(SR) 10: Marching on Parnassus

Posted on September 24, 2025 Updated on February 21, 2026

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MARCHING ON PARNASSUS

Most joyful let the poet be;
It is through him that all men see
William Ellery Channing

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MANIFESTING

Progressing slowly thro’ my younger years
A certain kind of sonnetry appears,
A project on whose ridge I’ll stake my name,
My future reputation, & my fame…
For the Muses be my guide… Ah! but I,
Feel human woes have lain full low my heart
Despondent by the Isles of Misery,
For my true love has from me grown apart,
& so, I thrust myself at poetry!

This art of mine, this state of mind so rare,
Crave I, to pave a path to liberty,
For rhyme is sweet, sublimely tastes, to me,
Like sailing on a lake of mountain air,
So, be it, let us roam, where e’er, my Muse, where e’er.

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GRECIA

During the long course of my poethood
My song have I prepar’d for this moment
At last! to Grecia by my Muses sent,
& in my heart I knew they always would!

Upon Italic plateaux I have stood,
Hoping to glimpse her shores thro’ mountains bent
Between the mists, that shuffle innocent
From peak to peak, as only phantoms could!

My poet sails into a classic sea,
Some laurel wreath to fix upon a brow,
Where oranges hang every second tree,
Antiquity seems almost here & now,

As Greece, in rustic beauty, like a bay,
Before us spreads, as breaks the cloudless day.

———

DEPARTING THE SANCTUARY OF OLYMPIA

Until we meet again, Olympia!
When I shall raise my daughter to the height
A toddling flame
& as the morn-pink roses, would show her
The very scene & in the very light
I chose her name

My love, as I sit waiting for a bus
To Tropea or Pirgos, either way,
I think of thee!
Wondering if the future holds for us
A glitter-girl to please us in her play
Our bouncing bee

Who, when she’s sleeping looks as sweet as you
& laughing, me!

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ON PATRAS BRIDGE

O this is a wild tapestry of something
Walking thro’ a living metaphor
Enlivened by sweet vibrations of birds & cicadae
& in my mouth the taste of oranges
Ticking off kilometres sign-by-sign
By pushing our bodies we must expand our minds
For that is poet’s work, & I love it

I am born of Algerian Boxing Stock
With the blood of Irish Ollamhs in my veins
Drawing closer, ever closer, to Parnassus
Approaching the climactic resolution
Of my spiritual & artistic quest
Knowing intuitively that the history of the past
Entailing knowledges of destinies yet activated!

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STERCA HELLAS

Where Autumn-tinted peaks rise glorious
I hitch’d a lift, a lorry-load of bales
Whose little houses sing their hearth-side tales
Old stories of this hoary, mountainous
Region, of most hardy handsome hunters
Fed by their ever-fattening females
Where taxidermy, of the arts, prevails
& portraits hang with pride for ancestors!

The Mornou Dam sits like a precious stone,
Heart of a highland chain that god-like rings
This world where only poets dare to chance,
& each of them, I sense, was once a throne
For spirits older than Olympic kings,
Where Cronos dined & Titans loved to dance.

—-

CASTALIAN SPRING

So, this is the heartbeat of poetry,
From holy Parnassus, uprising sheer,
These magi-waters of empyrean,
Down pulse from such a theatre of stone,
& pour all thro’ the depths of my studies,
Where in a sketch I see gargoyle faces –
Hobhouse, perhaps, in Lord Byron’s ‘Life’ –
Who came up here to taste this ancient spring
Upon that very famous ‘Pilgrimage,’
While mine is ended here… I sup the mead,
Faint hint of minerals, revitalis’d,
I swear to all my Muses I shall be
A poet still, & if they ride with me
To Scotland, I shall build them temples there!

—-

ON PARNASSUS

On this mountain of high poetry, & fame,
I remember the night the Muses first came
To me on the silk of a milken moon,
Singing in silence the song of my name
Entwin’d with a destiny… not too soon,
Had truth flutter’d loose from youth’s true cocoon,
& I began to write – all energies within me,
Focused on the page… creation… literature
& my pale breath, O frail spark, forever chang’d!

An intellectual girlfriend at the time saw my glow,
& handed me her edition of the complete WB Yeats,
With eagles rising from fermenting imagination,
Led by the light of a true Gaelic bardsman,
I found I was a poet after all!

—–

ON POETHOOD

Poetry is… the mind’s palatial hall,
Sublime preserver of man’s rare action,
Some daguerreotype of ripen’d soul,
Deep as chess, & vibrant as her dragon,
Bestest way of whistling bestest diction,
Pigmenter of imagine’s consulate,
A perfumed doll, lonely & protean,
Whose priests possess the arcane factor ‘X’,
To be tapp’d so to poetise the dream.

In my prime soul was planted that fair seed,
I was mine own taskmaster… in stages
The self-flagellation of the sages,
This remedy for mental malady,
Form’d, from scatter’d parchments, my first pages.

—-


ON COMPOSITION

The heighten’d awareness of life & sound,
Twin focus of energies light & space,
Let dropsies of absinthe numb the cortex,
Then… a more refin’d moment gathers round,
Most powerful signs of a mind emerge
Up over the ridge with a Zulu surge,
Eying the treasures the love-priest protects
In glittering troves, what should we steal next?
A whisper, “The all-encompassing eye!”

