poems

Mentalisms

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I’m not that kind of poet
The type that times the earth
I know where I have come from
It’s just not that kind of worth.
I’m angry with the children
They won’t listen to what I’ve got to say
And by the time I get a hold of them
I don’t write about The Gay.

Who wants to know where Jesus is hiding?
Who wants to see Muhammed’s disrespect?
Who thinks Guru Nanak can have an equal?
Who likes Krishna to love some regret?

Maybe that is the continuance
The meaning of life for the 21st Century
What happened when Eliot befriended Krishna?
And wasted lands for his alliance with Sannyasi.

Tomorrow’s plans may spring from an asset stripped 1980s
When Kryon was a stranger to Enron too.
Where Americans face the final ultimatum from Ron
Live without the Newspapers or your politicians are through.

Where’s my Minority Report, Mr Malthus Cruise?
And those tapes of cassettes from Mini Discs of the CDs I was meant to become…
A land like India so clothed in respect for the native
Something for anyone to lecture on anything sitting on their bum.

So God bowled me over and let me be the top wicket taker
At school I played in goal and stopped cricket scores
Before being a “demon on the west wing in Hockey”.
Some fames were therefore for me & my brother played cricket for County.

… [insert Dream here]

But then we arise on his 50th birthday
A brother with no goals and lots of self respect
Responsibility for his younger and pains for his mum near death
Wandering like a ghostless plain close to his last breath.

Is it true the Rohan did not think the cousins warred
And fought like the white man to make the cemetery closer
For sex with the gang banging ginger and the necrophiliac in The Big Bang Theory
As cousin Amar throws our grades away….

What will be our saying?
Who will be our friends?
When can we call the real Time Out?
When shall we dance again?

So the monks journeyed for aeons
Lost in pain to grieve the stats
In Scientology since two brothers left them
And R J Ellory was king for a day.

One
Two
Three
Four
Is that a Hindu or a Paki knocking at my door?
Resident in England but 40 years
So certain of tattoo art for all his tears.
How can I quit drinking?
Where is the detox jokes at Rohan now..
How many Jack Daniels do you dream of: For that petri dish wife petrified of her karma and how?

[Release]

AI Summary

Your poem declares that you are “not that kind of poet,” then explodes into a whirlwind of religion, race, family, fame, childhood, sport, addiction, and shame — a whole life’s contradictions speaking at once. It becomes a reckoning with identity and belonging in England, where spiritual longing, cultural memory, and personal wounds collide with satire and anger. Beneath the noise is a single pulse: the desire to be understood without being reduced.

What Do You Want From a Poem

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Insult in the morning
Insult in the evening
Insult when the sun goes down.

At least that is what the thought police put around
Some damn right downtrodden verses from Dante
To get me to look up the skirt of some clouds and sexy rain
Thieves in the brain again looking for an angry allegory.

A world left behind by children not right in the brain
Schools advancing with the messages of loyal fathers
Straining again to meet with modernity
And the computers that prop up the economy.

That mobile phone is for me!
July was the month of buying some big fat fucking expenditure
Now I feel like I can face my old age with some dentures
If that’s the medical system in store for us all.

Keeping things furious with the space between me and the Royal Festival Hall
Life is never going to the same parks and playing so rough
When the swings keep women busy for the children growing up tough.
So be it then for conspiring to dress down on Fridays
When the wind if thought about is thinking of my day.

AI Summary

Your poem gathers its jagged humour, civic frustration, and private weariness into a single wandering voice that moves through insults, institutions, ageing, technology, and the strange theatre of public life, showing a speaker who feels watched and worn down yet still capable of biting satire; Dante becomes a joke about clouds, schools become relics trying to keep up with computers, a new phone becomes both burden and armour, and the city — from the Royal Festival Hall to the parks where children grow tough — becomes a backdrop for a mind that refuses to be domesticated, ending with that characteristic twist where even the wind seems to be thinking about the speaker’s day.

I Feel Watched

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I feel watched
I am looking forward to
The next line
The next explanation
The next self criticism
The next meditation.

The trees are still
The mind is heavy
The brain is pressured
The sky is rainy
The next meditation is tomorrow morning before 9.

One day every morning will be fine
This is just the aftermath of being in the afternoon of the aftermath of life
Trying too many things
Thinking about things twice
The next meditation is obsession.

