A Fantasy of mine

I’ve mostly dabbled here in supposed poetry. I’ve been absent years and this latter part due to focus on my fantasy. The fantasy is a fantasy novel I am penning now. The initial title was Garbage Teller’s Passion Wage. It started as a light hearted funny yarn of romance in a mystical setting between a storyteller and a lady of royalty. Soon fantasy mixed with reality and all my negatives found expression, the yarn dwelt on the various faiths of people and all had their holy books and so as my quest for a story of great evil grew and took shape, I decided to add to the original title, Unholy Book of the Devil Emperor. Then the central character’s name was Vel meaning a spear, with inclusion of almost copies of Vel to make six spears indicative of a six faced god in mythology, the focus title of Spear Hymns was framed. Now intend to use all three titles. All Vels are lazy, intelligent, with insanity issues and much more. They have own stories in own different worlds yet a clear demarcation and differences of these characters yet to be made.

There is a saying that for the sake of world, a nation and for that a region and town and for the town a person can be sacrificed. Despite American individualism they subscribe to this reality as pragmatism. A child, a girl is the source of a devastating plague in many worlds. Killing her would end the plague and save billions across worlds, simple arithmetic. The hero against this creed of forced sacrifice fights to save girl is the main story.

But the hero is a bachelor, unable to find a bride due to madness and in a fling satisfies wifey needs but he sees a wife now as an essential burden to bear to get the reward of kids. Like all, hero cherished innocence and mischief of kids but only more so.He is wedded to his porn and in maximised pleasure except for lacking kids. So now the hero travelling with and fighting all worlds to save kid has special meaning. The hero’s greatest evil isn’t violence that follows in the story but perversions especially paedophilic instincts now long forgotten and cured. The girl is an orphan pushed in to being a child prostitute who is then injected to make the source of the plague. The hero has to break her barrier to make her trust him and he needs a mom figure for her for which he choses the unattainable royalty. Partway through he realised the only way of saving the girl wasn’t by goodness, good deeds and implication for compassion but rather getting more powerful than the combined powers of the world. He has no magic in a magical world and recruiting an army of girls made loyal he rises in merchanting to be the richest and commits many murders and with a big army wages wars against official powers of the world. He interacts with divine forces of three major faiths. Unlike well-wishers claiming all faiths are same and tell same, he differentiates them in to sunrise, noon and sunset faiths with much in common but much apart and each a consistent nice reality. He interacts with gods, angels, chosen of people, Emperors, devils and demons all wanting to use the power of the girl or kill her. so he becomes the most evil and powerful Devil emperor. This is the story and premise of my fantasy novel.

I once here scribbled raw,

you praised before thaw,

my laws laid by what saw,

tears dry, intel fail, punch with paw,

not a story but to offer my soul,

to sip or chip, your role,

my goal to have hearts stole,

give a try, ignite this coal.

My poetry verses above maybe poor and dashed on impulse without thought as always. But I am working on this fantasy genre manuscript on a professional basis including almost all of the tropes of the genre in an innovative way, more than two dozen. The evil isn’t fantasy but stark raw reprehensible reality including the caste identities in India and play of three major faiths there. The evil is the prime mover and the central character though with credible heroes and forces who win. Gods, angels and more come treated respectfully yet shunned. The exaggerations immense with all worlds and high heavens conquered by hero before fall. Not a single POV, all one hero tale, other spears shaped good and great and other heroes too, dance here. The crux of the power or force not the hero without magic but his army of girls, he calls daughters who together are the most potent force equal to the one god in many faiths.

Will keep posting progress of the work and hope to use this blog as launching pad for the novel in time since obviously traditional publishers will reject this. Wish me well and spread the word of the upcoming ‘SPEAR HYMNS

Go away, silly one

Go away, silly one, that don’t know of loss,

dub yourself loser, leave joker, laughter not here,

wailed a lady in crowd, all noise did pause,

now clad colourful, old black dresses didn’t smear;