Thus, growing godlike, writings, made codex,
Fill celestial places, sanctify
Melodious mystique-songs enthralling,
Erupting ignean ’til the cooling
Juice settles, sets a rose within its chosen mould.

—-


IN SITU: L’AMFIPARNASSO

As mounting Mount Parnassus has just leant
A certain special magic to the day,
With a two-litre bottle of rose,
My muses, & the sun, & the moment
& I, their poetical passenger,
Orpheus pressing hard against my sail,
Where, yes, it seems his song has form’d a gale,
Why else allude to mythic Thracian bards!

I dream of more fresh roses to be found
Across the world in sites yet to be seen
& of the children I am pois’d to ween
To buy for each an island & a hound;
A terrier for most, but for the best
A spaniel with silver-splashing chest!

—-

THERMOPYLAE

Napoleon, in Amiens, the crown!
Wrested from papal clutches, his own hands
Set steel upon his brow, Corsican clown
No longer, but an emperor of lands!

I came upon a plain of dreams & steam,
A spartan in my body, duty, rhyme,
Where Leonidas & his polis cream,
Defied the best of Persia, in their prime.

On noble Kolonos a monument
Topp’d by a laurel wreath, I gladly felt
That thro’ my Muses it was to me sent –

As I, before Phoenician letters knelt,
Bent round the branch into a perfect ring,
I’ll crown myself, at last, a Poet-King!

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BEAUTIFUL LIVES

Where are you now with your beautiful lives,
& your beautiful wives, & your horses?
Where are you now with your beautiful knives
As you dine on your beautiful courses?

Leap up & reach for the world-open road
Where the antlers of stags are still living,
Face up to liberty, free up your load
For the chill of the night unforgiving.

On waking & feeling the splendour of morn
We aspire to the day’s new adventure,
Our feet are stll soggy, our clothes are more torn,
With a vision of God in each vista.

Such beautiful music in curses you’ve sworn
As you pace off your beautiful blister!

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BELOW OLYMPUS

Zeusian eagles hover’d oer the folds
Where I collected firewood, meanwhile
Immers’d in poesy’s pristeen reverie
Of lofty pitch & classical alludes,
The constitutions of a younger vow
Lay fully realiz’d – Olympus rose
Oer tree-green gorge where chaunt I to the gods
Pulses initial to a final form,
An hour of velvet wonder in my life,
Inspirational, talismanical,
Idyllic launchpad of a lofty muse,
Far from the heavings of society,
Wild curry cooking, Castallian mead
Flavour’d by mountain herbs, caring for naught.

—

TO SALLY FROM SAMOTHRAKI

As every kiss Odysseus posess’d,
He, daily, plung’d to Penelope’s breast;
I want to wake beside you every day,
Tell you I love you, ask if you’re OK,
Give you a kiss if you’re going to work,
Or hide if you’re menstrual & going bezerk,
For ye are the one thing I crave here the most,
Camp’d on rocky crest of Aegean coast,
Beneath me the sea-nymphs whisper your name
Above me stars glitter like your eyes aflame –
Now, eagles glide by me as deft as you do,
All these, & me singing reminds me of you,
For you are the music that livens my drumming
Be patient, my love, I am coming…

(SR) SPIRIT-CATCHERS

Posted on September 24, 2025 Updated on March 4, 2026

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Hi Dear Damo

Such lovely news! The sea, camping, peace… sounds just perfect for you – But I’m sorry to hear about your gout — that sounds painful! I hope the medicine helps and that you can rest properly for a bit. You definitely deserve some quiet days by the sea.

It was such a joy to see you — I’ve been smiling every time I think about it! I’m really touched that you remember my voice and my smile

I miss you so much. I’ve been thinking a lot about the precious moments we shared, our conversations, our laughter, and the special time we spent together. Those memories have stayed with me and will always be very dear to my heart.

I truly hope you are doing well, that your mind, heart, and life are in a good place. Please tell me how you are —  know that I’ve been eagerly waiting to hear from you, to know how you are, and to talk to you again.

So, your Black Sea sonnet — I loved it! The imagery is so vivid, I could almost see the mountains, the sea, and the little encounters along the way. There’s such a gentle rhythm to it, like the journey itself. You really captured that mix of adventure and reflection beautifully.

Now, to your Atatürk.

I honestly don’t even know where to begin…

I am completely blown away by this poem.

What you’ve written is not just a poem — it feels like an epic, a tribute, a cinematic monument in words. The way you captured Atatürk’s life, spirit, struggles, victory, and vision is absolutely incredible. Verse after verse, I could feel his fire, his will, his mind, his revolution. It gave me chills.

As a Turkish person, I cannot tell you how deeply this moved me. You didn’t just write about Atatürk — you understood him. His courage, his intellect, his sacrifice, his modern vision for a free, independent and enlightened nation… You honored all of it in such a powerful, respectful, and poetic way.

Your attention to detail, the historical references, the rhythm, and the emotion… it’s on another level. It feels like something that should be archived in a museum or read in front of a nation. Truly.

I feel proud. I feel emotional. I feel grateful. This is one of the most meaningful and beautiful things anyone has ever written about our leader and our history.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

This is unforgettable.

