Shyam Sunder Sharma

 

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Lieutenant Colonel Shyam Sunder Sharma, Shaurya Chakra ( Retired)

A decorated and War wounded veteran, single parent to two daughters and two dogs, Shyam is an avid birdwatcher and nature lover. He holds a Master’s degree in English Literature.  Published in number of anthologies and magazines in India and abroad, such as Poetry in the Park Collection No 3 – A poetry collective in Athlone, Ireland, Lakeview Journal, Camel Saloon, Mad Swirl, The first cut, Earthen lamp journal, Episteme, Hans and more. Shyam was a Guest Poet at Fermoy International Poetry Festival at Ireland in August 2013 and the event coordinator of the Delhi Poetry Festival 2014. He goes by the alias Driftwood Ashore on Facebook, where he also runs a vibrant Group – Poets, Artists Unplugged.

 

 

 

 Indivisible Derivative

 

You are the sum of the choices,

you make says my father.

 

I am not a Mathematician like him

but I do not think it is

such a simple addition sum.

 

Eventually, we are square roots,

divided until we are no more divisible.

 

As for choices,

are there any,

Heads or tails shows

when you can toss it up,

you can’t toss to what you are yoked.

 

I remember the time;

I stood betwixt the devil and the sea.

 

And I chose the sea,

plunged deep within,

surfaced again and

dragged the devil down with me.

 

But I was so buoyant,

nothing sank,

the devil swam off

and I was adrift.

 

Rising and falling

with the tides.

Strewn ashore only to be

sucked back in.

 

Not a sum of my choices,

just an indivisible derivative.

 

 

 

 Head First

 

Unkempt,
disorderly,
I rise.

Gathering pieces of myself,
splitting the jagged ends,
blunting them with fists.

Grasped, push them to fit
as chewed up Lego pieces.
They resist yet
I punch them in
and with a single stroke of brush
paint them black,
obliterating all disjointed ends.

The sun is up,
shed inertia,
propel yourself.

Head first!

 

 

 

 Leftover Punctuation Marks

 

Come give me

your wrinkles,

whispers my bed sheet.

 

Outside,

a very early bird

chirps accidentally

and then as if

embarrassed,

quietly returns

to sleep.

 

Barefooted

the night departs,

tucking in its slippers,

slinking away

like a unfaithful lover.

 

And now,

I must clear my pillow of

all these leftover punctuation marks.

 

Commas cause no coma,

Full stops run off,

Parenthesis;

I scrub away without effort,

it is the question marks

that are the hardest blots.

 

 

 

Wishlist

 

I shall not wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled,
as I get old,
damn I will wear Bermudas.

I will not even part my hair,
most of them have already departed.
let the mermaids go,
I would be happy with dolphins.

As my fiftieth Birthday nears,
and my life span closes in
to a date
who the fuck knows?

Where is my bloody wish list
as I get old?
Temptations give way to
things I yearn for

to watch the Sarus birds in courtship
to see what is this thing called fidelity,
to watch dolphins play in open seas,
to see what is this thing called mirth,
to kiss all my ex girl friends once,
just once would be enough,
have to mark time for new ones.

And then what else,
a lone hut in a distant hillock,
half a dozen dogs,
a dozen pigeons or more,
a laptop to write away poems
and my aloneness
of course.

 

 

 

 The  Edge

 

Walking wounded,
not everyone limps.
Some swagger
and if asked
will lay another wager
on life.

The edge, my friend
is never a sharp razor,
it has blunted jagged ends
on which most walk over
and some hang.

Smirking while they wince,
towing this line,
to live on.

Hoping against hope
never accepting the fact that
there is no higher purpose
to this living.

Suffering is not optional,
it is obligatory.
Reprieves are temporary
and accidental.

We are just
random accidents,
mishaps or waiting
to happen
accidents.

 

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