raghavendran

Retd Indian railway official, aged 80 plus, settled in Bangalore, India, interests - reading & writing poems. Love feed back.

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  • raghavendran 14h

    Full Circle

    Full Circle


    I am a small brook
    From a small hole
    Atop a tall mount
    Ever clad in snow and mist;

    I wend my way down
    Dale and vale,
    Cliffs and gorges
    To find my own rhythm
    In the vast plains below;

    Wider and wider I become
    As I snake along the plain,
    Huts and hamlets I cross,
    Cities and towns too,
    To join the ocean mighty
    And lose my own identity
    As a river broad and wide;

    When the sun heats up
    The unceasing waves
    And sends up clouds grey
    That floats above the mount
    And descends in a curtain of rain,
    I start flowing again
    From the self-same mount
    Where I was earlier born
    And the cycle once again starts.



    Raghav R
    27.10.2021
    ©raghavendran

  • raghavendran 2d

    From the Raw to the Refined

    Thank you very much EC for selecting this poem.


    Like the flowers that are culled
    From the faded and the colourless
    To adorn a garland beautiful;

    Like the veins of shiny gold
    Culled from the cluster of rocks
    To be refined for gold pure;

    Like the grains which, removed of the husk,
    Find their fitting place
    On the laden tables of every home;

    Like the diamonds, rough and raw,
    Eased from the bowels of earth
    And shaped to take their place
    Around a beauty’s neck;

    So must one cull beautiful words
    From the maze of whirling thoughts
    And set them in appealing order
    To weave a poem of exquisite charm.



    Raghav R
    25.07.2015
    ©raghavendran

  • raghavendran 4d

    The Power of Written Words

    Thanks Writersnetwork for reposting this poem.

    Thanks EC for selecting this poem under Editor's Choice.



    Written words that flow from a writer's quill,
    Bringing out to the world his exquisite skill,
    Live on for eons and eons of time,
    Surpassing the boundaries of clime.

    Written on palm leaves or graven on stone
    And buried under the earth unseen by anyone,
    One fine day they surface by human effort
    To be read and enjoyed in utmost comfort.

    They can take you to the past or future,
    Making you alive to the joys of Nature
    Or making you shudder at the dreadful past
    Or to the foreboding dangers that are diecast.

    Words written outlive their own source-
    (The authors who wrote poems or prose)
    To mesmerise generations of reading public
    Of sovereign kingdoms or modern republics.

    Neither Time nor unfavourable clime
    Can destroy the written words sublime,
    Though they who wrote those words
    Lie buried deep in earth's innards.

    Only the words written on shifting sands
    That lie sprawled along the coastal lands
    Vanish with the retreating waves
    Which take them to the watery graves.


    Raghav R
    23.10.2021
    ©raghavendran

  • raghavendran 1w

    A Tragic Tale

    I am part of every household,
    Of people young or considerably old,
    No household can live without me,
    But none to me shows mercy.

    Most nights I am weighed down,
    No one bothers even if I frown,
    Everyone treats me like a bonded labour,
    Even the visiting next door neighbour.

    I am a member of a household of two,
    Wedded for some time, but not very much new,
    Both have careers of their own
    And among their community are well known.

    Parties are a regular feature,
    As the two are friendly by nature,
    Weekends are celebrated with fanfare,
    Which is an unmissable grand affair.

    Music and drinks together flow,
    Faces of those who've imbibed begin to glow,
    Tongues loosened by the spirits forget caution,
    And what is spoken, to many is a revelation.

    Choicest foods on plates go round
    Brought from trade highly renowned
    For delicacies of unusual kind
    Which satisfies the palates refined.

    I witness all this glam
    Sitting pretty from where I am,.
    But I dread each weekend night
    Which fills me with utmost fright.

    With their stomachs filled to the full
    They become lethargic and dull,
    Then starts for me a misery grand
    When plates with leftovers on me land.

    Soon they pile up to the brim
    And my night becomes grim
    Burdened with the mountainous weight,
    No one seems to realise my plight.

    Often I am by the maid hurt
    Whose manners to say the least are curt,
    I am the recipient of her anger,
    O! If I am human, I would hang her.

    She bangs the vessels to vent her fury,
    Cursing her life of utter penury,
    Weekends for me are the worst
    And my life is one most cursed.

    After a fight with the queen of the house,
    She vents her anger and grouse
    At me and the vessels with vehemence such
    That I shudder at her very touch.

    Why should anyone bother about me,
    For a selfless and hapless sink I be,
    This nightmare I am born to suffer
    Every week night, forever and ever.


