I talk about nothing in particular and everything too?

We've been learning about a lot of romantic poets recently like Wordsworth and Tennyson, so I decided to throw my hat in the ring. Northern Star At night when the skies are dark The moon is full and white And deep in sleep is the lark Then shines the Northern star's light It has stayed there in the skies Since the dawn of time  And will stay long after with dusk it dies Never once being any less sublime When borne was the son of God  Led three wise men to their king And when on the cross died their Lord It still remained, still and weeping When the slaves and the oppressed ran It led the way to liberty Now it still looks upon cruel man Who has no empathy nor duty Oh Northern Star! What will we do If on the morrow you shine no more? Stay for another eternity if only For the goodness still left in kind hearts                                                     Aby

Wow this post has been procrastinator's hell to make my sincere and considerable apologies for getting it done this late but hey better late than never right? Heh. Well, this was it. This was going to be the place where I would spend the next three years of my life at for better or worse. I took in my surroundings for a bit. Perambur station isn't a particularly big station by any means, certainly not big compared to Chennai Central which is the main railway station in Chennai. There were little chits of paper scattered on the ground near me, the place felt like everything had a slightly dirty appearance, not as intense to alert passers-by but enough to attract the attention of people who looked closely. We passed a digital clock hanging from the roof and I noticed from the corner of my eye that it read 9:20 AM or some similar time like that in big red numbers. As we took the stairs up and out of the station, it felt like a completely new world opened up before me. That sounds

 This is my first attempt at a longer poem and it is a bit more imaginative than usual, I hope you enjoy it. Four fair seasons It was a still and quiet night  That I dreamt of meeting  Four fair ladies without flaw or slight Who appeared before me with greetings First Summer spoke, Her hair was long and free of tangles She wore a sundress Her skin slightly tan and her eyes the deepest blue 'My good sire please won't you rest Under the shade of great tree?' And I sat underneath the tree Feeling at ease I breathed long and deep The smell of fresh flowers and honey and all things wondrous I saw a cloudless sky, true and blue And I felt a blissful peace Then Winter came Her hair short and prim She wore woolens with a scarf too Her skin white and pale and her eye  tar black 'My good sire please won't you rest With a smoke of this pipe by this hearth?' And I sat at the hearth Feeling cozy by the fire, and I smoked the pipe for a while Fire and smoke warmed me both out

Well, this is it. I'm eighteen at last though I must say it doesn't any different than the day before or the ones before that and yet at dawn today, I've become an adult- someone responsible for himself. The thought scares and excites me in equal measure. In the light of this I'd like to publish two poems that I wrote a bit back and was waiting to publish on the right occasion, perhaps this is it War War? What has war done? Brought misery to all, bar none Don't the cries of children Soften the hearts of these villains Who dares to speak of freedom In this land of bondage and misery You ask what war has done? Look at this country's very bones The sacrifice of the few Is necessary for the progress of the new Naivety and ignorance is precious Not all may reap its benefits Is caring for the life of my fellow man As only men of one kind can, Is it so beyond your belief? We can provide love and relief, not only grief Must we wage wars with no winners The only result m

  Murali Murali lived in the sleepy town of Pushpagandha. He was tall and handsome but poor and unambitious, he slept by the town’s public park, always careful to attract any attention to himself lest he rid himself of a night of peace. In the mornings, he would walk to the road at Jackson junction, named after some great Imperialist who walked on the Earth decades ago and played his flute by the traffic lights to attract sympathy and more importantly, money. He would eat the scraps left out by some kind baker’s apprentice outside the bakery nearby.  His flute was now quite battered and bruised and had long lost its sheen, yet the air still flowed through it well enough to produce sounds so sweet and soulful to the ears that it momentarily distracted the commuters who were busy and on their way to the office, some would stay transfixed at the signal for a moment after the lights turned green, only to be rudely awoken at the harsh blare of horns and leave with a hint of disappointment.

I've written two new poems in the presence of utter boredom. I also had the opportunity to start reading Milton's Paradise Lost and it is amazing how well the words flow despite the fact that they had been written centuries prior. Maybe, one day I'll be as good as him :) Future The future holds much In its grasp  Vast and unthinkable  In its depth and mystery The singsong voice Of lessons being learnt The scratching of pens And the turning of pages The cheers of youth Ah! Wonderful and joyous Freedom seemingly boundless Coming to an end  The wail of a Babe Responsibility approaches More to lose  Than ever before Groan of bones Tired and weary Wrinkles and aches Ready for the end And then there remains Nothing, but silence  Only broken by the breathing  Of those alive and living                                                  Aby Steel yourself Steel yourself in armour Bright and shining For now is the hour This time is most trying Wield your blade Sharp and quick  Unless y