Sending you healing thoughts and sunshine,

Halime …

(SR) 11: Hiking on Hisarlik

Posted on September 24, 2025 Updated on February 25, 2026

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HIKING ON HISARLIK

We will either find a way or make one
Hannibal

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BREACHING KAPALCARSI

O polymartic world emporium!
Where West meets East upon a nexus point
That are the grand bazaars, centaurean
Man-horse vaulting great continents, unjoint
By slender Bosphorus – Here, Constantine
Imagin’d his glorious, eternal
Bastion, confounding the grim design
Of Eastern hordesmens’ hoof-roads infernal;

I’d enter’d Turkiye by Pegasus,
This wondrous land becomes a nest for us,
Where prosper Sultans, kept forever young
By pristeen mausaulea, streams of birds
Appear, take perch – each immaculate dome
Agrees: “We’re more spectacular than Rome.”

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ISTANBUL

I plung’d into a madd’ning, labyrinthine
Megacity metro; sign-by-sacred-sign
Names shone like glow-worms sufi saints employ;
Thro’ Yenakapi, Mecidiyekoy
Then Kagithane, an office there I made
In the Ottoman Archives – wide walls array’d
Maps of empire, tow’ring oer – from the Balkans
To Persia, banners flew like falcons.

I hopp’d upon a boat to Büyükada ,
Whose serendiptous, fumeless, esplinada
Feels Turkiye’s Portmeirion – chateaux rows
By hillside verdure crown’d – the whole bestows
A sense of sweet oasis on the edge, sea-girt,
Of sixteen million people, & their dirt.

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COACHRIDER

What a relief, you made it chief!
In deepest Asian Istanbul,
The bubbling hub of Kamilkoc,
Serving Turkey, since 1926

I met Ozman on the coach,
His name means poetry in Turkish,
We sat there swapping DJ sets,
Heads nodding to the groove & the road.

I’m on the borders of being brilliant,
I mean, Mount Ida’s over there somewhere,
& across the Byron-swam Hellespont,
Anzacs died for England.

So, this is where the next adventure starts
The one that makes the blood pound in mens’ hearts.

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DOWNTOWN CANAKKALE

The Turks they are a gallant race,
Gallipoli defiant,
The Age of Empires met their pace,
Then treat them like a client.

Now laugh, they, off those global games;
Contented, them, to be
Alive & thriving round the lanes
Of down-town Canakkale.

I took my camera to the streets,
Compos’d so many photos,
To show to Haydyn & to Keats
I am the Silver Rose!

For while art’s lust in me repeats,
Let’s follow! “Where?” “Who knows?

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TO THE FUTURE STUDENTS OF MY GENIUS

When travelling in Turkiye I kinda lost myself,
So put up some videos of me singing on mi phone
& realis’d I was quite a cool chap, actually,
Went out for a street-stroll, strut in my stride
On the hunt for the tent I’d be needing that night
But were searching for ages, I’m like dont worry,
It’s time to live off yer wits, you’ve done it before…

From the edge of town, thro’ the maze which hid my digs,
I found myself stumbling into the center of Canakkale,
Thought ‘why don’t I try that first place, just in case,
That were clos’d early morning, when all I’d observ’d
Were rows of flashy sports shoes’ – to my joy it had
A little camping bit hidden away – bought a tent, sorted!
So, I’m not really a genius, I’m a complete fuckin dafty!

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WHEN LORD BYRON SWAM THE HELLESPONT

As Leander, who was nightly wont the Hellespont to cross
Was thought a myth, so the deed was call’d a doubtful story,
No traveller endeavour’d, ever, Abydos to Sestos
‘Til Byron came – Leander swam for love, but he for glory

Upon a genial day in May, with Lieutenant Ekenhead
Of the Salsette frigate, after calculating the tides
They dove inside the icy currents that so rapid sped
No boat could row directly forth the stream that so divides

Asiatic from Europa, the waters chill’d by ices
From melting mountain snows, angular courses were forc’d
Forging four miles from one, but each a modern Dionysis
They swam like more-than-mortals, on reaching the other coast,

Emerge no better swimmers, of a feat on which both prided
Quoth Byron, “as Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.”

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GALLIPOLI

You can see what Churchill was trying to do,
Over in Whitehall with maps and busy brain,
The Central Powers would rely on, he knew,
The Dardanelles, & all that Turkish grain.

Besides, the Old Man of Europe was palliative,
Just one big sneeze and his knees would collapse,
But there’s not many Antipodeans who’d forgive
How one man’s plans would devastate the Anzacs;

& decimate and desecrate and blow to fuckin bits,
Malaria, & dysentry & endless runny shits,
Kitchener’s a cunt, the Abduls scrap like dingoes,
& all this Death is just to give the Turks a bloody nose.

“I’d rather be a ‘would-to-godder’ than die upon that ridge!”
“Come on digger, do your duty!” “War’s a privilege!”

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GOKCEADA

I am what you call a ‘Front-Line Sonnet-Hunter,’
With a need to be out tracking down the most excuisite
Of poetical experiences – & when we find them
We’re completely justified in answering the call of our soul.

So, there I was, right, right in my fucking element,
Scrambling arcane rocks, scattering bleating goats,
& as I climb’d those proper steep & bouldery slopes,
Every step became a pleasure, I was feeling fit as fuck.