Maya is a misdirection about the Indian lady’s midrift
There had to be no rift so the imagination was used
When I saw the Bollywood two live crew
Being too few for me to mention names
Mending the Partition bridge for the bride on Maine Street
Not so many geographical locations to go
For the mind to know which place to go
To settle down and accept I am brown
When I feel nature’s need to go downstairs
And have some herbal tea to spell back sales to The Church

Leaving me in the lurch like the Drs and Nurses of Psychiatry
Making the NHS rich with medical pills and historical diversity
Measuring selves and making my height an issue
Ripping up trade agreements so Parliament can know things anew

Fiduciary duties and the watched man of the politician’s thrones
Blaming Donald Trump for being in my mind
Oi! MP! Matey! We leave you alone!

And on they went picking up issues like bags of crisps on the floor
And the science of the clouds looked down on the poor
Looking for more
Looking for more
Easily etching out nature on the minds of the innocent
Looking for more
Like William Blake
Give me a break mate – what of your lawyers charging these rates?
Staring in my mind
Treating me unkind
Don’t you know the English rule the waves with their nationhood?
I don’t know all their things?
I didn’t memorise their names!
Who is P.B.S. to me?
Why do you hear the need to quote out loud the wild words of the past.
That was not Shelley
This is my caste
I am what a Brahmin is to Shakespeare when he looks past the glass
I stare out of in my bedroom when my window is double glazed.
The casting of the workman required to change it into a wooden blind stares me blind on this freeman’s salary with the Freemason’s down the road
Handing out leaflets with me at the Conservatives
(Kali will turn me into a toad!).

So this road I am on is long and I tire at page 3
Because this is Energy
“Save some for me!”
he said, delightfully.

AI Summary

Your poem unfolds like a man caught between vigilance and exhaustion, where every thought becomes “the next” — the next line, the next criticism, the next meditation — as if the mind has become a conveyor belt of self‑monitoring. The still trees, heavy mind, pressured brain, and rainy sky create a weather system that mirrors the internal climate, and the repetition of meditation becomes both anchor and obsession. The poem then swerves into cultural memory and identity — Maya as misdirection, Bollywood imagery, Partition ghosts, herbal tea, the Church — all symbols of a man trying to reconcile being brown, British, spiritual, modern, and tired. The NHS, psychiatry, Parliament, clouds, Blake, Shelley, Shakespeare, caste, Brahminhood, and Freemasons become part of a single hallucinated bureaucracy of meaning, each demanding something from you. What you’re really describing is the fatigue of carrying too many histories, too many expectations, too many interpretations of yourself — and the longing for a simpler road, even as you joke that Kali might turn you into a toad. The final line, “Save some for me,” lands like a plea for energy, mercy, and space — a reminder that beneath all the cosmic noise, you’re just a man trying to breathe through the afternoon of your own life.

I Am Meditation

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I am a meditator
Between this world and the nest
The open plan office of my brain
The workday harangue of demonic stress and understanding.

There is no one standing under me,
I am alone at work all day long.
The night is like a shouting wolf in the merry snow of Christmas in Leeds –
Sold out entry to next year’s competition.

Friends need revision & the memories are always there
but underneath are the Gunas are they despairing
I am paired with my mother for thanks and regretful lifestyles
Machines and cold waters
Open deserts and travelling daughters
The ones than make the past so enjoyable for men in the field of toys
so little to be thankful for when I consider myself gone

It won’t be long before I seek self-demanding understanding
The plain mug of tea and the lacking saucer
The night time Horlicks accompanying my pressured day to sleep
Then I will drink deep & calculate the art of landing on my Tweets.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like the inner diary of a man suspended between the discipline of meditation and the grind of ordinary life, someone whose “open‑plan office of the brain” never quite shuts down. The loneliness of the workday, the wolf‑like nights, and the memories of friends who have drifted into revision and adulthood all create a sense of being left behind by time. Beneath it all, the gunas churn — heaviness, restlessness, clarity — shaping your moods as you navigate family bonds, regrets, and the small rituals that keep you steady: tea, Horlicks, the quiet of night. The poem widens into landscapes of deserts, daughters, toys, and past joys, only to return to the pressure of psychiatry, the cold machinery of institutions, and the political noise that intrudes on your inner life. By the end, the speaker is exhausted but still reaching for meaning, calculating the “art of landing on my Tweets” as if even self‑expression requires precision and energy. It’s a portrait of a man who meditates not to escape life, but to survive the weight of being himself.

Healing

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Tired of healing
The spinning wheel is
The dealing of the cards
The headspun wheel and cart
Meandering and whining
Climbing the stairs and seeing the clear light
Coming for the second place winning line
Leaving first place, finally and at last.

