The Love Song

A poet once wrote a love song and it was beautiful. And he made many copies of it, and sent them to his friends and his acquaintances, both men and women, and even to a young woman whom he had met but once, who lived beyond the mountains.

And in a day or two a messenger came from the young woman brining a letter. And in the letter she said, “Let me assure you, I am deeply touched by the love song that you have written to me. Come now, and see my father and my mother, and we shall make arrangements for the betrothal.”

And the poet answered the letter, and he said to her, “My friend, it was but a song of love out of a poet’s heart, sung by every man to every woman.”

And she wrote again to him saying, “Hypocrite and lair in words! From this day unto my coffin-day I shall hate all poets for your sake.”

By Kahlil Gibran

Let’s Unite

I know you are missing someone, and so am I.

Though work consumes most of our time,

But if I say I don’t think about you, I lie.

For I’ve the time to write verses for you that rhyme.


Our mutual friend did inform me yesterday

That from this city of memories you are getting away

But the bygone days would in some parts of your brain still lay,

As it does in my case; so, come to me, and in coming do not delay.


I tried her and you tried him,

She is not so you, and he, I am sure, is not so me.

So when you and I have the freedom, let’s feel free

To unite, and in His name sing some hymn.


Copyright © 2014 RAMU DAS

Joy And Sorrow

You wanted rain, eh? Look, how the heavy drops are pouring down,

Cry no more for rain, rain that delayed coming now floods the town.

Gutters and roads are now one, and the highways are now rivers

The old beggar, having no space to live, complains and shivers.


The town is swept clean, and something of value, living and nonliving, is swept away

But someone’s misery is another’s joy; pity, this is the only way we live.

Harsh, it may seem, but we cannot our own death to someone else give.

We have our days of joy and sorrow, and tomorrow I’ll have my death as you’ve yours today.


Copyright © 2014 RAMU DAS

The Rains Ceased Falling

Tip-tip-tip, after a dreadfully long wait

The rain did ultimately fall

True indeed, the falling of rain was very late

But now the god played his role


And briefly, very briefly, the creatures on earth did dance

And the aliens from the outer world cast on us a glance

The aliens were furious and great were their jealousy

And thinking of the blue planet they felt drowsy.


Then all of sudden the rain ceased falling

In a day or two, we thought, once again it will rain

The sky shall sing its thunderous song and growl and roar

Blocked will be the railroad; and we shan’t travel by train

To save herself from rain my neighbor will close her door


Alas, the rainy season is almost coming to an end

And very brief was our joy

The aliens must have lured the rain away from our land

Start the engine of the ship, ahoy!

Tell the alien, oh darling, you see,

We have plenty of water in the Sea.


Copyright © 2014 RAMU DAS

It’s Gone!

What I actually wanted to do was create history. And how was I going to do that? By involving myself in an infamous scandal? No, no way. I wanted to do something no one ever did… I wanted to do something wonderful in a very unique way. I had invited some great ideas in my head, but all great ideas preferred staying away from me (they think I smell). But one idea, when I was least expecting it, knocked my head. And I want to tell you dear readers, and tell you in no uncertain terms, that this idea I am talking about could have changed the world. This idea of mine could have brought me numerous accolades, could have brought me even the Nobel Prize.

But oh memory, oh wretched memory! Why can’t I remember what that great idea was? The idea that could make me, my family, my friends and my nation, proud!

How happy was I when I thought about the idea, it was a state of supreme bliss, but for the life of me now I don’t remember what it was, no, not even remotely. I am trying to link all my thoughts to reach that one great idea; and how I wish that idea could just flicker once again.

Had I a notepad to write the idea down, had I thought about writing it down on my cell phone, now all the world’s media would have stood outside my door for an interview with me. All the journalists might have fought with each other to record my statement, my great idea, and I would have said, swelling my chest with pride, “no comments, that’s classified,” as some great inventors and leaders do.

But, and mind you, now I am speaking with great disappointment, the idea is gone, oh, it’s gone. I am crying… I am crying so much so that with by my tears I have filled the pond that had no water due to the lack of rainfall, and in it, oh dear readers, I shall drown. Oh, don’t stop me; let me go away from here, away from this world! My idea is gone, absolutely gone!


Copyright © 2014 RAMU DAS

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, son,
they used to laugh with their hearts
and laugh with their eyes:
but now they only laugh with their teeth,
while their ice-block-cold eyes
search behind my shadow.

There was a time indeed
they used to shake hands with their hearts:
but that’s gone, son.
Now they shake hands without hearts
while their left hands search
my empty pockets.

‘Feel at home!’ ‘Come again’:
they say, and when I come
again and feel
at home, once, twice,
there will be no thrice-
for then I find doors shut on me.

So I have learned many things, son.
I have learned to wear many faces
like dresses – homeface,
officeface, streetface, hostface,
cocktailface, with all their conforming smiles
like a fixed portrait smile.

And I have learned too
to laugh with only my teeth
and shake hands without my heart.
I have also learned to say,’Goodbye’,
when I mean ‘Good-riddance’:
to say ‘Glad to meet you’,
without being glad; and to say ‘It’s been
nice talking to you’, after being bored.

But believe me, son.
I want to be what I used to be
when I was like you. I want
to unlearn all these muting things.
Most of all, I want to relearn
how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror
shows only my teeth like a snake’s bare fangs!

So show me, son,
how to laugh; show me how
I used to laugh and smile
once upon a time when I was like you.


Poem by Gabriel Okara.

There is not a single moment when I did not like this poem after reading it. Ever since I came across this poem, and this I reckon was the time when I was in my High School, I have loved this poem. The lines in this poem will hold true all the time, as it does now more than ever I suppose, that is so well written by Mr Okara.

This Poem

This poem is not addressed to you.
You may come into it briefly,
But no one will find you here, no one.
You will have changed before the poem will.

Even while you sit there, unmovable,
You have begun to vanish. And it does no matter.
The poem will go on without you.
It has the spurious glamor of certain voids.

It is not sad, really, only empty.
Once perhaps it was sad, no one knows why.
It prefers to remember nothing.
Nostalgias were peeled from it long ago.

Your type of beauty has no place here.
Night is the sky over this poem.
It is too black for stars.
And do not look for any illumination.

You neither can nor should understand what it means.
Listen, it comes with out guitar,
Neither in rags nor any purple fashion.
And there is nothing in it to comfort you.

Close your eyes, yawn. It will be over soon.
You will forge the poem, but not before
It has forgotten you. And it does not matter.
It has been most beautiful in its erasures.

O bleached mirrors! Oceans of the drowned!
Nor is one silence equal to another.
And it does not matter what you think.
This poem is not addressed to you.


Poem by Donald Justice