The Battle

The Battle

 

The whistling shells and the war bells
rang through the day
The swords flashed, the warriors clashed
on the battle way

The cannons roared and the shots soared
as the banners wav’d to the sky
men killed, blood spilt
and the day too, died

On the ground, amongst the sound fought
an army of freedom, the other for conquest
The invaders from the far lands
driven by a mad lord at its crest

The other king, touched his ring
an elemental gate
Demons spewed forth, to the boiling broth
and changed the battle’s fate

Wise Solomon, his toga worn
frugally, simply tied
ruled the day, his other prayed
as the battle died

The foe fled, as his wounds bled
his high honor gone
The battle lost, his army tossed
he cursed he’d been born.

-Adithyaa

 

Hello, Saturday!

My more fervent readers would be able to recognize this as one of my older poems, due to the way it’s written. I don’t recall exactly when I wrote this poem, but I know it was written many years ago, after I had finished reading The Ring of Solomon. It was agreat story, and Magic ( along with sufficiently advanced technology), has always captivated my romances.

Until next time,

~Adithyaa

 

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Poem: A Spoon most runcible

 

A spoon most runcible

Steve sat reading a book,
for he wanted to learn to cook,
he read the recipes, every single one,
from jams to breads, cheese and buns.

Then he read a strange new trick,
“instead of using a stirring stick,”
“try to use a runcible spoon”
“and stir it around like a typhoon”

What is this? Steve thought to himself,
he began to search his all his shelves,
ladles, forks and a rusty harpoon,
but not a single runcible spoon!

“That simply won’t do” Steve said,
How can I ever keep others fed,
with all kinds of tools strewn,
and yet not a single runcible spoon!

And so Steve set off on his quest,
he would have to face this challenging test,
with wind in his hair and whistling a tune,
for he simply must have a runcible spoon!

he walked along to the store,
and pushed open the door,
“pardon me, Sir, the time is noon,”
“but would you have a runcible spoon?”

“We’ve got tea and table, dessert too”
“and they come in red, green and blue”
but even from forests to desert dune,
you won’t find a single runcible spoon.

Steve left the store, and wandered on,
“it’s getting late,” he said with a yawn,
but I must go on, it’s still to soon,
for I’ve yet to acquire a runcible spoon.

He looked up, and saw the blacksmith
“Here’s the answer to this myth!”
Perhaps his goal could be hewn,
a shiny metal runcible spoon!

“Smith, Mr. Smith!” He yelled,
the smith looked up from the iron he held,
“you are the only one who can grant my boon”
“Please make me a runcible spoon!”

“Alright alright,” the smith said,
“you’ve come to the right shed”
“Pay me a single gold doubloon”
“and I shall make you a runcible spoon”

“That’s a lot, but it’s worth the price,”
“so buy it quickly, don’t think twice”
Now Steve was no foolish buffoon,
but he really wanted the runcible spoon!

“I’ll pay you half, how about that?”
“Deal,” Said the smith, and tipped his hat.
His hammers started ringing attune,
and began forging the runcible spoon.

“It is done!” the smith said,
before rolling into his bed.
“Finally!” said steve with a soft croon,
but he gasped aloud when he saw the spoon.

“what is this, a spoon and a fork?”
“Indeed,” said the smith with a smirk
for if you combine a fork and a spoon,
what you get is a runcible spoon.

The day was done, so was his quest,
and as Steve headed home to rest,
He danced like a loon under the moon,
and clutched in his hand was his silvery spoon!

~Adithyaa Raghavan

 

Hello, Wednesday!

I’ve been toying with the idea of creating a children’s book, so I wrote a little story as a poem, about a man on a quest for the mysterious runcible spoon. It could also be called Spork, but somehow that’s just not as appealing. As you can imagine, I was inspired by Dr. Seuss’s style, and I feel that this poem would go well with a stanza a page and an illustration to boot. This was but the first, and I may yet write more, but please be free and honest, I appreciate all forms of critique, as I’m always up for improving my poetry and writing.

Have a fantastic week,

~Adithyaa~

Poem: Ancient Bones

Ancient Bones

We walk through the bones of Titans of old,
Hallowed constructions and structures bold,
The ebb and flow of time’s seep,
Has sunk these ruins into ancient sleep,

Those fantastical buildings, Marvel’s of man,
Designed and built as a gigantic plan,
But those times have come and long gone,
These shells stand, while time moved on,

Magnificently ornate towers to a deity,
But a measure of time’s brevity,
Science and Industry, a global net,
Cannot avoid their temporal debt,
Populous cities so wide and tall,
But all within Time’s gaze are small,

The withered husks of these men, blown
By the span of time exceeding their own
For even the mightiest empire is weak to time
And ceases to exist, at the clock’s chime.

-Adithyaa Raghavan

 

Hello, Saturday!

Do you know the feeling of walking in a place that has been steeped in time? Like walking through old castle ruins, dilapidated amusement parks, ghost towns, and the like? Just thinking about it, or glancing at a few pictures, is enough to drown you in it’s history. You can feel the stories seeping out of the stones, and the greens and grasses creep up to your ears to whisper of the souls who once walked these roads.

I can’t quite describe the feeling succinctly, I don’t know if there’s a word for it. “Waldeinsamkeit” is a german word for “the feeling of being lost in the woods”, which I think can be applied in a positive or negative tone, but I don’t think it fully covers what I mean to convey.

