Treatise on Shakespeare


Some are born great
Some achieve greatness by repute
But us wise men know ourselves fools
And to our own selves be true
Loving all, trusting a few
Doing wrong to none

All the world is a stage
And with smiles we play our parts
The wheel will come full circle
Until the stars give ourselves back
Our destiny, to be great
And bleed, and tickle, and die

As surely as night must follow the day
Ignorance being the curse of God
Better to be a witty fool, than a foolish wit
Amused by the humour of our own minds
Some are born hearing comedy in their hearts
While others die many deaths of tragedy

If music be the food of love, play on
If body be the bread of pleasure, dip it flush
Full of sound and fury and a treasured youth
Into water, for joyful tears are all that is left
Parting is such sweet sorrow

Come, ladies and gentleman
Drinking down all unkindness done to us
May we still love the faults that made us blind
Aware and knowing of the floods that omitted fortune
Ah how a good human, does revere their own downfall.

This is the poetry


This is the poetry of all my years
with the rhythm that drops like water molecules
and the tongue of holy fires
that shoots with the breath that never-stops

This is the poetry designed for rants
that elegantly convey the big-mouth chanting
of an oppression and growth
of a thousand preaching words of subjectivity

This is the poetry of freedom
it gets enchained in singularities
and skips over synchronicity for thrills
of divine flavors past Shakespeare

This is the poetry that dares to search
for new manners of the riddle of words
into the silence of the great canvas
of art always becoming more personal

This is the poetry of body shaking pride
the quick and childishly glib facade
of the imagination stretched as far as a new nation
that connects all philosophers and poets in time

chanting a single written phrase
This is the poetry from the universe of life
the experience that no sociology can comprehend
the dreaded degree of loving necessity

when I talk to myself in poetry I talk
through all the wild poetry of your eyes.

Poetry Courtesy:

Who never lost, cannot win


Who never lost, do not know –
The thirst that will never be quenched
Plato’s fires in the weary league of Shakespeare
The Greatness that stretches

To the Revolutionary Day?
Who never lost, are unprepared
For the tragedy of a dull life
The cooling tamarind, the gazing tumeric

A legion of spices sought, in vain?
Who never knew, the Royal scars –
The lovers who left, loved in vain!
We are all soldiers in our hearts

With love on our brow, and not always
The Will to overcome, common ruins;
Who never lost, do not fathom more.

Photo Courtesy:

Hot Months are Good for Love

Love whose months are
Budded May, Racing June, Glorious July!
Ever do the hours lack the days!
For life and leisure, love and lust!
All unseen passages lead to thee –
Playing as would a game
With blossoms, between the rain
For a hand that swears, and a heart
That heaves, I could imagine a year
Where love is the sweet priority
Joy-bringer and life creator
Love whose months are ever
Budded May, Racing June, Hot July!
Who can deny the Goddess of love
Some mortal worship, some mortal love
For things more Divine will always be there
Universal and waiting for us, through
The many lives we lead, I would lend
Some youth for velvet winds and eyes
That beckon, for the roses of thy cheeks
Love whose months have spring-summer songs.

The Quality of Love as the Mercy of a Season

O mistress mine, these are the years
Of staying and hearing, loving & teaching
I can feel you both high and low
The journey’s end of love-in-meeting
A present’s laughter for my ever-after
What’s to come is still as of yet, unsure

But certain is the sweet and forty
Of our romance, come here and kiss me
Youth’s a stuff that still endures
That can sing both English and Mandarin
With a quality of mercy to our tender strains
Twice blest with bounty, and blessedness

The throne that is the love of finding itself
O mistress mine, it’s too soon to call this
The season of justice, but by earthly powers
This is a mighty summer of blooming and crowning
Upon the place that is my heart, I take you
And hold you close and call you ‘princess’

And attribute our love a bit to ‘good karma’
Yours, perhaps not particularly mine.