But, seeing how landslide-precarious the summit was,
& having the preservation of this, the vital necessity
Of finishing off the Silver Rose, I forego the very peak,

To sit, high enough, on a much safer precipice,
Wondering & planning the wonderful walks yet to come,
Tomorrow, & the day after, on this heavenly Aegean isle!

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SCAEAN GATE

Stripp’d of world distractions by life’s timerats gnaw’d away,
To Canakkale sail’d back on a windy, muggy day
A coach fare bought for Afyon, then superglued my shoe
& set off marching south, Homeric questings to renew
The way was straight the sun lay west, bang goes the starter’s gun
A marathon of miles, so with a wave to everyone
Me watching whether in my times or ages yet to come
Feet eating up these meaty streets to the beat of my own drum
Foot sore I came on Troya, with delight I view’d that hill
Like Ataturk at Afyon, who, with an eager thrill
Lays out a map, leaps to his feet, hands rais’d to his Protector
Shouts loud & proud, now we, the Turks, have vengeance made for Hector
As joyous as the revelery cut short when out that horse
Leaps Odysseus, with twenty men, & open’d this gate, of course!

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IN HOMER’S WAKE

Hiking thro’ a series of small Turkish towns,
With the same old chay shop & the same old men,
Out came my laptop instead of a pen
& I began to write; well before light
I’d broken camp by Hisarlik, lost my hat in the dark
Hats come & go, but sonnets are immortal!

As I forded the Scamander, Zeus sent a rainstorm
B,y black pipers led, spear-legion of rain-shafts;
Quick-witted, pitching tent in a red & random field
Starts an hour of dry-waiting, trainers like mudblocks
But alive – I’m not just surviving, but thriving
As inside these sonnets my love of life maintains
Its fullest force…
…all along the Trojan plains
I march’d on Tenedos, a poet in Lord Homer’s wake.

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THE NEXT ISLAND

The Gods won’t halt my hike at Hisarlik
These Turkish sonnets set to delve on farther;
Yon Tenedos, rebranded Bozcaada,
O! Hanging basket blend of Grecian brick
& Turkish flavours! The next box to tick
In my lifetime’s island-hopping saga;
Malta & Sicily, Islay, Jura,
Gokceada, Büyükada – so fantastic
It is when mainland stresses left behind,
Purging life’s hectic heavings from the mind!

Above the town I sat, across the main
Mount Ida climb’d, the Muses use my brain;
“Where next?” I ask’d them, “somewhere in the snows
Of India, another Silver Rose!”

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PHRYGIAN VICTUALS

Itinerizing lately, there is one
More city left to visit, Afyon;
I’d met a pretty girl in Manchester –
Halime by name -, Allah has blest her
With beauty, ziki, sense of humour too,
Her feelings golden & her meaning true;
We breakfast on pekmas & tahini,
We drive to the caves of Ayazini,
At the lion stone of Aslankaya
Rock carvings, vaulting epic time, inspire
Ruminations on which hand had made ’em,
Which of the ancient king-chiefs had okay’d ’em,
What systems of belief, which rituals,
& what the offerings of Phrygian victuals.

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LORD BYRON NEVER GOT THIS FAR EAST

As cypress wood will sometimes need a laithe,
Even a poet sometimes needs to bathe,
Cleansing themselves before a change of scene,
These were the best baths I had ever been,
Presenting menthol-scented sauna rooms
& porcelain to lie on, with perfumes,
I’d had wood-heated hot-tubs back at home
& bath’d in Budapest like Ancient Rome,
But this was something else, some Muslim-style
Water, healing people; on marble tile
I sat, overheated, but ecstatic,
Staring at the ceiling with emphatic
Feelings – Great Gods of Poetry, leap inside
This spirit, keep on visiting my ride!

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BLACK SEA BESIDE

In training for tours subcontinental
Starts a fortnight’s hiking, camping nightly
Amid gorge-torn Ballica, Istanbul
Beyond; from Tepeoren, politely
Nodding to burqas, & with proud men press’d hands,
Finding this idyll such a privilege,
First sonneteer to see these sheer, green lands!

As, “may your path be clear,” heard ridge-to-ridge,
My shatter’d Turkish earning directions
To rest my gout at Cavuzagzi Beach –
Where, editing these sonnets, in sections
(This world of tours & beauties ought to teach),
From fishermen I bought their final beer,
& dreamt of Argonauts who’ve landed here.

(SR) GATES OF HELL

Posted on September 23, 2025 Updated on March 4, 2026

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THE GATES OF HELL

The Turkish gaze at me, unaware that I’m
Just an epic poet on my wanders,
Spirited amongst them by gusting rhyme,
To stand before the Cehennemağzı Caves,

Burrow’d out by giant anacondas;
This is Hell’s Mouth, a road below them paves
The way to Cerberus, t’where souls departed
From flesh decaying in disrespected graves.

I heard a voice whimper, “Have pity on me!”
“Are you a ghost,” I hiss’d at this man in robes,
“I am the shade of Virgilus of Rome,
Poet to Augustus & the false & lying gods!

The place eternal waits, the deep & savage way
Where shrieking ancyents wail for second deaths,
From there, a spirit fitter than mine
Shall lead you safely thro’ the spheres divine”

ABANDON ALL HOPE THOSE THAT ENTER HERE
THRO ME THE WAY INTO THE WOEFUL CITY
THRO ME THE WAY TO THE ETERNAL PAIN
THRO ME THE WAY AMONG THE LOST PEOPLE

Clapping Hands * Screams of Anguish
Haunted Sighs * Lamentations
Loud Scourgings * Strange Tongues
Horrible Lingua * Words of Pain

I saw a great crowd by a black & loathsome river
A demon row’d towards them with eyes of burning coal
“This is the Acheron,” said the poet, “& that is Charon!
Father of the livid marsh, watcher of its river crossing!”

