‘Deccan Reveries: Pune Poets Anthology’ Releases Today

Hi there!

I’m glad to announce the release of Deccan Reveries: Pune Poets Anthology. Of all invaluable contributions from many established, known authors, writers, and poets, is also my humble contribution of two poems.

I’d be honored if you could please check out the book and buy it using this affiliate link

Deccan Reveries: Pune Poets Anthology

Also, I’d look forward to listening to or reading your opinion on ‘Wait Until Dawn, O’ Muse‘ and ‘The Silent Wail,’ which have been cherry-picked by the team of the esteemed editors.

I’d like to dedicate this post to Juhi Gupte, who is both a dear friend and the editor of the book. And a special mention to all those who have turned this tiny collective effort into an anthology, the publisher and, you, dear readers.

Happy reading. 🙂

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

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

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

The Name that Wasn’t

No voice, no noise.
No reflection of oneself.
No definition; none for assumption.
I am not myself.

Now here, now there.
I pity myself.
Now this, now that.
I am not myself.

Neither today nor tomorrow.
I can’t portray the inner self.
One’s thoughts, another’s actions.
I am not myself.

Neither from the rain
Nor from the draught.
From where do I then
Glean myself?

I am but a name
That tiny nothing
Neither more nor less.
I remain myself.
© Suyog Ketkar

What Stops Me from Writing?

It is the fear of losing out—
The experience, that is—on the Present
That I sometimes
Stop myself from writing.

However, it is the boon of—
Heart, that is—self-belief
That I reserve as I
Get back to writing.

It is the fear of falling behind—
The dreaded race, that is—monies
That I sometimes
Stop myself from writing.

However, it is resorting to—
Karma, that is—calmness under pressure
That I fall back upon myself and
Get back to writing.

It is the fear of getting lost in—
Cluelessness, that is—the abundance of words
That I sometimes
Stop myself from writing.

However, It is the truth of—
Candid confessions, that is—life
That I seek, and thus,
Get back to writing.
© Suyog Ketkar

The Call of the Pen

Perch, stop not
For you deserve much more
Rest for a while, and don’t
Stop until you reach a new shore.

Halt, break not
For you are destined to break more
Conversations otherwise unspoken.
Conversations, not a mere folklore.

Stand up, sit not
For you must explore much more
Than yourself, the limits of which
Won’t be decided today, not yore.

Pen down, digress not
For you must scribe much more
Than what’s beyond fantasy
Write what’s fathomable in only a lore.

Bring, deny not
For you have earned this
Glory beyond words what
Has always been Yours, for sure.
©Suyog Ketkar

Here’s Monsoon

When the heat burnt souls alive,
When the thirst to quench
Nothing but physical selves
Turned all choices but naïve,
When the harks went unheard-of
And everyone began to strive…

The boon served us with a downpour
That drenched us with happiness
Decorated our windows with
Invaluable pearls of joy unspeakable

And announced its arrival,
Much louder than it announced
The departure of despair and gloom…

Here’s monsoon.
©Suyog Ketkar