Friday, December 29, 2006

Poesy...The Beginning of an Epic

Poesy, my deepest and truest love
My ardent passion that I place above
Every thing else of my mortal life!!
Wish I could probably make you my wife
If you were a lady, I would love and wed.
Decorate on every night my cozy bed
With flowers and light candles around it
To cause your white body's every bit
Shine with more lustre than that Sun.
"If ever, by God, I truly loved someone
'Tis no other woman, nymph, belle or dame",
Thus I would swear by the holiest name
Of Apollo the nurturer of the Muses nine,
"It is but you, for me the most divine."

Siddartha Pamulaparty
December 29, 2006.


in awe i sing of that great kingdom
where the mighty Atlas had reigned
the home of mighty peaks and hills
the home of placid lakes and noisy rivulets.
perhaps the island of that older times
where temples, gods and heroes lived
is the best example of true love
that the august Poseidon garnered
for the mere mortal lady Cleito
and in that love was born the harmony
of the whole humankind of today's world.

Siddartha Pamulaparty
December 29, 2006.

Dream Lover

dreams of my lover
i dream in every dream
and like a sunflower
i wake to the solar beam
the sun is just as bright
as is my lover's radiance
perhaps a little less in light
than her solemn lustrous glance

dreams of my lover
i dream in every dream
in shame my face i cover
(very strange as it may seem)
when some one knowing her or not
call out her sweetest name
and hence i become caught
in the midst of a feeling of shame

dreams of my lover
i dream in every dream
and crazily i tend to hover
in her thoughts, a perennial stream
i perhaps cannot ever come back
to my natural disposition
and wonder what does my own love lack
that my lover has become an apparition.

dreams of my lover
i will always dream
and sing of her forever
and her sweet names i scream
dreams of my lover
forever i will dream
though she did never
of me had seen a dream.

Siddartha Pamulaparty
December 29, 2006.

Why Still?

why still my heart keeps beating for you?
why still my restless eyes search for you?
why, again, I think of you inside myself
and wonder who wrote this plot so cruel?
aren't there better works for me to do
than to contemplate upon my crazy past?
had i wanted to cry, i could not do so
had i screamed as i wanted very desperately to
no matter what i do or think of doing
its the same image of yours becoming
the sole object of my concern every day
and every night, though i tried hard as i may
to accept the fact that you do not love me
but, think and feel, to my own self I say
that as much true that you do not love me
does equally hold true, my own love for you
which does not die by the ending days or the nights
not even by the ever changing seasons of the Sun
and in despair, i cry out that for whom i care:
you were, you are and you will be the one.

Siddartha Pamulaparty
December 29, 2006.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Poe's Puzzle

I had read about Poe earlier that he used to write many things in puzzles. He was a great cryptographer I think. I stumbled across one of his "puzzling" poem. And based on the same puzzle, I wrote my own poem. Of course I could not reproduce the genius of Poe here.
Here is the original link of Poe's "The Valentine".

And here is mine.

So thought I that we will be together;
Have done I what pray ask me not
Captive in golden cage of your love
I can not tell now what went further
(Even against my own self I fought).

I felt vulnerable like the petals of a rose:
Did not again, I tell you oh dear one
That forsaken I, my own pride for you?
Did I not say while we walked on the road,
Strange language I spoke about love (was it sweet to hear?)
As your eyes twinkled like the Sirius in the sky that night.

May be I could perhaps dream of you forever

Thus reasoned aptly I, when we had parted.
Yet each time I, enamored with your memories,
Sing this tunes idolizing your very being.
And if you think this song, is without any rhymes
In this puzzle, I bet that you can instead, find all your names.

Siddartha Pamulaparty
Dec 21 2006.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Art, Philosophy and Life- Part 1 Art

The three things that are extremely difficult to define yet so obvious. I believe not many really know the meaning of any of these. I, myself, am not sure either... But if one observes with some pondering and a little contemplation, one will know that these are everywhere around us, and we come across them almost at every moment. While a profound thinker might give some complex definitions of them, a true analysis will show how simple these may seem to be. Let me scribble here what I feel about each of these and try to collate the basic essence of these three things and investigate the connections amongst them.
Many people have defined art in many different ways. The term "artist" has itself been defined in many funny ways. According to the ancient wisdom of my country, there are 64 kinds of arts. In general circulation of the civilization, the perception of art is that of a medium of expression, imagination and creation. In an earlier essay of mine, I wrote about what Socrates says about art and how he speaks about it being a "whole" in itself. I am tempted to concur with him (seldom did I contradict him though). The entire process of producing something out of a deep inspiring tale, a consequence of an enchanting experience or merely a simple thought, is in itself a completeness, a destination. The product being a piece of art and the process being the art. Perhaps to the humankind, the greatest gift God had given was the capability to observe, think, comprehend and act. The greater the effort to perform these, the more affective it is. And when things come to a finer level, takes birth the art. Any fineness that could be depicted in any form is art. Every man who does a conscious attempt to make the world around him appear finer, better and more than what it seems at first glance is an artist. It could be a carpenter who shapes the wood to fine furniture. It could be a sweeper, who cleans the floor. But, before I dilute the concept of art into diurnal activities and tend to reflect the thought that art is a cliche, let me check my premises by being a little more clearer of my undestanding by introducing the "degree of fineness". The degree of fineness draws about a line between the obvious things people do and what an artist does. Without appreciating this degree of fineness it is not possible to know the difference between a Sonnet and a rubbish piece of write up. Apart from this degree of fineness, the perfection of art and the artist also depends on the solemn passion that in itself manifests in the form of the product of the art. For instance, a passion to describe an object in words, dictates the beauty and the profound elegance of a poem.
I myself have written for over 80 poems, of them, some lines are so inspired and possessed by the objects, and this I gladly attribute to the passion behind them when I wrote them. There are some really stupid and banal lines, obviously lacking the vivid ardour, and were written uninspired and unpossessed.

