Be that Faith

Through the watery eyes that flow,
In the smoldering hearts that glow,
Be the faith you wish the world to sustain.

Through the darkest of nights,
In the glaring flaws appearing in daylight,
Let go of the fear. Let that belief remain.

Through the burgeoning dream you know,
In the countless hopes you sow,
Let the truth prevail. Falsity, never again.

Through despair have survived but few.
Be the one who comes out anew.
Let not the mind take over; that’s typical brain game.

For those who lament and shriek.
Reserve shoulders for those who are weak.
Let your life become a boon. Not a bane.

Through insanity you cannot be top gun.
Practicing Sang-Froid can make you but one.
Do that which is impossible; be sane.
©Suyog Ketkar

Flipside

Tears that trickled down
My cheeks, filling me with fear;
Tears that once tore me apart,
Convey my thoughts, too.

Fear, the feeling of which
Scared me to death;
Fear that led me to nothingness,
Wakes me up to new limits, too.

Death, the addressing of people as Late,
Made me think of “for what?”;
Death that once parted my loved ones,
Cracks up avenues for a new life, too.

Cracks, within emotions, that once
Filled me to grief,
Cracks that leaked emotions
Leak my inner sunshine, too.

Grief, which once scarred me,
Only Time will come to heal.
Grief, which I’ve come to see,
Brings me to peace, too.

Time that once was clueless,
Brought me down on my knees
Time, the all mighty, now
Tells my brave tales, too.

Oblivion, the existence of which
Bothered me of endless inexistence;
The search for it again,
Empowers me to pen my dreams, too.

Endlessness that once endorsed
Unwilling, untrue souls around me;
Endlessness that then knew no end,
Authors my tiny successes, too.
©Suyog Ketkar

The Soul Purpose

Brought to thee
The stories that have
Countless stories within, the Self knows.
Who knows what’s more?

Smelt the magic of the rains—
The petrichor. Though,
Drenched, lost, drowned is
My conscious, helpless Self, to the core.

The evening strands of gleaming light have
Your fragrance, or am I
Afloat the love unbound?
Don’t bother bringing me back ashore.

The chirping of birds.
The rustling of leaves.
Thoughts that come and go.
A rhythmic lore it is, I am sure.

Turned orange, the evenings, again.
Silently mourns my soul.
Wilfully nervous, it tells me.
Could oneness with You be any pure?
©Suyog Ketkar

Harvest

When the scorching gusts of heat
Fade the tears in your eye,
Recite the songs of the Spring,
Believe that seasons change, ask not why.

When circumstances are bleak,
Your bivouac is left far behind,
Choose what you must—
That let me not remind.

When without the trails
Should You journey barefoot,
Seek sojourns within a companion
In whose heart you could stay put.

When You, and only You,
Represent souls in the strife.
Look within as much as without.
Surely, the only rule of life.

When the days are few
You count each one anew
Amidst the hellish weather that
Destroys your crop that’s but already few.

Remember, always, to stand tall
And present the challenges a full face;
That You are your own harvest:
Be that befitting reply; and the one with grace.
©Suyog Ketkar

Nothing but Hope

In the turbulent tides of time,
The ebb and flow of the fortune, that is,
What holds me in place is
Nothing but hope.

In the pitch-black nights,
The darkness of misdirection, that is,
What serves me right is
Nothing but hope.

In that corner of my heart, where
Words weigh more than memories, that is,
Passion and compassion meet, I have
Nothing but hope.

In contrast with how much I take
That source continues to give, that is,
A soul that is burning forever has
Nothing but hope.

Inquisitive, as ever, as my self is
For the world that continues to unfold, that is,
Full of surprises, I can only hope to have
Nothing but hope.

Into the untraveled destinations as I step,
I am apprehensive yet committed, that is,
Of a belief that I have
Nothing but hope.

After you became one with the One,
And merged yourself, that is,
I wish you to be there with me, after all, I have
Nothing but hope.
© Suyog Ketkar

What’s Your Writing Prompt?

In one of my previous posts, I covered how I compose my thoughts. In this post, I talk about how I get to what’s worth a composition.

The thing about writing prompts is that you can’t define them. There can and cannot be a pattern of how they occur. There isn’t a way you can generalize them. Pitchforking, for example, is one theme I have been itching to write about in the recent past. But, every time I sit down to write, my thoughts drift into the other unseen territories.

Today, I list all (or most) of my writing prompts for you:

  • An hourglass
  • Behavior and misbehavior of people around me
  • Countless dreams
  • Endless thoughts and thought-provoking issues
  • Everyday work-related challenges and my tiny accomplishments
  • Kids
  • Listening to old songs; mostly from my maternal grandmother’s collection of timeless classics
  • Longcase clocks
  • My “I’m home” moment when my daughter rushes back to me with all her might, jumps into my lap, and, with the limited and unclear vocabulary, explains how she spent her day
  • Petrichor
  • Photography, especially B/W pictures
  • Play-doh and toy shops
  • Seeing other writers fail or succeed
  • Soap bubbles
  • Storytelling my daughter to sleep—I must come up with a new story every day
  • Sunset from behind an office building right across my office window
  • The feel of my father’s thick mustaches when I was a kid (I was told that they belonged to my grandfather, but my father had put them and was no longer able to remove)
  • The reflection of the Rising Sun
  • Tracing tiny footprint of insects and crabs on a beach
  • Wet shores that sweep from under my feet

True that it is easier to find an inspiration than to be one. But, finding what inspires you is still the first step. Here’s mine.

As we come to the end of this conversation I have this takeaway thought for you:

Your writing flourishes when your head, heart, and hands work for the same purpose; in the absence of which, you can be anyone and no one at the same time.

Happy writing.

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.