Category: Poetry

Trees in the Winter

Trees we’re, witnessing
Yet another Solstice—
We’ve seen—
Yet another year

For you, we might be
Useless, worn out.
Devoid of what we can
No longer bear.

Call us what you might
Fixture. Fossil. Forget not
But that we’re the ones
Who had you reared.

Like old parents, we’re—
That one thing is clear.
As clear as the love we showered
Unconditionally until last year.

But here’s the justice 
Now you’ve got to hear
Soon upon the next Solstice,
Fruits we shall bear.

Celebrate beauty, pain of nature.
Listen to us.
Life is a celebration. A soiree.
Live today. Be here.
©Suyog Ketkar

Being Humble

Strike here. Gone there.
The Kafkaesque nature of
The momentary thought
Is worthy of being rare.

Doing. Redoing.
Writing. Wiping. Committing.
How else will you otherwise
Wayfind that Something?

Patience, my friend,
Is a costly affair.
If it strikes, it’s fair.
If it doesn’t, it still isn’t unfair.

Failure or pressure.
Spark or seizure.
Will you or won’t you
Then find the pleasure?

Being Wrong is fine.
Accepting Mistakes: even better.
Assuming ‘Another Fresh Start’
Is, quite humbly, the way to the Divine.
©Suyog Ketkar

Life, Sort of, Makes Sense!

It must be logic,
For we hide carefully our aces.

It must be magic,
For even a thought can take us places.

It must be tragic,
For else why would people switch their stances?

It must be a mirror,
For a few change faces.

It must be an accomplishment,
For some deal with it in paces.

It must be a sieve,
For that’s how we treat our experiences.

It must be a choice,
For that’s why we tend to preferences.

It must be valuable,
For the not-wanting-to-die embraces.

It must be a puzzle,
For that’s how we mend our ways.

It must be a timestamp,
For otherwise why’d we spend those days?

Amidst the puny fights of ignorance,
Amongst the countless episodes of submissions,

And after all that’s there,
Life, sort of, makes sense.
©Suyog Ketkar

Keep Writing

The inspiration for this poem comes from my undying love for writing. Despite how people dislike and despise my habit of looking at everything through the lens of writing—or hate what I do—I continue to write. Someone asked a simple question some time back. Both the question and the answer to it had a profound impact on me, for it is when I addressed the question, I realized how much I love writing. The question was, Will you continue to write even if you never rewarded for it? And I replied in a ‘Yes.’

I stand by the mirror,
Yet again; seeing a myriad
Expressions on the blank face;
Of documents that I left behind.

I stare void, yet again.
Lost. Overwrought.
I wish I could go back.
Rewind.

I argue, yet again.
Taking an umbrage
Dare you disrespect my love
Even in your mind.

I stand stupefied,
Yet again; knowing that
Cluelessness is temporary
That I must face the grind.

For I soon will cherish
The moment of realization.
The encounter with words!
It will be rapturous!

For yet again I plunge,
Swim to explore and
From deep within, bring ashore
Thoughts. What a find!

©Suyog Ketkar

Just Another Lens

Another day, another life lesson. Each day reminds me of looking at life’s brilliance in the simple terms it has lent me. Yet how complicated, difficult I make it to even survive through this ordeal. Life can become comfortable, provided I follow its quintessential policy of unconditionally believing in its design; His design.

The more I wish to take up control of my life, the more I realize that You are both the cause and the catalyst to it.

On Monday, Shambhavi and Aai came back from shopping—they’d accomplished this mammoth task of ticking all items off their long list. Aside from the monthly groceries, the list contained all fancy and unusual names that this Diwali could lend us. But only after mentally reconciling her accounts, Shambhavi realized that she had underpaid one of the vendors. Even though the amount was a meager 20 rupees, it made sense to pass it to him. It helped that we were planning to pass through the same route.

That one negligibly small act of kindness, perhaps, might have triggered a series of events that then took place. On our way, we saw humanity flourishing, radiating in its new awe.

On one occasion, we saw a biker helping an old street cart-puller push his cart up a bridge. On another occasion, we saw two men on their scooter stop at a signal before us. They then drew a few biscuit packets from their under-seat storage and handed them to three children who had occupied the pedestrian walkway.

Some day for all sorts of acts of kindness, wasn’t it?
Their rich perspective toward life lent me this poem, which I share here with you all. If there is a cause to this poem or a catalyst to it, then you know who it is! Through these strangely amusing and simple ways, He (or is it She?) continues to teach me life lessons that then flow through my words, such as these:

Those erudite discourses,
Those wise’s omens,
Those conversations
That exude Your brilliance.

Those detailed accounts,
Those sung, unsung ballads,
Those dances
That he performed in Your presence.

Those feelings of compassion,
Those acceptances of altruism,
Those promises
That reflected once in Your benevolence.

Have all been undone;
Annihilated by just one act.
The act that reflect
Not penitence, but Your essence.

That one act of kindness,
Of staying true to the oneself,
Of giving, unconditionally, and
Being one with the One, in a sense.

All it required was
That one heart: dyed and drenched in love;
That one act of feeling others’ pains.
Essentially, of using a different lens.
©Suyog Ketkar

Only You

Last week, while cleaning up my bookshelf, my wife dug out a collection of my old, yellowed notebooks that had gotten buried under books.

