Pretty. Simple.

It is easy to say that time flies. It is still easier to say that we wish it to stop sometimes. But, it is way harder to be in the present and still give the warmth of the limitless love to your child, who you see growing before you. But, it does feel like it was yesterday that she was born to us. Spruha turns 3 today.

Shambhavi and I envy each other for playing gopikas that compete for the love of Krishna. Just that the roles are reversed in this case: Spruha is Lord Krishna, we are the gopikas. From the tiny pink fist that wrapped around my thumb for the first time to the everyday hug that I receive when she sprints toward me as I get back home after work, there is so much more to this story than I can ever share. Here’s that poem for Spruha:

The silence in my speech was
Recognized by many.
But, she could recognize
The speech within my silence.

Each day, the sunrise sprinkled the magic
Of beaming glory through countless windows.
The happiness that gleamed to me was
However, from those sparkling eyes.

What contrast lies between Her and I.
For she is happy with even broken toys.
And the pains of a broken heart
Are visibly excruciating to my eyes.

It must be the contentment
That drives the smile.
For she knows that her feelings are
With us and not toys that beguile.
© Suyog Ketkar

On Writing

I was amused, for what I had mused
Was either horribly bad or terribly wrong.
Then it dawned on me that Bad Writing is a rite
For the Good Writing to come just right.

I was devastated, for my thoughts were void.
Was that block my departure from my being?
Then it dawned on me that I mustn’t quit;
For it to pass, I must unconditionally submit.

I was clueless, for I had lost directions.
Were things leading me into the unknown?
Then it dawned on me that I mustn’t disgruntle.
I must ask questions. Seek answers. Rediscover.

I was seeking to rekindle imagination.
To cover more than covered, to rediscover that fire.
Then, it dawned on me that I mustn’t rekindle,
Smoldering afterthoughts sometimes bear more than fancied pyre.

I then went back to the stories untold,
Read something that I tucked under memories, and had never let unfold.
Made that cringe-worthy crap a subject of my Wrath.
And, decidedly strode toward the desk to create gold.
©Suyog Ketkar

Rediscovery

Amidst the bidders, for whom
Spoken words make the market,
I resort to words unspoken
To be the voice of my own.

Survived, I have
Through nights and days.
To survive within each moment,
I call upon my soul.

Witnessing two reflections,
Having faith in faith, I
Echo with the right one
To shatter the illusory mirror.

Floating in the quietude,
I lay in pleasurable languor,
Flashing mysterious memories.
The euphoric touch is worth an adore.

Enjoying my thoughtlessness,
Journeying through imagination,
Seeking the nomadic contentment—
Aren’t they my usual writing chore?

Explored, I may have,
The footprints of many.
I wish a stroll along the path
That I will tread sometime soon.
© Suyog Ketkar

Micropoetry: Memoir

What you have left folded
Within the wrinkles of life,
Becomes evident only when
I realize that you gave
More than what I ever gained.
©Suyog Ketkar
#Gogyohka
#Micropoetry

Change of Seasons

The chirping of birds,
Who, at the Mango tree,
Celebrate the
Change of seasons,
Welcoming the days of glory
Bidding the days of grim.

The drumming noise, tapping on
Your windows, epilogues the
Change of seasons, And
Highlights the crow feet on your face,
That once were ironed out,
Filling you in joy to the brim.

The last leaf, dry, falling,
Which once prompted the
Change of seasons, now
Sits atop a stone,
Crowning the idol that
People worship as Him.

©Suyog Ketkar


Image courtesy: The shutterbug within me.

Micropoetry: Humility

As I prepare myself for
Another serve of humility,
I realize the distinction between
Medicine and food for thought
Is blurred in real life.
©Suyog Ketkar

#Gogyohka
#Micropoetry


Gogyohka, pronounced GO-GEE-YO-KUH, is a Japenese form of five-line micropoetry that—unlike Haiku or Senryu—doesn’t rest on the principle of the number of syllables. It relies on your power of speaking directly.

Micropoetry: Lullabies

Lullabies flew like water from eyes.
Cries were for the Ward,
Not for toys.

©Suyog Ketkar


Senryū is a form of micropoetry that contains 17 or lesser syllables spread across not more than three lines. Although this attempt isn’t driven by humor, Senryu mostly is used to describe the human aspect on a lighter note.

The Delightful Life

Beholding the sunrise,
As I trace the ocean’s footprints on sands,
The drenched shore slips from under my feet,
Life becomes a delight.

Trailing through the woods,
As I listen to the rustling leaves that
Share with me the recitals of the Summer,
Life becomes a delight.

Humming that old song,
The forgotten lyrics of which
I happen to effortlessly sing,
Life becomes a delight.

Looking out of the window,
As I lull into thoughts that
Urge to kindle my imagination,
Life becomes a delight.

Weaving itself into a fabric of chronicles,
As the yarn of my words
Brings me to my self again,
Life becomes a delight.

Diving into the limitless love in those eyes,
As I happen to lose myself,
I happen to find myself, yes,
Life becomes a delight.
©Suyog Ketkar

Life is Black and White

In the moon’s silver,
In the food’s flavour,
From birth to death, altogether,
Life is Black and White.

As death parts us,
As and when happens a ruckus,
Within the slightest change of moods,
After all, Life is Black and White.

To those who take the world in their stride,
To the rains and the tide,
To either side of the Solstice,
After all, Life is Black and White.

Whether in a crowd or left alone,
With the passive self forlorn,
Through countless nights bygone,
After all, Life is Black and White.

Sans the haunting howls of ballads,
Sans the riddling verse in charades,
Sans the humming songs of an escapade,
After all, Life is Black and White.

©Suyog Ketkar

The Wandering Cloud

Dressed mostly in black and white,
I am just another wandering cloud,
I am, sometimes, wild within,
And wild sometimes without.

I am that wandering cloud, my friend,
Who brought with it memories,
Some real, some inexistent.
For lovers and haters, alike
For adults and children, alike.
Making everyone feel empty yet content.

I am that wandering cloud,
Dear Sparrow, don’t worry;
For my poor existence is subject to a flurry.
When I shower blessings divine,
Really will the sprouts entwine
To offer a cushion to your babies
Helping them with cozy draperies.

I am that wandering cloud
O Soul, the resolute.
Beware, albeit
You can’t keep me under siege,
For I remain a roamer,
Acting upon my will.
A few things, like my soul,
Must only be felt with
And, not be dealt with.

But, above all,
I am that wandering cloud,
O Lord, for the hands that
Sowed in despair once,
Raise up to You,
Rejoicing upon my sight,
Thanking you and making merry.
The same hands had once
Attended to the days
That brought with them
Scorching heat and light.