Thursday, October 12, 2006

What's A Poetic Runner without his poems?

I can write poetry on demand. I love to rhyme and find it very easy to do so. The Muse is constantly with me and I'm enjoying her company. Whether my poems are good or not is not for me to decide. I love to write them and often go back and read them months later to see if they still read well and have the "flow".

Here are a few written over the past 3 years. Some deal with running, some deal with love and some deal with other subjects yet again.

The Warrior
The body is like a child being led:
Doing all that it has been asked to do.
The truth is that we fight with our head,
Even more so when life starts to unglue.
The race is long, six miles after a score,
And it will take all you have to finish;
Much courage you will need, then a bit more,
For the demons of self-doubt you banish.
Trust in the training that got you this far,
And in that Rock that lives in all of us;
So believe in you as you go to war;
You are an Army of One: The Dauntless.
Look within you for courage and you'll find
It's limitless, much though it may be mined.
(Inspirational poem for a few friends running a marathon)

The Last Frontier
Wow Daddy!
How many stars are there in the sky?
Gladly, child, gladly:
More than meets the naked eye.

A small telescope will show
Many a fainter one.
Each is, I will have you know,
A ball of gas, just like our Sun.

See those seven just over there?
The ones shaped like a plow?
That's Ursa Major, the Big Bear;
Dubhe, its brightest star, is on the prow.

Look at that one there will you?
That's Orion, the famous hunter,
The one that Artemis slew.
Isn't his belt of stars a wonder?

Orion's faithful dog, Sirius, is below:
That bright one there that stands out;
It's white, unlike our Sun that's yellow;
Ever following Orion on his nightly route.

Grow up, my dear, and look up always,
For there is where we must next head!
Humans will set the skies ablaze,
As among the stars our species we spread.

St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre
(24 Aug - 17 Sep 1572)Like a dragon's breath on a morning frosty,
The fog moves along the banks of the river;
The city's flesh begins to creak and shiver,
As it blankets all in its white charity.
Moving along on feet unseen and ghostly,
It covers the island, sliver by sliver;
Like the becalming hand of a care giver,
It soothes the city's brow, oh so so bloody.
O would that it could beshroud the sordid past
With its impenetrably thick, milky mist;
Hide from our view the unforgivable deeds:
Man against man, killing to the very last.
Kindness and love having now ceased to exist;
Brothers all, driven solely by vengeful needs.
(St. Bartholomew's Day massacre started on Aug 24, 1572 and lasted until Sep 17, 1572. In those 25 days, over 70,000 Huguenots (French Protestants) were killed in Paris).

The Queen
Inside the determined breast
Where the heart does beat,
Separating you from the rest,
Where talent and genius meet.
You are your own monolith
In the face of sheer adversity.
Look inside at that strong pith:
There lies the courage of an army.
Go out and conquer them all
Who know not yet about you.
Your immense talent will enthrall
And give them pleasure anew.
The storm may rage outside but you will be serene;
They will be the adoring public and you their Queen.

Your Eyes
There is an imp of mischief
that dances
in your beautiful eyes;
Closer and closer, with
bonds of love,
to you my soul he ties.

There is an angel of mercy
that flies
in your heavenly eyes;
Keeping alive this
injured soul which,
without you, ever dies.

There is a person of timidity
that cowers
in your soulful eyes;
Looking for help
from my spirit to
get off the floor and rise.

There is a child of innocence
that plays
in your gorgeous eyes;
Calling out to
the child in me to leave
the world to the wise.

There is a queen of passion
that rules
in your lovely eyes;
Daring me
to show my love which
I've tried hard to disguise.

The FightDown, ill and feeling like warmed over death;
Intense pain, wracking every aching pore
With every struggling, wheezing, labored breath,
Testing the very limits of my core.
My feet will up and I will surely move!
Nike will reach out and lovingly bless
The damp forehead that has a thing to prove
And a desire to feel her caress.
Like a new bride running to her lover,
My body will move towards the Finish;
I will not hide nor will I seek cover;
Instead, my utter resolve I'll unleash
And climb that mountain of Pheidippides,
Even if I've to crawl on bleeding knees.
(I wrote the above, wracked by fever, 3 days before the Mumbai marathon in January, 2006)

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