I spoke, I lost but a dream, not living, loving soul,

came not to mourn or share, yet I do care,

gone days of joy, nights of sleep, dreams stole,

gone thunder, rain, rainbow and lighting’s glare;

what desert, as gone the sand beneath my feet,

gone breeze, even mighty sea without time to see,

gone sweet home, now a thorn, my last retreat,

no refuge, no place known to shelter, nowhere to flee;

innocence lost, ignorance cost, spoilt forecast, time flew fast,

gone courage, morals, little laurels, tears and laughter,

gone stories, movies, idle banter, carefree canter of past,

know not where all went, my life spent, grew softer;

pride, confidence, dreams gone with skill and wisdom,

never lost any near and dear, just lost an empty dream,

not compare losses, my misery trifle, akin to boredom,

you lost forever, loved ones, to death, time’s stream;

music, song, poems and prose scribbles died long ago,

forgot drinks, dinners, friends with just cigarette in hand,

didn’t love a soul, lost none, yet your grief with me grow,

despite troubles and sorrow, your feet planted firm on land;

for you love and so live, I merely forgive, you strive, you give,

give your thought and action calmly to those that remain,

those gone, a strong memory, you forever mourn and grieve,

parent, sibling, child or friend, leave void, stain uncleared by strain;

but folks enshrined in history to pavement dweller has to leave,

all love, except vile like me that can’t, from terrorist to rapist,

even I can’t deny being loved, a love that can’t be worn on sleeve,

gone sun, stars, days and nights, not the memory in our midst;

cherish memory with tears or laughter,

dead find lease in your memories, yet how long,

perish with you, you a memory, ones in your’s, lost chapter,

no matter, unsought immortality, till lasts hear love’s song;

Go away confused one, come when know what you want, what to say,

let us in peace pray, why without clarity or purpose, you here stray?

(This is partly done and shall be continued in future posts)





Narendra Damodardas Modi

Humble and simple Narendra Damodardas Modi,

champion of the masses shoddy,

winning over with his genial smile,

is forever running the last mile.


[ This poem is a Clerihew named after its proponent. It is a short amusing biography of a person in four lines. The first line should contain the name of the person and the rhyme scheme is AABB. ]

I shall conquer

I shall conquer the world’s untamed heart,
it is no easy task to be famous and cherished,
the murky rivers of obstacles with effort should part,
and my fierce words echo even after I perished,

It is no easy task to be famous and cherished,
great sacrifices and tireless pursuit is of the order,
and my fierce words echo even after I perished,
will worthy words be found from all this fodder,

Great sacrifices and tireless pursuit is of the order,
the race is on but I lost in my bewitching slumber,
will worthy words be found from all this fodder,
a squire to this knight needed so right words lumber,

The race is on but I lost in my bewitching slumber,
the murky rivers of obstacles with effort should part,
this lonely knight shall steadfast hindrances plumber,
I shall conquer the world’s untamed heart.

Oh how to match

Oh, how to match such verbose grandeur,
from what armoury can I the words borrow,
to publish a poem true how much have I to suffer,
most certain this line will end with sorrow,
what have I to offer, what beauty to match the song of a sparrow.

Do my simple words their standards fail to suffice,
true, I too judge faulty grammar as below par,
simplicity not a fault that would crumble my edifice,
someday not far away I will go daringly far,
I concede that inside words sweet honey is mixed careless tar.

In its entirety not one work satisfies me,
yet inside are verses precious than gems,
my ramblings truer than her verses we see,
why nought for me and she printed emblems,
world looses, not I who keeps scribbling to while away my boredoms.

My subjects wrong not dwelling on love or pain,
nor do I speak of nature and its infinite beauty,
I rather dabble with solitude in a lighter vein,
with petty considerations I’ve breached poet’s duty,
what loftier subject can I labour upon than my own soul sooty.

Wherefrom springs such deep harsh anger sore,
when I cannot pick one from the many to be in print,
not flowers but thorns in them I see more and more,
am I prosaic with little metaphors, imagery and subtle hint,
I under estimate the reader and so clarify disposing the lint.

Is the fact that I am a thief the reason for such bother,
I steal form and more from others as this from skylark,
or am I in the wrong place, this blog that does smother,
Why print? I seek recognition from the mouths of a shark,
to convince that I didn’t waste my time trying to climb up this bark.

Daring subject this, dazzling direct, not so subtle,
I have sung and hung, raved and ranted for what?
What I hope to accomplish with verses so brittle?
join beggars’ club and called a poet self taught,
unlike the melodies of cuckoo my simple verses have evils fraught.

I am no Keats, Yeats or Shelley
nor am I Frost, Eliot or Wordsworth
but I do have a creative pang in my belly,
and my rhymes can warm any hearth,
and someday shall earn in gentle hearts the widest of berth.

