Scene: A young, scholarly priest walks past the banks of the holy Ganga, as a pale yellow evening settles. Visibly brooding, he takes no notice of the sights and greetings around him, and makes straight for home, where, laying the plain jute satchel of books atop a wooden desk, he pulls out a loosely bound one and begins to write, just as the early eastern skies begin to darken.
Tag: hope
Night-time poesy: Unlatched
No… pray until your heart opens, like a door He quietly unlatched at dawn where every chant, spelled to silence breaks at the throat, to become bird-song... and you let your soul step out
(false) Hope
Don't worry, you'll be fineYou've got meIt's all for your own goodYou're on the right track Sure, within a month or soThere's nothing to fearOf course, I'm there for you You're my special oneIt'll all work outNo, it's not going to hurtI'm never going anywhere What are families for?I promise Happiness is just around the… Continue reading (false) Hope
Half agony, half hope
I know something of what the young soldier feels in the midst of battle; know something too, of the kind of hope a fortune teller can provide. In the grand chaos, I meditate before the silent cup...
Fistful of Words
Slipping like sand through my fingers, are a fistful of words
Nārāyaṇī
'Sita in Ashoka Grove' It was called Ashok-the grove of no sorrows...where, she, held by forcedwindled 'tween gloomand the faithful hopeof rescue by her LordSay, O, Tree, she spokein a dusked, despairing hourTo thy name be truelend me a branching handthat my hair may as rope free me in soul, if not in formAs winds,… Continue reading Nārāyaṇī
Hopium
© Hopium, your smouldering leaveskeep me swayingfrom glasses half full, and otherwiseyour swirling, spiralling fumeskeep entrancingrevealing a world I know to be but liesWhat power, what nepentheis yours, Hopium, my friendthat even when I know you've only misled-I still follow you… blindfolding my weary eyes? ©
Rain
Endurance cannot be without substance and hope must not be without its reward. I will send birds of hope every day in the stormy darkness, no matter how it ravages me, and one day- one day, I believe, they will return with songs and blessings, despite every cell of my being whispering they won't.
These branches I see
For years, I never noticed... for her boughs were always lush; yet, this time the winter seems to have whispered in her nerves a cold song. And every now and then she tries to summon her courage, to lose herself in spring again... yet, each time, is forced to watch her new leaves shed
The house of the dead
I packed a bag and went to the house of the dead to waitThere were ailing men and womenand people on their death bedsSome were being put to restIt was all naturalin the house of the deadI was the youngest in the house of the deadEveryone thought it curious, and some saidthere's much to live… Continue reading The house of the dead
Ishaisms 
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