    Raghav R
    21.10.2021
    ©raghavendran

  • raghavendran 1w

    The Omniscient Lord

    Long long ago when humans were born
    It was totally unknown
    That spectacles one day they would need
    And earphones too indeed.

    Oh! How foolish of me to think
    That nose is only to distinguish fragrance from stink
    And earlobes are just to adorn the face
    Endowing it with admirable grace.

    Oh! Lord, how wonderful it is of you
    To provide them with earlobes two
    And a nose just between the eyes,
    With a bridge of a most suitable size.

    Omniscient thou art without doubt
    The needs of future humans to think about,
    The nose for the spectacles to sit on
    And earlobes for temple tips and earphone.



    Raghav R
    19.10.202
    ©raghavendran

  • raghavendran 1w

    Recipe for a Happy Life

    Thanks Writersnetwork for reposting this poem..

    A woman of the present age, well aware of the changing times, bold and thoroughly practical, and who is not scared to call a spade a spade, opens her heart to her would-be life partner as to what they should observe to lead a happy wedded life.

    I love thee with all my heart,
    Not because rich thou art,
    Nor for thy well-known pedigree,
    But because our hearts do agree.

    Religion will not intrude between us,
    Language will not alienate us,
    Our life will be founded on trust
    And no secrets will abide in our breast.

    Our lives are totally ours,
    Let's not compare it with that of others,
    We are unique in our own way
    As each one is, like night and day.

    As humans, weaknesses we do have,
    So let us not rant and rave
    And make a mountain out of a molehill,
    But agree never ever to cavil.

    Thy look saith thou agree with me,
    Which indeed means we shall happy be,
    Let us be true to each other
    And joys of love gather together.

    These are not conditions to avoid strife,
    But principles for a stress-free life,
    Let us embrace these with a smile
    And walk together mile after mile.


    Raghav R
    18.10.2021
    ©raghavendran

  • raghavendran 2w

    A Scavenger's Grouse

    We are called derisively "Scavengers",
    To this despicable name we are no strangers,
    We have suffered humiliation for very long
    But the stigma attached to us is surely wrong.

    With great indignation, people take our name,
    As often as not, we are put to shame,
    People make faces and wrinkle their noses
    Whenever they happen to see us.

    Like the ostracized beings of human race,
    We don't in cities leave our trace,
    Far far away on trees we spend our life,
    Avoiding the inevitable strife.

    We don't swallow the grains in their field,
    Nor do we stifle their yield,
    Cows, sheep or their pets we don't kill,
    But with whatever is dead our stomachs we fill.

    When predators discard their prey half-eaten,
    Which every second putrify and turn rotten,
    Did people know who cleans up the mess?
    Is it beyond them to guess?

    Let me then tell the honest truth,
    It is we whom they call uncouth
    Who risk our lives to save them
    Only to be smothered with blame.

    Our true worth the humans know not,
    We help them by eating those that rot,
    Epidemics and diseases are thus kept off,
    Instead of thanking us, they do scoff.

    Don't call us by that obnoxious name,
    It fills our heart with insufferable shame,
    Call us not "Scavengers" any more,
    But by any name our generations will adore.


    Raghav R
    14.10.2021
    ©raghavendran

  • raghavendran 2w

    From Dawn to Dusk
    Scenes from a Rural Village


    The poem describes scenes from a remote rural villagr, not of the present age of modernity or of advanced technology, but one where the inhabitants have lived a life of their own, not venturing out nor eager to absorb a way life about which they have only heard.

    While the natural phenomena of 'Dawn and Dusk' are common to the entire world, the scenes, the life and activities described are unique to the rural village mentioned in the poem.

    From Dawn to Dusk
    Scenes from a rural village

    Sweet Aurora, when thou steal'th over the horizon-
    Oh! Goddess of Dawn and harbinger of the Sun-
    Night-loving creatures, ghosts, ghouls and the like,
    Who, by nature, Apollo's rays dislike,
    Flee to their abode of cimmerian darkness
    To bide their time till dusk awakens.

    Lilting notes fill the dawn air
    Alongside the restless flapping of the birds fair,
    They wait for the worms to stir-
    Be they skinny or with skin akin to fur.
    They at once catch and dart to their home
    With a struggling helpless worm.

    Tall trees home to the avian tribe
    And the flowering plants verily describe
    The serene beauty of the green fields
    Which, with hard labour from farmers, yield
    Rich dividends in the form of healthy grains-
    A befitting reward for the farmers' pains.

    When thou mak'th way for the King of Day
    To climb the horizon streaming his golden ray,
    It's time when the peasant wak'th for labour,
    Calling out the unready slumbering neighbour.
    Toils for their livelihood driv'th them to the fields
    Which to their diligence and the plough yields.