The muse is partial and haunts me with absence,
but with or without her I shall write,
at times she guides me with bright incandescence,
at such times glory hangs, a wondrous sight,
in verses seen, but never in entirety of my work does beauty bite.

The muse my love, passion and heartthrob,
that girls with beauty divine can’t compete,
there was a girl that left me and I did sob,
was before creative fire my entire being permeate,
my work wheat and chaff but who will separate the golden wheat.

If somehow my prayers are answered,
and for print I am asked to select a few,
what will I chose and for what reasons absurd,
for me the smoke means as much as the dew,
for they are mine and me alone that created them true.

Perhaps I must prepare myself for future,
creating beauty at its purest with endearing verses,
mustn’t rush to put words on paper premature,
to till the land, until found the promised land of Moses,
beware of beauty mixed with dirt as direct result of my former curses.

The sun has risen, the sun has set and has risen again,
and all that beauty of nature at its best lost to me,
all this time rhyming like a man possessed without a gain,
if you can’t lighten my load, listen to me, then please let me be,
someday have prowess to find yearnings of all men and set them free.

I’ve never ventured further than where I am now,
will there be folks who will come with me this far ahead,
Will they tire of length and abandon before the final bow,
will this be read and admired or be mixed with garbage shed,
my fingers tired, but mind afresh to spew more of the words to be wed.

I can go on and on but am sure these words won’t be printed,
I am yet an apprentice that might never amass skills of a master,
using my meagre skills and eager soul, no coin is to be minted,
so I end my slow simple ramblings in the world growing faster,
I shall be back with verses more beautiful than mortal words can muster

The Hum of the air conditioner

The hum of the air conditioner as it chilled,

the glow of the bright lengthy tube lights,

on my desk, clutter of things, mostly books spilled,

as I try conjure fake images of nature in my sights;

is it not what poets do? admire nature’s beauty,

I float in dream space directed by my inner nature,

a pile of work not done, for what is a poet’s duty,

to dream and write and dream above one’s stature;

does a poet add value to any, apart from himself,    

a true magician though, what trickery, what devices,

what worlds won and with what words he engulf,

what chasms bridged and a taste beyond the spices;

is rhyming verses a job and why poets live in penury, 

he is starving poor but not his dreams, rich in imagery.   

In search of a poem – 1

I just scribble and am not sure if I can call them poems. I am a novice who now delves in to what a poem in the traditional sense is. Hope you find it useful. May be in the end we will all find that elusive poem.

The dictionary definition of a poem is –

a piece of writing in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by particular attention to diction (sometimes involving rhyme), rhythm, and imagery.

The rhythm mentioned here is the inherent meter in most poems. What is this meter?

Meter is a unit of rhythm in poetry, the pattern of the beats. It is also called a foot. Each foot has a certain number of syllables in it, usually two or three syllables. The difference in types of meter is which syllables are accented and which are not.

A syllable is a unit of pronunciation having one vowel sound, with or without surrounding consonants, forming the whole or a part of a word; for example, there are two syllables in water and three in inferno. 

Iamb Meter

Iamb meter has the first syllable unaccented and the second accented. Here are examples:

  • That time l of year l thou mayst l in me l behold

Shall I l com pare l thee to l a sum l mer’s day? – Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18”

  • Come live | with me | and be | my love

And we | will all | the plea|sures prove – Christopher Marlowe’s “Come live with me and be my love”

  • All I could see from where I stood

Was three long mountains and a wood; – Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Renascence”

  • To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells – John Keats’ “To Autumn”

Trochee Meter

Trochee meter has the first syllable accented and the second unaccented. Here are examples:

  • Tell me | not in l mournful l numbers

By the | shores of | Gitche | Gumee,

By the | shining | Big-Sea-|Water – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha”

  • (I could) wait forever, Face a thousand lifetimes, Ponder your embraces, Just to live in your time.

Why so pale and wan, fond Lover?

Prithee why so pale?

Will, when looking well can’t move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prithee why so pale? – Sir John Suckling’s “Song”

  • The Grizzly Bear is huge and wild;

He has devoured an infant child.