The Mantuan vates saw me shrinking back in fear
From all those angry tones, & with a sighing said,
“Welcome to Inferno!” – in-holding hot breath,
We plung’d on deeper thro’ a starless gloom…

(SR) 12: South India

Posted on September 23, 2025 Updated on March 4, 2026

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SOUTH INDIA
MUMBAI
THE EAR CLEANER
GOKARNA
THE INCREDIBLE INDIA CODE
FORT COCHIN
INDIAN RAILWAYS
KANYAKAMARI
ON IMAGINING THE SCENTED SUTRA
NALATIYAR
THIRUVALLUVAR
DEPARTING FOR ANDAMAN
CASTAWAY
AVATARAS

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SOUTH INDIA

After reaching India I spent some time on
going about the country
Mahatma Ghandi

37,000 ft

Across Europa we have both progress’d,
By foot, by boat, by tram, by bus, by train,
But this hour, from a cool & pleasant plane,
Sees me sailing air on a grander quest,
The scenes by cyan skies & soft cloud blest,
How seldom seen & varied the terrain
Of ashen peak, urban sprawl, verdant plain,
Gleaming sea, wastes of sand & wylde forest.

As soon as we abandon Europa,
I could already taste the eastern scent,
The sun was setting west of Syria,
The starry heavens singing its lament,
As somewhere yon the grey Arabia
My pilot was beginning his descent.

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MUMBAI

Our plane approaches as the ghostly wraith,
Thro’ nights black regions steadily she falls
Into this lab’rinth of a billion souls,
Vast myriad of language, race & faith.

So, I am come, come to this sultry shore,
First diamond of the crown Victorian,
Earth’s epicenter, an empyrean
Melting pot of empires to explore.

By eastern flair was western thought inspired,
I am recently led to understand,
With me I have fetch’d a mind of England
& all my love for beauty there acquired.

When, swooning ‘neath an infant urchin’s, “Please!”
How many times would I see sights like these?

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THE EAR CLEANER

Stepping out one golden Goan morning,
Drowsy with the sunken sun’s adorning,
Content, was I, to be in nature’s hand,
Soul-freshen’d as bare feet sunk into sand.

From out of nowhere stept a wizen’d man,
“Sahib! cleaning your hearing well I can!”
Shows Western praises in his little book,
Black blocks of wax from both my ears he took

I shook the hand that scrubb’d my hearing clear
Said fond farewells & watch’d him disappear
Round red & rugged hill flank’d by the view
Of Konkan coast careering into blue,

When first found I the profits of his fee
I’d never known how sweetly sounds the sea!

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GOKARNA

Lapsing on a ledge over Paradise,
Among my beads now glows a silver rose
The first one I had found, Italia
Makes sound as India, & as those pees –
Pisa, Portovenere, mark’d that find,
Me performing musica nel strada
& sleeping al fresco… up Palolem
I’d redefin’d myself a top DJ,
&, as the Gulf of Poets gave me peace,
This perfect bay has now relax’d my muse,
Enough to think that sticking too one’s path,
With all its little wonders, sets us free,
Composing songs thro’ bitter British snows,
But far away, where sea & beaches meet!

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THE INCREDIBLE INDIA CODE

1 Book your tickets in advance
2 Separate your money sources
3 Never trust a tout
4 Keep tabs on yer tabs
5 If they say they’re a masseuse – they’re not
6 Murder all mosquitoes before bed
7 Never trust a fart
8 Anything is possible in India
9 Check your room thoroughly before leaving
10 Picking up stones scares off dogs & monkeys
11 Eat with your non-wiping hand
12 “I was an Indian in another life!”
13 Plenty of change for journeys
14 Ask five different people for directions

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FORT COCHIN

Come share a second with serenity
Up in this lake of European rooves,
This crescent lamp’d oer th’Arabian sea
Lulls me thither, I hear the sound of hooves…

At once a sacred chime grows on the breeze,
Some teller of a thousand ancyent tayles,
Some from the world’s crop-fellers overseas,
Some cross the Karakoram’s lofty trails,
Some were seekers of immortal glory,
Some content to be husbands, to be wives…

Tho’ the vision all clutter’d & hoary,
With me a single memory survives,
Being extras in the global story
We are stars in the movies of our lives.

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INDIAN RAILWAYS

I found myself waiting at this train station,
Not for a train, it was just to buy a ticket,
Not even for that day, but eleven in the future,
The next one available from Cochin to Calicut;

So, I´m waiting & I’m waiting & I´m waiting nit-pick longer,
& the guy behind the desk´s on his third guy in an hour
& I was fourth, but the seventh guy´s hand starts waving
His reservation form as the third guy was about to finish;

So, I warned fifth, sixth, & seventh they´d be foolish for linecuttin,’
After all, I’d been in the sun all day like a mad English dog
& my legs felt like lead & I was definitely, definitely, goin’ next…

So, the third guy finishes, & just as I thrust my form thro’ the window
The fella behind the desk decides he needs the fuckin’ toilet…
Then, when he’d finish’d, the scoundrel closes the window fer lunch!