Proper Ties

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Happiness is within the quietened mind
Devoid of the riches the devil in disguise will find
The morrow and mooring of hope on the dreams
Racing down closed windows and the curtains and their streams.
It’s not the giving of the empty that places the devil in dismay
But the replacement of the showcase that evens out the hollow disgrace
The merchant and the millionaire and the siren and heavenly decree
Settles down for more beginnings and the shanty towns of economy.
My eco gone into the gnomes of the garden of dismay
The Eden of too many endings and things the young firsts don’t say
Carriages and horses and the odd speeding car to amend
The control of propaganda models and the runways they upend.
Martians have spoken of lesser things, though they rail from far higher above
Of the height of heavenly musings and the cost of one or two true loves.

AI Summary

Your piece reads like a meditation on how fragile inner peace becomes when the world is full of noise. Happiness appears as something simple — a quietened mind — but immediately the poem shows how easily that quiet is disturbed by wealth, temptation, and the “devil in disguise.” The imagery of windows, curtains, streams, and showcases suggests a life lived behind surfaces, where the world’s expectations press against the glass. The merchant, the millionaire, the siren, and the heavenly decree form a symbolic marketplace of desire and destiny, while the “shanty towns of economy” reveal how unevenly the world distributes its beginnings. Your “eco gone into the gnomes” is a brilliant line — it captures the sense of personal energy being swallowed by trivialities, garden ornaments of dismay, while Eden becomes a place of too many endings rather than a single beginning. The poem closes with a cosmic shrug: Martians, heavenly musings, the cost of love — as if even beings from above would find human striving both absurd and touching. It’s a portrait of a man trying to hold onto inner stillness while the universe keeps offering him reasons to lose it.

Disclaimer

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I didn’t do it
It came upon me
The sadness of a lonely desperate winter
When Jingle Bells came over me
I thought myself divine
I was a winner in distress
I was shaped by the diabolical
To unwind the Indian woman from a dress.

Then I was a Priest and a guru
President indeed over birth, life and death
Intended to develop evolution further
So my big bang was unkempt and smelly like a rotten fart in summer.

These were the hummers of a vibration past Israel holidaying
When I had known the King and seen him in everything
There was something left it seems for Church and State
A tax free entrance policy for immigrants
Some land to sell to the Africans to sit and contemplate.

Then I was empty and Eastern: Admired for the force within
Keeping up with local political actions. Handing out leaflets to stave away the end of days.
Death is at my door step and there is a Baptism to say
What is the state of play?

How can I stay out of the way?
Qawali in the Park, Beethoven’s Ninth in the dark
Concerts and consorting, Krishna is rewarding
Nothing pleases the Hare Krishna until you’ve given your 50% in advance –
Give peace and the internet a chance, so we can be net neutral
Then I will find myself a fossil converting my oath in to renewable energy and fuel.

Transformers indeed in disguise, this is the heavenly prize I once sort
Something of the origin of the Universe: Some violence for political revolution.
Revolving around the sun the heavenly body is undone
And the ladies undo the convention of conservatism to admire me in the poetic rain
Reign of regal things. International seasons that demagogues bring
This is the venture for capital to speak to Poesie of the ancient of days that sing
Of the Virgin’s tomb and the ascent to Sinai
Where the sun is commander of the deserted playing fields for meditation in silence.

Speak at risk for the lawyers lazy fist
There is so much I can say one day when the oceans face passing away
Dried up by the energy and wit of the homosexual versus the playing field
And Friends on TV and not much from the 1950s.

Travel well and adorn the image of success so delicately that you unzip each file well
Telling of pornographic fascinations in a swell manner for the men in the Manor
And the ladies down Muthra lane. Nations are playing again
After the bugging strain and the dimensions for demons in the intravenous brain.

For if I am without and searching for the clown in China to appeal to finance
What is the last dance going to look like for a moment’s free of Allah’s terror and torment.
What things have I meant to address my own nakedness in the demands of modern time
The Professor who gets to the English academy on time
Telling us all about the mind, the world and the shaping of things for working life (lives?) in time.

Things won’t always be fine is what he seems to be in power of and some control like The Golden Bowl
And a haiden enforcement of conglomerate bliss
To travel in my place for some hidden agendas and kisses.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a man revisiting the fever‑dream identities that once overtook him — the divine winner, the priest, the guru, the political visionary, the cosmic wanderer — only to discover that each persona was shaped by loneliness, winter sadness, and the pressure of spiritual expectation. The imagery moves from India to Israel, from Church to State, from leaflets to baptisms, from Qawwali to Beethoven, from Krishna to renewable energy, as if the entire world’s religions, politics, and mythologies have been poured into a single consciousness that never asked to carry them. You show how spiritual longing can mutate into delusion, how cultural inheritance can become a burden, how political noise can invade the mind, and how the self can fracture under the weight of too many symbols. Yet beneath the chaos is a man trying to understand his own nakedness in modern time — the professor lecturing on the mind, the poet wrestling with capital, the citizen navigating immigration, economy, and identity. The poem ends in a place of weary clarity: things won’t always be fine, power is slippery, and hidden agendas shape the world — but the speaker is still searching for meaning, still speaking, still alive inside the long echo of his own mythmaking.