    Herdsmen herd their flock to the pasture
    Enjoying leisure and labour till departure
    Back home just when the sky loses its light
    And birds too to their nests begin their flight,
    It is the hour of the impending dusk
    When the dark sky doesn't look picturesque.

    When the Klng of Azure attains zenith,
    Hot becomes the fields of the earth beneath,
    The sweating, tired men seek'th cool shade
    To eat their fare before beginning their trade;
    Refreshed, they urge their feet to the oxen tied abreast,
    Till the sun sets they will enjoy no rest.

    The sun sinks below the horizon, his day done,
    The dusk rush'th to the-sky-without-the-sun,
    Men trail behind the oxen in the vanishing light,
    As grey turns the sky as a prelude to night,
    Close to the blazing fire, they stretch their limbs
    To warm them before they on to their bed climb.

    In scattered homesteads, lamps become alive
    Where peace, love and industry do thrive,
    They think only of the life-giving rain
    Without which their efforts will be in vain;
    They depend on nature's bounty
    But are heartbroken when it is scanty.

    It is how Nature her game plays
    From dawn to dusk except during rainy days
    When pregnant clouds obscure the dawn
    Or at dusk when cloudy curtains are drawn.


    Raghav R
    12.10.2021
    ©raghavendran

  • raghavendran 2w

    Deathless Time

    Thanks Writersnetwork for reposting this poem.

    Time! Thou mov'st with the Sun
    Yoked inextricably together as one,
    Determining the minutes and hours of a day
    By hurrying for eons, come what may.

    Thou never halt'st nor tak'st any rest
    Like the Sun who mov'th from east to west,
    Mythology show'th thee with an hourglass
    Which is never said to pause.

    Man too contrived a mechanical device
    Which he thought without fail wouldst advise
    The hour and days of the passage of time
    Synchronised with the Sun in every clime.

    Alas! Sometimes his device stoppeth sans warning,
    Be it at dead of night or bright morning,
    While the divine Time that thou art
    Never stop once thou didst start.

    Ancient art showeth thee old, with a beard,
    By painters and sculptors in their fashion engineered,
    Thou hast never grown older than thou wert,
    While humans grew older, common clay or great.

    And growing older yet again with time
    Floated to reach their home in ethereal clime,
    Oh! Time divine, thou has no beginning nor end,
    But decide when one should to his abode ascend.

    Death canst never consume thee,
    Old, unchanging, for ever thou wilt be,
    But never growing older like humans
    Who leave the earth when death beckons.


    Raghav R
    09.10.2021
    ©raghavendran

  • raghavendran 3w

    Juveniles or Devil Incarnate

    Despite the measures taken to check the incidents of gruesome rape of girls and women, rapes continue to occur at alarmingly regular intervals. It is horrifying to see young men, particularly those who are juveniles, indulging in such atrocities with impunity. It is all the more terrifying to see brutal rapists claiming leniency under Juvenile Law though their deeds are more horrible ones unexpected at their hands. Although they are juveniles, they must be treated as adults and punished as such for their dastardly crimes. There is no juvenility present in them. They don't deserve any leniency.

    We don't want, repeat don't want, any more Nirbhayas.


    Juveniles or Devil Incarnate

    You are juvenile, of a tender age,
    But you proved to be more than a savage
    By your deed that has shaken Heaven,
    You are yet to figure among grown-up men.

    You have put your co-conspirators to shame,
    Juvenile you are only in name,
    You are viler than the vilest creature,
    With violence being your second nature.

    When alien should be such a violent trait
    To the tender age you are at,
    You have awed the holy heaven-
    A boy whose age is just above eleven.

    Even your older friends were in awe
    At your terrifying deed they saw
    And cringing in fear, they kept quiet;
    Alas! Violence seems your staple diet.

    Your victim prayed for instant death
    While suffering pain with each breath,
    Her pleas and cries did not deter you,
    But fiercer and fiercer in deed you grew.

    What have you gained, O! vile creature?
    Eternal darkness will be your future,
    Imprisoned within the walls dark
    Till you to the other world embark.

    You are cruelty personified in human form,
    You have caused inconceivable harm
    To the helpless young girls and women,
    You will be hated even by demons.

    Let no leniency be shown to you,
    Humanity and Heaven will never forgive you,
    Let conscience, if you have one, haunt you
    Till you this world bid adieu.

    Even from Heaven Nirbhaya's eyes shed,
    Not tears of pain long past, but blood
    For her sisters suffering yet on the earth
    Which, to incorrigible savages, has given birth.


    Raghav R
    07.10.2021
    ©raghavendran