To my surprise, the collection had everything in it from the notes from my previous professional stints to the notes I took way back in my school days. Even though my wife was witnessing a journey backward in quite literally the bits and pieces of those yelllowed pages, the journey was breathtakingly refreshing and energizing. I’ve realizesd that traveling back in time, even though momentarily, is a good remedy and escape from this on-going anxiety called present.

Amongst the notes, she found a poem that, on a folded paper, was tucked inside a notebook. To her surprise, my handwriting looked completely different back then—she liked that version of my handwriting. To my surprise, my writing seemed completely different back then. She thought it was more artistic. I thought it was pretty lame of me to concentrate on rhyming words just for the sake of it. Thinking past our contrasting thoughts, we discovered that the poem had also unfolded with it a flood of memories, none of which were inked on the paper and yet had left their marks. Thank you, Shambhavi, for taking up this long-due task of cleaning.

I hadn’t titled the poem back then—I can’t remember why. I am doing so now. And for what the poem conveys, or at least what I THINK I wanted to convey through it, I cannot think of any better title. After a few trials, when we had successfully failed at clicking a reproducable picture of the poem, I resorted to writing it down for you. 🙂

So, here is that poem. I hope you like the effort of the then boy from grade eight:

The rising Sun,
I see You.
The first prayers.
I dedicate to you.
In every blood of life,
As it never ages,
I see You. I see You.

In the cold breeze,
I butter or cheese,
I feel You; I taste You.
The woods, the lake.
The fair, the fake.
Be it north or east,
Or south or west.

The soul, the entities,
Keep aside the necessities.
At last, come to You.
They may desire You.
But, they deserve You.

Did I say just I see You?
Did they say just they feel You?
Did we say we will get You?
But yes, we say, You are in everything.
Everything is in You.

The Soul inside.
The light outside.
Filled with You
are pure and white.

The worst counts as the best.
The good comes off the rest.
Perhaps, it is just Your presence
In the nest.

Let be the angels.
Let be the spirits.
Let be the speechless.
Let be those with lyrics.
Or those under the rain.
Those having fun.
Or those in pain.

Nothing values until
You are in everything.
Everything is in You.
©Suyog Ketkar

Strike O’ Muse

Today, my mother turns 62 years young.

Of all she has learnt from her life, the essence, she knows, remains in never settling, ever pursuing, and setting high standards for everything. If this already means trouble for us (I’m chuckling as I write this), it means that we, too, have to continuously better ourselves at everything we do. Tomorrow, she retires from her workplace. Over 30 years of her employment has seen her wear many hats most amongst which have been worthy of inspiration. But as she readies herself for what lies ahead, I can only wish a wish for her.

It is time she can dedicate her energies to do what she has always dreamt of doing. I wish her to pick the most cherished ones from her long list of passions. As she readies herself for the day she begins her ‘work from home,’ I gift her this poem:

For the one who,
Has never gotten tired of
Ever committing herself
To whatever came thereof;

For the one who,
Gave up dreams on her own.
Made instead the ones from those
Of her children as though of her own;

For the one who,
Committed to every single minute
Everything that she had
To be the best—I mean it;

For the one who,
Even though lost more
Found less. Learnt more.
Taught nevertheless;

For the one who,
Dedicated her life for work.
Strike once again, so she can
Work her way up to life.

Strike, for you must.
Let her find her way forward.
Be the light in the never-calming storms.
Be her inspiration amidst the storming calms.

©Suyog Ketkar

Happy birthday, Aai. 🙂

Vultures Around

As the winds around soar
I spread my wings
It is a world of definitions
Of it, I know not all things.
The vultures await my failure
Wait for me to fall, of a failed flight.

The vultures that wish to nibble
The crumbs of my plight.
I wish once again
Neither to prove them wrong
Nor myself right.
For I know that I must
Let success speak through my might.

I choose to rise to the occasion
Wings to the wind, Eyes to the Sun
Head held as high as the morale
Who’s afraid of the height?
With drifts and thrusts
I sway myself through
Through the blinding days
Through the darkest nights.

©Suyog Ketkar

Ever Neglected. Never Neglected.

The teeming thoughts.
The cavalcade of words,
Both old and new.
That, which brings me back to life anew.

The vibrant imagination.
The kaleidoscopical memory.
The artistic renditions.
That’s awarded to but few.

The waif, in this case,
The writing and the muse.
The lore, the telling, the cure.
That desperation profuse.

The simplicity. The awe.
The determination. The jigsaw.
The striking of just the right cords.
That music. Listen, dear, that’s the cue.

The perceptions. Love and geniality.
The drumming, thumping, parading reality.
Despite despair; nothing being new.
That, which comes from within, is but You.

©Suyog Ketkar

Who am I?

A vision that I am.
I must look beyond the horizon.

A thought that I am.
I must break-free caring little for your snare.

The time that I am.
I must reach you early to evade your despair.

A wish that I am.
I must fulfill beyond the desire.

A song that I am.
I must sync with the lyre.

The passion that I am.
I must continue to burn beyond the pyre.

A word that I am.
I must spread faster than a wildfire.

A soul that I am.
I must merge with the higher.

©Suyog Ketkar