Abhijit Naskar's Blog - Posts Tagged "poet-scientist"

When I finished my first 1000 sonnets,
I felt, now I shall take it slow.
But now at the finishing of second 1000,
I feel, I gotta write thousands more!

The first thousand took me four years,
the second thousand took me two years,
all without an ounce of industry support,
I am the sole maker of my literary empire.

Sonnets are my vessel of reason,
Sonnets are my bearer of justice.
Sonnets are my medium of divinity,
I’m my sonnets – antidote to malice.

Proof of poetry is in the spirit,
Proof of justice is among the just.
Worlds to unite before I sleep,
Proof of life is in standing guard.

Neurons giveth,
neurons taketh away.
By neurons we forge self,
with neurons we fade away.

Within neurons cosmos comes to life,
within neurons worlds come to end.
Neurons are building blocks of walls,
as well as the instrument of bridges.

There is not one but two cosmos,
one made by nature, another by neurons.
We are the makers of observable reality,
shaped by hopes and biases of our own.

Neurons are the birthplace of God,
Neurons produce all ghosts and goblins.
Life is a concoction of neurochemistry,
Boon and bane are both our own making.

Only the shape of colonialism
has changed, not the nature.
Tendencies are just as filthy,
rightful heir to animal disaster.

I too am a colonizer,
but of a different kind.
I colonize no home by force,
with words I colonize minds.

Humanitarianism is civilized colonialism –
simpler still, humanitarianism is civilization.
That’s the contagion my literature carries,
through my proses and sonnetic revelation.

First thousand were an accident,
Second thousand, a promise.
Answer to traditional animosity,
Antidote to doting prejudice.

At the end of the day I’m a behaviorist, and my mission is, not a world rooted in pure logic, nope – my mission is a world rooted in hearty logic and mindful fiction. So naturally I’m not gonna speak the lingo of any particular school of thought, intellectual or theological – rather, I speak in a manner, meant to bring out the best in people from all denominations across the spectrum. In short, there is purpose behind my every phrase, every idiom, every tone, tune, and rhythm – my goal is to engender neither science nor faith, but to establish universal assimilation. To understand me, you have to listen as a human, not as believer or nonbeliever, but as human.

I grew up celebrating Diwali, eating fruitcake on the 25th, and waking up to the call of azaan. If I’m devout anything, it’s a devout human.

You say, I’m not a real scientist!
Alright, I am not.
You say, I’m not a real philosopher!
Alright, I am not.

You say, I’m not a real writer!
Alright, I am not.
You say, I’m not a real poet!
Alright, I am not.

I have accepted certain work-titles,
for the world’s convenience, not mine –
if anything, lables-n-titles are
hindrance to my immeasurable mind.

I need no seat at your table of ivory,
for alien is none in the universe I am.
I lust after neither gold, nor laurels,
for life is my laurel – you keep your honors,
I’ll still be just the same Himalayan Human.

Put your conspiracy theories aside, I’ll tell you why.

Pain Fuels My Pen (Sonnet)

When I started writing, I had a partner,
I had plans to settle in Sofia with her.
But then I lost my link to the Balkans, when
she grew weary and took the hand of another.

I couldn’t write a single word for days,
but then, I let the god complex unleashed.
That’s about when my writing skyrocketed,
as the heartbreak jolted my brain
into a hyper-publishing engine.

I had all the time in the world,
and enough pain to fuel my pen.
Every time I got my heart broken,
it benefitted my mission.

First time someone broke my heart,
I dropped out of engineering
and emerged as the Monk Scientist.
Second time when I lost my love,
Planet Earth received the Poet Apocalypse.

The pen is my paradise,
the pen is my grave.
Everybody has all the answers,
I seem to have only questions.

Good thing, I don’t know how to write,
methods are obstacle to my madness.
I’m vast enough to contain the world,
asylum pills don’t work on pilgrim brains.

My pen never runs out of ink, because
the pen is an extension of my anatomy.
Madness is the first sign of sanity,
oneness is the seed of infinity.

Stereotypes are sanity of the jungle,
prejudice is sacred in the animal kingdom.
Flags are the poison, cosmos is (my) kin –
I am no stereotype, I am the Prototype Human.

In the Naskar world, sonnet is not
an elitist structure of rigid rhyme and meter,
Naskar sonnet is a self-contained unit of
civilization, indifferent to literary convention.

I weave sonnets around the message,
instead of forcing the message into the sonnets.
Till you cut the cuffs of form, don’t touch my works,
if you want method and structure, pursue mathematics.

Childish eurocentric conventions are too puny
to contain the vastness of a transcendental human,
sometimes I’m Dervish, sometimes Advaita,
and the Brain Scientist keeps out the superstition.

Every mind is infinite, every mind, transcendental,
ape customs castrate the human into farm animal.
Cut the wings of a dove at birth,
and it’ll spend its life crawling like vermin.

I wear the same casual outfit everywhere,
pair of jeans with a shirt or tshirt –
people wear fancy clothes either to
look and feel good, or impress others,
I have no need for either, so I walk like beggar.

Vanity and validation are for the small of mind,
Himalayan Human has no need for cosmetic adornment.
The Sun is beyond the realms of humility and hubris,
I’m neither humble nor hubrous, just burning with mission.

I wear my backbone as battery, brain is my currency,
heart is my bedrock, character is my legacy.
I see neither man nor woman, I only see human;
I see neither rich nor poor, I only see behavior.

Savages are known by aristocratic opulence,
Sapiens is known by vagrant virtue-n-valiance.

When the whites benefit from privilege,
it’s part and parcel of colonial heritage,
but when a giant rises from the marginals,
it eclipses the shallow heights of whiteness.

I’m colored, I’m scientist,
I’m poet, I’m polyglot –
coming from zero money,
I won the world with words.

Try and get your puny white brains
around this existence enigma –
compile your white canons of a century,
and they turn bleak next to just one year
of multicultural, multidisciplinary Naskar.

I never grovelled to be included,
I let my vastness out,
and the world queues for my grace.