Imagine walking down a road in a city like Chernobyl, seeing weathered buildings and structures worn down by the passage of nothing but time itself. You start to catch glimpses into the past, imagining children running around a playground, men and women walking down the street, vehicles whizzing by. The ghostly memories can feel so vivid you’d swear that you were hallucinating them into existence. Just like that, the life of the city was blown out, and naught but the structures remain to quietly inform you of that which was.

I had a very similar experience when I was recently playing Heart Machine’s masterpiece, Hyper Light Drifter. In fact, looking back at this poem, which I wrote long before the video game was ever released, I can see strong resonance between the two. I don’t recall the circumstances under which I wrote this poem, but I do know that it came from the heart, which explains why I enjoyed Heart Machine’s game so much.

Anyhoo, Thank you for your time, roam, immerse yourselves in the places you visit, and see if you can take a peek through time wherever you go.

~Adithyaa

 

 

Final Past Poem:

Hello, Monday!

It would have been splendid had I dug this particular poem up earlier, for it is one dedicated to mothers. Let’s get onto the reading,

 

Mother

The path has been long,

The journey makes me tired,

All the beauties of the world, passing unadmired,

I pull my self up, and gather my strength,

My brow weary, my back bent.

I look ahead, staring into space,

I find hope and peace, when I see your face,

The path is long And tis hard to stay true,

All that pulls me on, is my love for you,

For you guide me through the dark, like a beam o’ light,

You are the only thing that makes my life bright,

You guide me on, the voice of reason,

A faithful companion, in all seasons,

When I am lost, in the evil of night,

You are the thing that helps me stay right.

When I am lost in the deep with no other,

You will always be there for me, My Dearest Mother.

-Adithyaa.R

22-03-2012

Time certainly flies, doesn’t it? Mother’s are the first other being that the child recognizes, and play an irreplaceable role in our lives, from our births until our independence.

Until next time,

~Adithyaa

Poem: More past poetry

Hello, Friday!

Here the second poem I dug out of the archives, a poem that has about as much depth as a kiddie pool, but uses what used to be a oft spoken phrase of mine,

 

Me, Myself and I

 

Me, Myself and I

Three people yet the same

Me, Myself and I

Quite different but the name

Me, Myself and I

People times triplicate

Me, Myself and I

One and its duplicates

Me, Myself and I

Not but a phrase

Me, Myself and I

But one which would amaze

Me, Myself and I

Describes the same person

Me, Myself and I

And yet applies to daughter and son

Me, Myself and I

This hast cometh to end

Me, Myself and I

Such a delightful phrase to bend!

-Adithyaa.R

13/8/2011

I wrote this poem about 5 and a half years ago, using a rhyming scheme I rarely practice in, by repeating a particular phrase multiple times. An interesting aspect of this poem is that after one reads it several times, you unconsciously omit the repeating phrase while reading it in your head, and yet, it maintains a good poetic flow even without it.

I used to love throwing idioms and phrases around (As a kid I used to like reading through dictionaries to discover new words), and I used to use “Me, Myself and I” quite frequently when referring to myself. I suppose the phrase had just stuck to me, it has a rather pleasant ring to itself.

Onwards until next time,

Adithyaa~

 

Poetry: Reminiscing on past poetry

Hello, Sunday! Monday!

Today we’re in for a special post, I’ve managed to locate some old poetry of mine, and so for this and the next two posts I’ll be sharing my old poetry written some years ago. Let’s get started,

The Wonder of Nature

In the forest rose the pines,
Overlooking the golden mines.
There, swinging from tree to tree,
Was a great big grinning chimpanzee.

As it swung from here to there,
It had a spied a grizzly bear.
And it started up the call,
Which sounded like a bored drawl.

Others took up the cheer,
Warning all not to come near.
Then the chimp from tree to tree,
Jumped and hooted with sheer glee!!

-Adithyaa Raghavan
VIII

I have no idea how my 14 year old self managed to land a poor chimp in a coniferous forest. I recall I wrote this poem shortly after learning that many species of apes communicate using sounds to warn each other of danger. Either way, I hope you enjoyed this post, and stay tuned metaphorically for next week’s poem.

Signing out,

Adithyaa

Poem: Under Raucous Skies

Under Raucous Skies,
As the sun dies,
And the night city lights,
Spring to life,

And then with a crash,
And a lightning flash,
The bulbs turn dark,
And the city turns black.

The gods are neigh,
Heaven and earth torn asunder,
As the aether burns with fire and thunder!

Hear their cry, ye mortals,
Hide within thy stony abodes,
As night turns to day for a tick,
With the titter of rain on the roof.

Oh ye wise, watch out,
For the powers of yore are about,
Dancing and mocking the sun,
Bending nor kneeling to anyone,

Sway with the wind,
Light up my face,
And celebrate thunder,
As the sun slumbers.

~Adithyaa~

 

Hello, Sunday!

Last Monday evening was selfsame to most Mondays. I was getting ready for dinner, then the lights flicker and the power dies, a most familiar feeling in India during the monsoon season. About 10 seconds later, a huge wave of wind rushes around and through our house, as if it were succeeding the blackout, as lightning does to thunder. Mayhaps the wind laid a branch upon the local transformer on it’s way here. Rain and lightning soon followed suit, and the city was drenched once more.

There I found myself, at near midnight, with nothing but lightning to illuminate my page as I inscribed this poem with the black ink of the night while in an inspired fervor. Rain gently tinkling around, while lightning tore up the sky in a most mesmerizing fashion. To steep in such moments  is all the artist lives for.

Signing off, and until next time,

Adithyaa~