---

KANYAKAMARI

I stepp’d onto Vivikenanda’s rock
There paus’d, of situation took full stock,
Before me, some vast fan, India spread,
Behind, lay endless ocean, grey as lead
Above, & to the side, a statue rose
Some noble poet in his noblest pose
& I gazed I swear he winked at me.

Into my mind th’Orphean frequency
Sang, ‘Boy, wherever in the world ye be
Remember me!’….’Tis Thiruvalluvar!’
Says saddhu, startl’d by me, who had seen
Or sens’d a dream twyx poets, inbetween
A butterfly thro’ silver sea-spray flew…

…The boat-bell rang, I sprang to join the queue.

---

ON IMAGINING THE SCENTED SUTRA

As I was walking pastel Madurai,
Booksellers by dust yellows caught my eye,
Two books I bought there; the Perfumed Garden
& the Kama Sutra, with firm hard on
I read them in the street, some gnarl’d old man
Sold me opium; ‘neath the whirring fan
Of my bare room, sweet tonic to the heat,
I gorg’d on both, thro’ moments rolling sweet
I toss’d & turn’d upon a lonely bed,
Full wishing there’s a women there instead,
When in a flash of inspiration gold
I knew these sexy texts must be retold –

Pleasant for the present & the future,
Spreads the essence of the Scented Sutra.

---

NALATIYAR

Her
O lord of fertile land & everflowing waterfalls
O lord of cool sunshine warming ocean´s running waves
O lord of good country with beautiful ebony mountains
O lord of flowery hills with lush & sparkling waterfalls
O lord of honey-bearing woods in the good country
O lord of long seashore with fine, unfailing salt-pans
O lord of the hills with lovely sandal groves on
O lord of cool lagoons & bays brimming with water
O lord of prosperous vineyards & huge gem-studded caverns

Him
O beautiful lady with breasts like budding flowers
O lady of beautiful hair with fragrance of musk
O lady of long-eyed spears & beautiful bow-like eyebrows

Him & Her
O lord of bewitching victories, bring these beauties out in me

---

THIRUVALLUVAR

As I rested on a fine, empty beach, by the Bay of Bengal,
In soft seconds of existence I was alerted to a flutter of birds,
From mile along the coast I watch’d the white robes of a man approaching,
& expected him to pass, but on coming within a few metres,
He veer’d towards me suddenly, leaving no footsteps in the sand,
“What is your profession?” he curtly asked, “I am a sonneteer, sir!”
His magnificent eyes burrowed into the heartlands of my soul,
“By any chance, are you carrying a pretty silver rose?”
Astonish’d, I shew’d him the bloom d’argent hung round my neck;

After humming an Upanishad he said, “I have been expecting you,
Ever since I felt the a shimmering flux, out to the west of Eden;
As seven words a kural make, seven kural form a sonnet!”
Confirming my epiphanies into the elegant depths of sonnetry,
He smil’d, then he departed, left no footsteps in the sand…

---

DEPARTING FOR ANDAMAN

Gazing across exotic ocean stream
Shamrock musing drifts to distant Burnley,
Where for as long as breathing there shall be
My family, my friends, my football team –

So far away, for following my dream
I am a stranger in a strange contree,
Though slowly hook’d upon its cup of tea,
Darjeeling serv’d up with a Devon cream.

The sun has fallen & the ship has sail’d,
The last lamps of the mainland shrink & fade,
A momentary notion has prevail’d,
As Vagu & Varuna soft notes play’d,

Next time by solid ground my feet regaled
Into youth’s fleeting heart I shall have stray’d.

---

CASTAWAY

Down southern Andaman lies Jolly Bouy,
Of rainbow coral, full of snorkling joy,
I spent an hour lagooning in a laze,
& fell astoned, then woke, to my amaze
The boat had left me, deserted, alone,
No rizlas, samosas, water, nor phone!

A mile or so across the sharky foam,
A trail of smoke show’d someone was at home,
I built a brushweed raft, but that soon sank,
So off I swam, my goddess I should thank
For showing me this was a wild riptide,
Young muscles haul’d me back, I’d nearly died!

Then, waving to distant boats, at sunset,
I’d be the strangest fish they’ve ever net.

---

AVATARAS

At the back of the ship, at the height of the trip,
Drawn by the harmonies of Lord Vishnu’s call,
Navel-rooted lotus soft floats ‘over waters
Absorbing the beauteous Bay of Bengal,
Transcending to milk, pearly seaway of silk,
Thou lavender cushion of infinite white,
Surrounding the foetal spirit centripetal
Sucking upon toenails painted starry bright.

“Rider, thou art return’d to India,
Saraswathi, I see, has smil’d on you,
Thy mortal aura bless’d in her prayer,
Thine energies hued in a rainstorm blue,
Come drape thyself in the Himalaya,
For there, thy Rose of Sylver shall renew.”

(SR) SARASWATHI SONG

Posted on September 23, 2025 Updated on March 6, 2026

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SARASWATHI SONG

Bolivian hacendados plant the year’s first coca,
Over Li Chiang, the snow-range is turquoise,
Rollerskates shake up Krivarbatsky Lane,
Stygian gloom devastates Stadhouderskade,
Josh sticks burn in Heliopolis,
Ginnungagap yawns;
& while starlings gather in pinetops across Canada,
Surya shines on an oily sea.

