The Casino of LIfe

You now move on to the playing fields of life
Where every move you make is – with risk –rife
Where change boasts of being the only constant
A terrible tyrant , fickle in a capricious instant.

And, in this game, chances you will have to take
For with them, fortunes you can make or break.
Either with a single, quick sleight of hand
Or with poker-faced patience, your cards command

At times you will have to go all out on a limb
Even though that streak of luck seems rather dim
For it seems better to give it all you’ve got
Than to simply sit and wait on naught

There will also be times when your luck rides high
And the prospect of success draws well on nigh
Go ahead, then, and give it all your very best
Play your cards right, not too close to your chest

At times high risk, will with great charm invite
You to share its rewards so sparkling bright
Then, remember your options to wisely weigh
So that you get the chance to play another day.

At times, you will have to on the table throw
And to wily opponents , your cards, show
For the game then demands some transparency
Tricks up your sleeve, for the world to see.

Show no fear, but all your worth bravely stake
On playing a move that will surely make
People admire your spirit, your dash and dare
At the courage you show when your luck is bare.

Yet, at times, you might, a rather poor hand play
And the next round seems dull, depressingly grey
Stop, reflect, – so that, this error you will not make
When you do, a brand new deck, quietly break

Laugh, smile, enjoy every game that you play
Energetically revel in every risk-fraught day
So that you can proudly exclaim with a final sigh
“I leave the casino of life with my fortune riding high. “

DICHOTOMY

It travels paths rarely ventured
A pioneer of exploration and discovery

Yet,

It retraces roads already taken
A curator of nostalgia and reminiscence


It traverses peaks of persuasion
An ardent believer in its ability

Yet,

It plods deserts of depression
A sceptic of existence and experience

It bridges diverse landscapes
A diplomat with sense and sensitivity

Yet,

It forges chasms of conflict
An envoy of odious malice.


It flies on the wings of liberation
A cartographer of new towns and cities

Yet,

It stagnates in the cesspool of decay
The plunderer of houses and humanity


For,

Its uniqueness
Is
Its dichotomy

The natural polarity
Of
The human mind.

Collective Memory

I am?

I am
A tribute to human emotion
A stain pressed by time
A teardrop caught between the pages of a book
As one human emphasised with another.

I am
A trigger of human passion
An impression influenced by time
A debate that leaped from the pages of a book
As one human argued with another.

I am
A spark of human imagination
A fire kindled by time
An innovation created from the end of a book
As one human inspired another.

I am
An account of human history
A tale detailed by time
A saga collected in a library of books
As one human conversed with another.

I am?

I am
The question and the answer
The collective memory of our humanity.

I am
Literature.

A Spark

I lurk
In the shadows
Of history

I sweat
In the hotbed
Of politics

I throb
In the heart
Of journalism

I sashay
On the screens
Of showbiz

I feast
On the smorgasbord
Of gossip

I knock
On the doors
Of stealth

I am…
A minefield
Of passion

I am…
A lectern
For debate

I am…
Controversy

A spark
That determines
Human interest.

Chaos

When chaos ensues
Confusion reigns
Yet,
In the midst of it all
We still remain sane.

We rise above it
And restore order
To prove
In the midst of it all
That in our hearts, nerves and mind

We celebrate the spirit of our humanity.

I

I create...
Change.

In inspire...
Inventions.

I launch...
Careers.


I spark...
Love.


I preserve...
Decline.


I incite...
Riots.


I wreck...
Lives.


I stir...
Hatred.


I am...
A moment
That makes the difference.

Poetry

Poetry is…
The drama of our emotions
Spurred by the experiences of life
Recorded in words destined for posterity.

IT

It dares…
To dream.

It recognizes …
Possibilities.

It relishes…
Challenges.

It overcomes…
Obstacles.

It wants…
To be different.

It strives…
To achieve.

It fosters
Change.

It creates
History.

It is…

The Spirit of our Humanity
For it brings ideas to life.
And shapes this world
Into what we want it to be.

History

A phrase that transformed our race
A speech that took us to war

An act that broke down barriers
A declaration that divided nations

A shot that fired our imaginations
A shell that tore us apart

An entente that offered us hope
A pact that drove us to despair

History is

A moment that defines our world
The collective memory of our humanity.

Paradise

Paradise

We thrust ourselves on you
Greedily grabbing, ungraciously groping
Clamorously clawing, indiscriminately defiling
Every vestige of your dignity.


