Poem: Earth

The State of Earth

Towering piles of waste,
Reaching towards the sky,
With poison and toxins laced,
The earth itself, begins to die.

The rule of man is cruel,
and apathy is abound,
We shut our eyes,
and close our ears to the noise around,

of the earth’s clamorous cries,
and that of our fellow man,
We wallow in our bread and circuses,
and blame our fate upon “god’s plan”.

The power of man is great,
He can create and destroy,
but his greed will not abate,
Till the planet runs dry.

Each man, woman and child,
We must turn ourselves around,
and see the devastation dealt,
to our green and blue round.

There may be other lands,
Near far away stars,
but this sand, this soil,
tis naught but ours

We, the people, have been led,
by thieves and crooks,
till our earth has bled,
and dry, run the brooks

There is yet time,
There is yet hope
and we hold within ourselves
The power to make amends,

Each and Every Human,
Rise and open your minds
The earth is ours, so grasp the pen of god,
and let us be the author of our fate.

Helloo, SUNDAY OF ’16! I mean 17!

Here’s to another lap around the sun, and to a few months of writing 16, scratching it out, and then awkwardly scrawling in 7 instead.

This particular poem was written in July of 2014, and has a very SUBTLE message. I wrote this with a different sense of rhythm, trying to go for a more asymmetrical approach, although personally I prefer poems with neat, structured rhyming sequences.

Let’s hope that this solar lap is better than the last one, see all of you 1/52th of a year later!

Cycling away,



Poem: The Tyranny of Time

The tyranny of time

To the beings of earth,
To the stars in the sky,
To all t’were birth’d,
To all yet to die,

The tyranny of time,
reigns o’er us all,
o’er the bone and stone,
o’er the giant and the small.

All things but man,
live in a state o’ bliss,
for tis only man,
Who bound time’s manacle to his wrist,

With the fleet foot of the first,
With the slow step of the second,
With the tardy tread of the third,
Triplicate handed time turns till infinity

Man burns his time and health,
to earn his wealth,
and then he has health and wealth,
but lacks in time,
and in his twilight chime,
He has time and wealth,
and no more his health.


Helloo, SUNDAY!

Much machinations and the occasional expletive emanate from my lab, as I continue wrestling with Eta to gently bludgeon the last few flaws out, and then try dealing with the other mountian-load of work I’ve self assigned. I feel like I’m in a constant race against time, practically hearing my lifeclock click every second away. I’m always in two balanced minds about most things, and time is one of those things which both halves can agree that I need a bit more of. Just like a watering can, we can keep pouring time onto our little garden, trying to rear it the best we can, within our lifespan.

Signing off,

Adithyaa Raghavan

Poem: The Oasis

A harsh sun rises over the foreign land,
an endless waste of stone and sand
In the night, the animals wake
shriek and shiver, bark and bay,
but in this ocean of unrest
lies a oasis, a place blest,
a ring of palm round a pool,
filled with water, clear and cool,
a circle of tranquil in a sea of strife,
the image of peace, solstice’s wife,
the sun again, on its godly path,
once more, bares its burning wrath
and this refuge, a haven to all
sinks and melts into the squall.

-Guess who? ding ding ding, -Adithyaa

Hellloo SUNDAY,

Here is an old poem o’ mine, hailing from 4 years ago, 15 december 2012. Ironically, I wrote and blogged a poem about the desert during the middle of winter. If the increasingly discombobulated weather doesn’t affirm climate change to you, I don’t know what will.

Do interpret this poem as you will, I can’t quite remember what was going through my head at the time myself, so the most creative interpretation will be chosen as the official one 🙂

signing off,


Poem: Life

The path of life, uneven with fog,
with pits and traps, deserts and bog,
The lengthy road, you walk alone,
The twisting way, the end unknown,
with time immortal, fast and slow,
neither hastes nor drags, but by it’s own flow,
we trudge onward, not knowing the end,
until to our graves, life does send.

With our weak flesh and dense bone,
We walk the path of life alone,
We pass through trials, fiery and long,
Rejoice and repent, for our right and wrong,
Watching our bodies, wither and die,
and our own life, trickling dry,
but as the sun, still shines bright
We have yet, to end our fight.



Hello Sunda- wait what? It’s nearly Monday?? Goodness me, must be the effects of relativity when I have a spot of free time.

Anyway, Here is a little poem I wrote in August of 2013, about Life. It can be perceived to be a rather negative view, but I don’t think it’s incorrect. I feel that a deeper meaning could be drawn from it, but that all depends on the mood and mindset of the reader. I leave thee to ponder upon it,

Until next time,


Poem: An I

Intricate mixtures and Complex compounds,
which even the greatest mind confounds,
a million billion working as one,
as one of the beings under the sun.

What am I, what is ‘I’,
or ‘I’, a human under the sky,
but what is it? What makes me?
A unique individual in a sea.

I live, but what is life?
For even if I meet my end,
my body would be rife with life,
as into compost I descend.

Back to the stone,
goes blood and bone,
entangled elements, once my “own”,
returned back to earthy loam,

For I am a legion,
of a trillion souls,
single cells, unified whole,
packed into a tiny region.

Is ‘I’ so estranged from a robot?
both are time-tied to age and rot,
incredibly complex sums of parts,
with minutely different starts.

What is it that makes me different?
Am I but a step for life’s ascent?
evolution made ‘I’, ‘I’ made it,
to deny its life, makes me hypocrite

Am I alive? but what is that?
A ball of protein, muscle and fat?
Emergent intelligence, created from turmoil,
temporarily free from the soil,

As when I die, my cells live on,
nutrients for the next born,
for in this grand cycle are we,
‘I’ is false, and right is ‘we’.



Thus we draw to the end of Poetober, and we do so with a philosophical poem about what is life.

I wrote this after trying to understand what makes me different from a sufficiently advanced robot, whether we speak of the Synths from the Fallout series, or the plethora of other humanoid robots in sci fi. Both of us would believe ourselves to be sentient, intelligent, emotional, and corporeal. I, and every lifeforms reading this post who isn’t an alien from outer space (hello), have an unbroken genetic chain leading back to the very first lifeforms in existence, and we owe our lives to each generation which produced the next. Hence, in the event that we were to create a race of sentient robots, what would deny them the same mantle of being “alive”? Muscles, motors, nerves, wires, providing they fulfill the criteria that animals do, could it be said that they are the ‘next’ step of evolution?

Well, that was but philosophy, the fact that there isn’t a concrete answer is both fascinating and torturous. Either way, have a good day, be spontaneous, be alive, and I’ll see thee next week.

Signing off,