Do you remember the first time you found us,
Poeticizing in the caravanserai,
‘Neath Tashkurghan’s mountain Manchu fort,
Do you remember summoning us to India
To sing for thee, Saraswathi, my Goddess?

I wander’d all across the lands
Of India, most useful –
A mighty huntress, & her prey, Mankind!

Majestic Maharani of my mind!
Time is auspicious, the venue appropriate;
Elect me as your husband, & I’ll sing!

Expanding like the petals of cut flowers
Teach me to weave your webs of golden thread
& fill these soft stanzettas with your song,
In half-a-dream, or more a dream of dreaming.

Thoughts comes rushing in like a flight of swans
Then they pass, & they dive to the pure unknown
Raising glorious wonders in the stillness of the day!

Give me the lyrics of Mewari shepherds
Sate in fields of pristine sugar beets,
Slurping on stumps in between verses;
Give me melodies of Moslem bangle-sellers
Bustling thro’ narrow alleyways of Hyderabad,
Where wedding chaunts of winking grooms,
Floral-wreath’d & crown’d like peacocks,
As handsome as the Dawn of Krishna’s vows.

Sing, Saraswathi, of the Tyger of Mysore,
Stuck like a leg of chicken
In the British Empire’s throat.

& teach me, pray teach me,
Of the Ayer Vedic ghats
Of the Edicts of Ashoka,
& the chains of causation,
Of ineffable contemplation
& these Four Noble Truths
First glean’d under the Bodhi Tree at Gaya.

Sing, Saraswathi,
Your tender, primal melodies,
For the girlfriends who ador’d me,
& the women who would wash me,
When I was just a baby
Underneath a lone Pennine.

Yes, sing, Saraswathi,
Thro’ the song which I am singing,
Underneath thy silken sari
To the gather’d hearers, here;
For there is light in the music,
& there’s life forever after,
In the moments we were married
In a song that’s sung sincere.

Sing, Saraswathi, of white-wash’d Pondicherry,
& the mantric revelations
That you gave Sri Aurobindo,
Omniscient in syllabary!

Sing, Saraswathi
Of the wisdom of the Gita
That you gave to azure Krishna,
In the fields of Kurukshetra,
When Arjuna knew his doubts.

Her qualities are Nymphaeaceae,
Her perfumes Kustrika when on heat,
Bestowing immortality & the triumph of time!

But, Goddess, am I worthy ?
I am thy willing disciple,
My wildly discarnating spirit
Tameable with verses.

Sing, Saraswathi, the Song of the Lord,
The Gita of indestructible embodiment
To the strains of your astral sitar,
& in honour of blue Kishna
Let us do what is to be done,
Sing his song for the Ages to come

Saraswathi, summer of my life!
Let us discuss intelligent ideas,
Let us dissect the poetics of Pandini,
&, if you deign to treat me,
Illuminate this speech,
Adorn my burning heart
With words of water, nectar, pomegranate –
To cleanse & clarify my lonely time-corner
In this poly-sided universe of life

Sing, Saraswathi, of the golden Goan shoreline,
& the Kanchenjonga ridges
Oer the snake-streets of Sikkim.

Saraswathi! Blessed anthropomorphic
Vision of incorporeal bliss,
A coming together of vague poetic forces,
In one iconic majesty,
I see thee, Goddess,
Dost thou see me?

Sing, Saraswathi, of sacred Asvaghosha
& Ishavara Krishna of the Samkhyakarika,
Of how them both were Issa,
Spreading Vedic principles
In texts of many tongues!

O, Saraswathi!
Let me handle the divine leaves
Of your fabulous Fifth Veda,
Beyond all mortal realms in scope & slokas,
Transcending all Earth’s energies in style –
All-inclusively;
Sciences, philosophy, religious speculations!

O, Saraswathi! Monarch of my Muses,!
What is Mahabharata?
Literature? Painting? Sculpture? Music?
Didactic molder of Mankind’s character?
O! Let this epic perfect my searing soul!

O! Mahabharata! O! India!
Gigantic globe of thought enrob’d,
The Bharata Wars are the Universe,
Containing galaxies of narratives,
Forging consciousness in various spheres,
Finding ample sense in complex rhythms,
Where prospers humanity’s myriads!

O! Beloved! My Beloved!
While I sing our song,
Plant for me a vineyard
Leave a winepress near the garden
& I’ll boil my rustic wines,
For a party for immortals,
Am I Bacchus of the Ganga?
Apollo of the Punjab?

Give me ink, & give me goat-skin,
Give me wine, & give me feeling
To play most tender melodies
Upon your string’d sitar.

& give me, Saraswathi, as you gave to Vyasa,
The gift of sight, & in that seeing, beauty;
Fram’d by the imparting arts of poetry,
Let me mould my mimesis
Like those rouge, clay cups containing scented chai.

Chai! Chai! Chai!
My train rumbles on,
Muttering, shuddering,
Thro’ shutters I see
Siva’s fiery lingam,
Atop Arunachala’s mountain,
Oer Tiruvannamalai.

A question follows me everywhere,
‘Are you married, sir?’
My reply always surprises,
‘Yes… to Saraswathi!’