The infant child is not aware

It has been eaten by the bear. – A. E. Housman’s “Infant Innocence”

  • Earth, receive an honoured guest;

William Yeats is laid to rest:

Let this Irish vessel lie

Emptied of its poetry. – W. H. Auden’s “In Memory of W. B. Yeats”

Dactyl Meter

Dactyl meter has the first syllable accented and the second and third unaccented. Here are examples:

  • This is the forest pri meval, the murmuring pines and the hemlock – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “Evangeline”
  • Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley’d and thunder’d; – Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade”

  • We that had Loved him so, Followed him Honoured him, – Robert Browning’s “The Lost Leader”
  • Half a league, half a league

Half a league onward, – Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade”

  • Just for a handful of silver he left us

Just for a riband to stick in his coat – Robert Browning’s “The Lost Leader”


Here is an example from William Cowper’s “Verses Supposed to be Written by Alexander Selkirk” (1782), composed in anapaestic trimeter:

I must finish my journey alone

An example of anapaestic tetrameter is the “A Visit from St. Nicholas” by Clement Clarke Moore (1823):

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house

The following is from Byron’s “The Destruction of Sennacherib”:

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

The trimeter, tetrameter, pentameter and hexameter all are derived from the number of meters in a line of a poem. Milton wrote his paradise lost in Iambic Pentameter and as a blank verse that is it had no rhyme in it and only meter. So a rhyme is not a requisite for a poem. We shouldn’t be wrenching with each word in a verse and the meter must and in most cases does come in naturally from the subconscious. But until novices like me can reach that stage it would be better and interesting to slave over it for a while.

Spondee Meter

A spondee (Latin: spondeus) is a metrical foot consisting of two long syllables, as determined by syllable weight in classical meters, or two stressed syllables in modern meters. The word comes from the Greek σπονδή, spondḗ, “libation”.

The spondee typically does not provide the basis for a metrical line in poetry. Instead, spondees are found as irregular feet in meter based on another type of foot.

For example, the epics of Homer and Vergil are written in dactylic hexameter. This term suggests a line of six dactyls, but a spondee can be substituted in most positions.

For example, the first part of this line from Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida (in iambic pentameter) would normally be interpreted as two spondees:

Crý, crý! Tróy búrns, or élse let Hélen gó.

Pyrrhic Meter

The pyrrhic (the word is both the noun and the adjective) is a metrical foot of two unaccented syllables. The meter is common in classical Greek poetry, but most modern scholars do not use the term. Rather than identify the pyrrhic as a separate meter, they prefer to attach the unaccented syllables to adjacent feet.

In this line from Andrew Marvell’s “The Garden” there are two pyrrhic feet that appear here in bold face: “To a | green thought | in a | green shade.” Another example is this line from Lord Byron’s Don Juan: “My way | is to | begin | with the | beginning.”

There is no need to worry if you are scribbling and not aware of meters and stuff. Don’t worry, I presume all poems will by themselves render in to some form of meter and natural rhythm. But for me form and structure, for example the rhyme instead of constraining me elevate my writing. So I am in search of additional constraints that will lead me to the elusive thing called poem. I’ll be updating you on my journey for a poem with further posts.


Not a poet yet

I am not a poet, not by a long shot. Not quite yet. The so called poems were actually codified attempts as a child to capture my thoughts. They were meant only for myself not to be shared with anyone. Needless to say that the writing style caught on and I wrote primarily for myself. Yet it now posed an obstacle when I want to share it with the world. This is the problem while the poems made sense to me, has even a part of it transferred successfully to the reader.

The next thing is I use simple words and I lack the rich vocabulary the other writers have. The rhymes I can try workout but the inherent meter that enabled a poem to be read out aloud was not there. When I read other poems and am lost in the beauty and complexity of it I realise how inadequate I am. Then the style of others itself suggest professionalism while my scribblings seem so amateurish.

May be the muse has shunned me away. May be I don’t have the gift in me. My attempts to rise above mediocrity have been futile. Yet I tarry on for it gives me pleasure. More importantly inside the blogging world I see comments and a familiarity between bloggers. They comment on each other with great familiarity. They are a small group encouraging each other. I am not there, quite yet. I am alone in my ramblings and journeys through the blogosphere. May be someone can give me tips on how to increase interactivity with other bloggers.

Whatever it is I have come a long way in this blogging journey. It has been more than a couple of years of intermittent activity that I never noticed. Kahlil Gibran in his autobiographical Self Portrait says several times that he was hoping to write this one ultimate work and it is for that that all his toils were directed. May be he got it right in the Prophet which was perfection. Similarly I hope to create at least one work, a story or a poem I can own up to.