with.
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Solitude
Oh where art thou, Solitude,
My companion on cold nights and hot noons?
I miss you so much
that your absence
Leaves a blank in my wretched heart.
Come back
As I am so lonely
In the midst of so many people,
Come back
And comfort me
In your warm embrace, Oh solitude;
Take me on the journey to the hillock,
Where tall grass dances in wild winds,
Where a tiny rivulet,
That blue, sparkling stream,
Flows through the rocks,
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With youthful abundance
Where
Heart is the only mind,
Emotions is the only logic,
And love is the only guide.
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The Moon, the Earth and the Ship
The Moon,
Always revolves around the Earth,
Just as the Earth around the Sun,
It is the larger entity which
Always provides the axis to the smaller one,
That is what I took as the law of the nature,
And shunned out of my mind
Any thoughts of what would happen,
If one day
Things were to happen otherwise.
Long time back,
As a young man in love,
Sitting on the shores of Mumbai,
As the colors of the day,
Mingled with the colors of the night.
I tried to catch my breath
In the maddening pace
Of the City of no sleep,
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And thought of my love
Whose sole occupation those days
Was to be love-lorn and misty eyed.
I saw large, gigantic ships floating
Close to the shore,
Unmindful of my lazy gaze and thought,
How could such enormous structures
Depend on a small anchor
Dropped to the foot of the sea
To hold them to the shore,
In the midst of huge waves,
With no respect for anyone
But the Sun and the Moon?
Today, as loneliness struck,
So deep
Those voiceless tears
Wash away my conscience,
I held a heartbeat close to my chest,
The sole sound which marked
The epilogue to the book of my life,
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And suddenly I understood,
Earth will probably revolve around the Moon
When it is as crest-fallen as I am today,
And how a small piece of Iron could hold
The large ship together,
Through the gravest of the tempests,
When the love is as strong
As that which my little kid
Has for me.