Once in an artist's life, there comes a moment, when he is extremely inspired, when his soul in unison with the Nature and the creator, when the whole universe for him is a minute particle smaller than a quark, then with all the divinity enchanting him, he profusely produces the best of his life, that which is called the MAGNUM OPUS. And for every artist, in his line of art, there will be one and only one Magnum Opus, only one greatest product. We have seen many who have tried to simulate and re-attain the feat after their best works, and seemed to have failed, with a bitter sense in the minds of even the greatest admirers of their works.

To me, by my own observation of self and a little study of people I have appreciated since long, there is something beyond the usual capabilities of an artist, the human, which he employs in his diurnal activities, which causes the metamorphosis, of the transformation of artist-the human to artist-the Divine, when all energies in the world converge in the tips of his fist and make him manufacture the invaluable treasure of his own world.

And I trust every art is associated with a certain philosophy or a multitude of philosophies that the artist is naturally inclined to. I shall continue the essay in the next part, the Philosophy.

Saturday, December 09, 2006

a different stroke

i will wait here for a little longer
till this feeling grows more stronger

till these meadows filled up with snow
wear back their garments much so greener
till these dry trees, strained in the cold winter
clad again the graceful flowers in their bosoms
till the golden rays of the valorous Sun
reach every corner of this murky world
till the autumn no more fells the woods
till the spring brings back everything to life
whence the cascades of pure water flow
into the rivers and finally consummate
in the mighty ocean which reflects peace.

i will wait here for a little longer
till this feeling grows more stronger

till the world before me is no more scarce
of happiness and love and truth
till the brothers in the neighborhood
have mirth and heed for their fellow youths
till the men and women i see around me
progress toward the enlightenment
seeking no greedy wealth or evil sins
instead walking for causes noble
of spreading love and brotherhood amongst us
no matter what's the color of our skin
no matter what's the tongue we speak.

i will wait here for a little longer
till this feeling grows more stronger

till my every nerve drains of blood
till all my organs are strong and bold
when i can see a total different world
than what my fathers have been seeing since
the time the first of battles were fought
filling the soil with carnage and flesh
rather a place where in the air that we breath
we can sense how beautiful life can be
i will wait, no matter what it takes
to see another dawning of a twilight
to hear another singing of the linnets.

i will wait here for a little longer
till this feeling grows more stronger.

i will wait, i will wait.

Siddartha Pamulaparty
Dt 14 Dec 2006.

Friday, December 08, 2006

the After song

there's a pain
inside my heart
i think again
what was wrong on my part

there's an ache
inside my chest
i need a break
i am tired, always giving my best

time and time the tides have come
to shake my faith and take my home
time and time the tides have come
to shake my faith and take my home
no matter how real hard they try
i am a man, and i don't cry.....
i am a man, and i don't cry.....

there's a cut
inside my flesh
i am fainting but,
in my mind those memories are still fresh

there's a hurt
inside my nerves
finding it so curt
the way my life is on the downward curves

time and time the tides have come
to shake my faith and take my home
time and time the tides have come
to shake my faith and take my home
no matter how real hard they try
i am a man, and i don't cry....
i am a man, and i don't cry.....

i don't cry, i don't cry
even if i lost my lover
i don't cry, i don't cry
though i know i am a wilted flower
i don't cry, i don't cry
if you lied or hated or cheated me
i don't cry, i don't cry
if you're afraid that you would love me
i don't cry, i don't cry
if i'm understood or misunderstood
when i wake up from the sleep feeling choked
when my love was shown the door
when my pride was thrown on the floor
pain or ache or cut or a hurt
a golden life or a death in the dirt
i don't cry.............

no matter how real hard i try
i can't cry, i can't cry...
i am a man and i don't cry!!!!
i am a man and i don't cry!!!!

Siddartha Pamulaparty
Dt: December 8th 2006.