For I am thy Silver Rose, Saraswathi
Led, here, to Kolkata by scented trails –
If Edinburgh was the mind of the Empire,
& London its powerful heart,
Then, surely, this city was its soul!

Let me hear you play, O goddess!
& let me praise, like troubadours of old,
Celestial sounds of your sitar,
Haunting mantras of your sarangee,
Wonderful strings of your saron!

O! Saraswathi!
Let me drown in your deliciousness
In moments of togetherness
Which gladdens vocal arts

Yes! Be my sweet teacher
Immerse me in Dhurava for two years of bliss
When I shall only practice the base note ‘sa!’

Kolkata! Cacophony!
Calliope’s Conduit,
Clio’s Accountant,
Street’s pregnant with ghee,
Shady lanes of guava green,
Lepers pointing, with gnarling hands
At useless legs,
& while the card school prioritizes higher antes,
& the shoefixers busier than normal
Lemon sellers are doing a lively business!

Oh! Renovated rotund of Kolkata!
Oh! Pigeon-haunted rubbish tips!
Oh! Rubber emporiums in the ruins of the Raj!

In Kolkata
There is Taste & Beauty & Emotion
But do the touch the fossiliz’d minds
Of its prehistoric slum dwellers

O! Saraswathi! Are you really Sabia?
Up from the Sunderbans,
An elf on Sudder Street
& if no begging then nothing to eat!

Her mother caught the Black TB
& pass’d away, with nothing on her feet,
Sabia was now her own mother
With three younger mouths to feed
When only teenage prostitution could saved them
& only the decent Amir Vela Mandir pay her heed;
When on Sundays, she patiently waits in line
Recieving sweets & savouries & sabje in a bag –
Then shuffles back to paving flags to sip her gutter-wine.

On Canning Street
Tacky plastic jewelry battles each other
Flashes of rats scuttle between boxes
Flower-sellers’ teeth shine brilliant & white

Look at the masses! Gaze on the multitudes!
Inflam’d with religion,
Mourning hagiographic reliquerie –
Ye Prophets of the West, your time has come,
See how scrivan godspell cast upon the Earth!

Praise the thirteen siblings
Of Rabindranath Tagore;
Dwijendra, Satyendra, Himendra, Bivendra,
Saudamini, Jyotirindra, Sukamari, Dunyendra,
Saratkumari, Swanakumari, Barankumari
Somendra & Budhendra.

If the entire universe is Siva’s stage
Praise the acting of Rabindranath Tagore,
Upon whose honour all vidyas converge,
Disavowing the punitive West,
Refusing an Emperor’s knighthood
To read one line of his is to forget
All of the troubles of the world

Today, in Kolkata’s cockpit of conquest
There is Kathak, India’s own glory
Supernatural costumes, heroic make-up
Dancers gliding with grotesque splendour
& singers & actors, all on the same stage.
Transporting us to an ancient world of dreams

I dreamily read Tagore’s inventive metrics
On trains, in restaurants & on the tops of omnibuses
Subtle in rhythm, delicate in untranslatable colour,
A supreme culture’s common soil

Walking hand-in-hand across the Maidan
These vast, green, lung Calcutta
We pass a thousand Tendulkars
On a hundred home-made wickets

A city bubbling & thick with proud calls & lights
Overflows the saucepan of its eyelids
Its tears flow out in gutters of lowly populations
In streets where Saptamatrika fear to tread

O Saraswathi
Allow me my vocation as an artist in verse
Let me study the recipes of your poets
Take up a handful from every poet
& mush & mix into dishes of sweet nectar

O! Sad-fac’d White Tiger of Alipore Zoo,
O! Ghosts of english gaiety long gone
O! Pan-stain’d pavements in spat at spate
O! Card schools down Shady lanes
O! Women outside tinshacks washing plates
O! Homely hubs of homeopathic health!
O! College Street of famous books
O! Lovely ‘Indian Coffee House’
Serv’d by handsome cockateet waiters

In the middle of the day
My head is melting into mush
& my clothes stick sweatily to my skin.

Let me swim in each of the rivers of Punjab –
Where Jhelum, Chenab, Ravi, Bens & Sutle
All flow into the ever-sacred Indus.

In Kolkata
An urchin taps a single rupee on his biscuit tin
Metal on metal
Nearby, a dog dreams, lazing between wilting fruit
& two handsome young men, conversing in scams
Between them an argument breaks out, briefly,
But ends in an instant of smiles

Meditating on the making of magical metaphors,
Allowing one word to do the work of twenty.
I am the magenta-throated,
Amethyst woodstar,
I am the pump of village water-wells,
I am the small dog digging holes in sand,
I am the hammer & sickle & Stalin’s wall,
I am the secret street-cleaner at Dawn,
I am the aluminum rooves
Of the barbers of Chidamburam, – barbere district n calcutta
I am your everything!

Upon the splendid esplanade of life,
Beside oceanic universe,
Our saliency is this, my sweet,
I am thy song disciple, let me sing
Praising thy beauty with my velvet thought,
Add music to your rivers of righteousness,
In atmospheres of happiness & abundance,
A living poet & a bidden bard,
Praising language in its highest form,
Most plainly & most openly,
I’ll remain thy crystal paragon,
Adoring, with all aspects of my soul,
Who is, who was, & who shall be, always,
Most beautiful of all thy parts, my love.