We hurl ourselves at you
Rudely ravaging, rowdily rummaging
Perspiring and panting, lusty and lecherous
To possess you in your entirety


Yet, we feel no shame

For

Raping the world we live in.

For

Being the architects of a ghetto

That once was

Paradise.

Nostalgia's Distant Plain

(To every Anglo-Indian band and to the days when railway institutes were filled with the joy and cheer of great music.)

As I sit in this corner and watch memories float by
I quietly let out a giggle, a chuckle or a sigh
For I recall the expression on every jovial face
Who were my companions in a distant time and place

I remember Sunday afternoons, when we spent a while
In song and dance, as we relaxed in style
And rendered tunes that came from country and the west
As we spent the day in much jovial vigour and zest

To Jim Reeves, we would pay tuneful tribute
And Hank Williams might soon follow suit
Or we’d “tie a yellow ribbon round an old-oak tree”
And spend friendly moments, with abandon free

I cannot help, but quietly pluck a string
As I remember those times when cheer would ring
As the institute was ‘decked with bells of holly’
And we celebrated with gusto, ‘the season to be jolly’

Memory urges me, now, to play a soft, little note
For I cannot help, but with much passion gloat
About the many times I had jived “round the clock”
To the quick and popular beat of “Jailhouse Rock.”

I remember the institute, in it every joyful wedding
As the groom twirled the bride to “she wears my ring”
Before the crowd could ramble under arch after arch
As the creaky floor weathered the energetic Grand March

Then, there were evenings when moods might quietly shift
And into fervently profound numbers soulfully drift
As “Rhinestone Cowboy” and “Rambling Man” would mourn
About missing the lovely “Green, green grass of home.”

As I sit in this corner and gaze across nostalgia’s distant plain
These fond memories, will – with me – always remain
For I will never forget those days when I was a certified star
In every Anglo-Indian home: the trusty, tuneful, box guitar.

Those Days of Yore

To every single person who drove a steam engine – especially the Anglo-Indian – and to two of the sturdiest men Arkonam knew: my grandfathers. This poem would not have been possible without the tales they told me when I was a wee lad.


I stand here in this quiet, desolate, railway shed
An ungainly mass of rusted iron and lead
And when I hear yet another engine whistle
My old worn-out chuffer begins to bristle
And I am taken back - in place and time
To the days of yore when I was in my prime

My day would begin, me being polished bright
As a mechanic prepared me for a journey that night
Carefully checking every nut, bolt and screw
So that I was prepared for yet another crew
Of fireman and engine driver who would begin
Another journey amidst a station’s bustling din.

At times it would be Corneille, Walker or White
Who’d control my power with pride and might
At times I’d chuff, puff and speed to a cruise
Under the hands of a Renaux, Marshall or D’cruz
For each of whom I was great pride and joy
And they treated me much like a nice little boy!

I remember the coal - burning in the hatch
As a motorman coupled to me yet another batch
Of bogies that would carry people of every ilk
As well as papers, mail and containers of milk
The whistle would go; the guard wave the flag
My trusting cargo, out of the station, I’d drag

I’d chug through the night, pass pastures green
Whistle into tunnels and climb mountains mean
Then the driver would take out ‘tiffin and flask’
In the smells of coal, coffee and curry I’d rosily bask
While he’d look out of the window and pat me on the door
And urge me, with a whisper, ‘to speed up a bit more’.

‘That’s my boy’, he’d say, in those days of yore
As I chugged my way from Madras to Bangalore
As I steamed past Pune on the Western Ghats
Connecting people from India’s many diverse parts
Yes, I did travel then on journeys many and far
Whistling past bridges from Calcutta to Agra.

When in the railway yard on the odd day of rest
I’d always be filled with so much fun, life and zest
For those group of workmen, no matter their shift
Would with banter and laughter huge jacks, spanners lift
And work on me with hands tough, strong and steady
That I might, for a new journey, be safe and ready.

On such a day, should one, across the tracks gaze
He’d see fireman, fitter and drivers happily laze
Under a tree, where two would soon then compete
In a contest of how many ‘Vadas’ each could ‘easily eat’
Yet, despite all the raucous laughter, mirth and fun
They would still go home with jobs well done!

Those were the days, those days of yore
When I watched a new industry steadily grow
Those days on a busy, lovely railway colony
That fill me today with some measure of glee
For how can I forget that we showed the way
An engine – and its drivers – for the Indian Railway.