Beside an old, hoary man,
And I tell him all —
That I am broken,
Splintered into a million shards,
Bereft of even the faintest tinge
Of hope and dreams.
He sighs,
Raises his silvery brows,
And fixes his pair
Of steely eyes
Straight at me,
Then softly whispers
A tale so true —
How he carved
And chiseled down
A fine life of his own,
Out of this dark,
Troubled world.
Then I rise,
And leave,
With head held low,
In utter shame.
The conqueror sets out to make his mark,
To carve his name in history's pages,
And prove his worth to all the sages.
He faces foes both great and small,
And battles on through victory and fall,
Through blood and sweat and tears he fights,
And emerges stronger, with each new plight.
He conquers lands and nations too,
And spreads his rule, both just and true,
His subjects kneel before his might,
And hail him as their guiding light.
Yet in his triumphs, he knows full well,
The price of conquest, and its bitter spell,
For every victory comes at a cost,
And every gain may soon be lost.
Thus, the conqueror stays ever vigilant,
Against the foes that seek to challenge him,
He guards his lands and people with care,
And stands ready to face whatever is there.
For he knows that to conquer is not enough,
To truly triumph, one must be tough,
And hold fast to one's ideals and dreams,
No matter how hard the battle seems.
So let us all take inspiration from the conqueror,
And strive to be our best, each and every hour,
For in our own small way, we too can conquer,
And make our mark, with power and wonder.
-An inspiring poem generated on ChatGPT.
Your capricious habit
often disconcerts me
and I know not
what to make of you.
You are a bolt
that takes me by surprise
and a lightning
that disappears in a flash,
leaving me in utter disbelief.
You glide along
with the fragrant summer breeze
and visit the peasants
with showers of joy.
And I see you
as the kindest of all.
But, you can be wrathful too.
And in winter, you come
in light fluffy flakes,
and people, young and old,
rejoice in your coming.
Oh, Weather! You know they love you, right?
When the summer's heat leaves
And the winter's cold isn't here yet
Will you smile and sigh in heaves?
And when the winter's finally here
But the spring is still far away
Will your face still hold that cheer?
But when I lie on my deathbed
With my eyes cast on the horizon
Will you remember we've ever met?
There's no pride in walking away
When all you want to do is stay;
Nor is there any comfort in staying
 |
| Lower Thimphu |
On this warm lazy noon I sit
Thinking of life and all bit by bit
And funny it throws me into a fit
Beating all my wisdom and wit
And happiness is but a missed hit
So I retire into the night less lit
Trying to find solace in my pit
 |
| Chamkhar |
The storms have weathered me cold
that now I lie wearied and beaten
lowliest amongst the low
but there's a crumb of fire
still smouldering
in the deepest mires of my soul
 |
| Wollongong Beach, New South Wales |
My last tankard is emptied and the barrel
goes dry, but here I still am, to drink
my life to the lees.
I crawl my way home and my tidiest apparel
is soiled, and there I am, at the brink
of my life that flees.
And as I lie spread-eagled, my last stairwell
awaits, and I am everywhere, only to shrink
into the skies and seas.
 |
| Photo Courtesy: Mani Wangdi, Teacher, Samtse LSS |
For someone who’s known for his protracted raves,
What would a word account to him?
For a coward who dies myriad times each moment he lives,
What would death mean to him?
For a callous gravedigger,
What difference would he feel to dig his own grave?
For a habitual naysayer,
What would it be like for him to dwell in the dark?
For a seasoned trouble-maker,
Would aught at all trouble his conscience?
PS: First posted on social media.
Love had my heart burnished
Like freeing the caged sparrow
Into the limitless space
Of hope and an eternal song
Love had my heart tarnished
Like conquering the free sparrow
Into the limited space
Of the hopeless mortal song
When the war is over
Who would care about Prufrocks
If not for Eliot himself...
I would love to kill Patel’s tree
Like Miss Julie kills herself
Because I’m Liard in Munroe’s foxfarm
Or aught but not the valet Jean
Or maybe I’d like to let out
A far cry from Africa
Or simply cut grass like Mrs Turner
When the war is over
Bluebeard will use force
Oblivious of the dragoons
And musketeers
But Baba will cling on
To his gramophone and play
“Don’t Fence Me In!”
When the war is over
I will struggle like The Fly
I will buy a gift from Araby
And confess my love
To Mangal’s sister
By the reservoir
When the war is over
Let’s say
We are going
And go enlist again...
PS: Written in 2016 in the memory of my PGD in English classes at Sherubtse College.
My mind’s a vacant playground
PS: 30/05/2020
This weblog is
a ready parchment to my quill
a magic paper to my blot of ink
a whetstone to my little unused pen
a tiny space to the untried writer in me
This weblog is
a retreat to my untamed mind
a resting place to my racing thoughts
a soothing balm to my bruised heart
a puff of reinvigorating air to my weary lungs
This weblog is
a walk back to my past and a walk forward
a gesture of forgiveness to my peccadilloes
a promise of undying love to my late Apa and myself
a tinge of nerve to face my triumphs and tribulations
This weblog is
a pair of wings to the figments of my imagination
a lamp to my genie and a genie to my lamp
a night bus ride to my Hogwarts reveries
a brief rendezvous with the Bard of Avon
This weblog is
a lodestar to my sea of aimlessness
a string of laughter to light up my blues
a bead of tears to validate my human form
a junkyard to my…. ah naw, not that
This weblog is
also a reminder of life’s vagaries and vanities
its transitoriness and its brevity
and about all that has and hasn’t been said above