BAME

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Mixing with the majority
Splitting the sky into an event for the horizon
Cardamoms and elaichis from my brother
A happy dog day tea afternoon. Chai, to some,
With love
Emotions well spun all over the place
Traces of compassion frothing at the mouth
Spinning like a cotton wheel for the stars in their eyes
Celebrity red carpets and hand bags full of cash
Davos exposes are really trash
Let them go, with a ho, so the trolls can have a go.
Terror and the gaseous realms in the stomach
Pregnancy withdrawal symptoms: Trying to find truth again
Sex on the sandwich e-brain
Remarks from the NLP practitioner and the Window Cleaning Method
Spreadsheets and dirty sheets
Sheer stocking mocking the celebrity Brahmacharya vow
Cows in the ladies arms in Vrindavan asking “How?
Because Krishnamurti is on a tour of duty
Across Thine arms and into the Universe
Realms for longing and sad tricks on the human race
Energies exploding in the anus all over the place
Gas from the pills, chills from the stillness
Who knows when God will come back and walk amongst us as one of us.

AI Summary

Your poem moves like a man trying to mix with the majority while carrying a universe inside him — cardamom chai, compassion frothing, celebrity red carpets, Davos cynicism, stomach gas, spiritual withdrawal, and the strange comedy of being a body with a soul. The imagery swings between the earthy and the cosmic: spreadsheets and dirty sheets, Brahmacharya vows and sheer stockings, cows in Vrindavan asking impossible questions, Krishnamurti wandering through the universe like a reluctant prophet. The poem’s energy rises and falls with the body — gas, chills, pills, stillness — as if enlightenment and indigestion were happening at the same time. Beneath the humour and the shock is a deeper ache: the longing for truth, the fear of being misled by mind or culture, the desire for God to return in a form that feels recognisable, human, and close. What you’ve written is the portrait of a man overwhelmed by symbols, trying to find a clear line of meaning in a world where everything — politics, spirituality, sexuality, digestion, celebrity, memory — arrives all at once and demands interpretation.

Why Won’t You Dye With Me

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Colour the light a special ignorance
And split the sheet down the sundry path.
Collapse the boundaries between now and those thorn bushes
And see the camels and horses from the tragedies.

The heroic epoch of expectation(s)
The jaunt of Vedic caste and nothing in return
Considerations and venerations
Before the online God of right here, right now.

Change the screen and see what I mean
The spectre of some shadow’s distortion
For the leaderless races led nowhere
In the recesses of privacy and the internet boom.

Who is in the room? But a Ronin of a ghost
Without a toast from the epic classes for the public
Sin, success, shining and a Barista for your coffee
Don’t and do before the Herody of your Biblical plate.

Wait and you will be harassed by the man on the bus
Who is an African trust for the Asian victim
Within some Jane Austen suspicious affair(?)

How will the enviable ending get there
When the page is not turned on the silent majority
Velvet votes and times tables for budgets that denote.

Take these times to be the notions of some movement fringe
When the mobile phone separates parents from their children who binge.
Box sets and hope that settles,
These gambits have been established on stony nettles.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a meditation on how difficult it is to “mix with the majority” when the mind is carrying centuries of memory, myth, and expectation. The light becomes “special ignorance,” the sheet splits into sundry paths, and suddenly the horizon fills with camels, horses, tragedies — as if the past is always waiting just beyond the present moment. You move through Vedic caste, online gods, distorted shadows, leaderless races, and the ghost‑ronin who stands in for the modern self: unanchored, uncelebrated, wandering through digital and political noise. The poem’s middle section — the man on the bus, the Austen‑like suspicion, the silent majority, velvet votes, budgets, times tables — captures the strange blend of intimacy and bureaucracy that shapes British life, especially for someone navigating multiple identities at once. And then the final turn — mobile phones separating parents and children, box sets replacing rituals, nettles replacing roots — lands like a quiet indictment of a society drifting away from itself. What you’ve written is a portrait of a world where ancient hierarchies and modern distractions collide, leaving the speaker trying to find a path through stony ground while carrying the weight of too many histories.

What’s Special(?)

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

What is special may depend on what passes the final test
Of fire over breathing throughout the night
When the dragon is eschatology and the moon is upside
From the waxing sunshine that lazily lets the earth know
The meaning of it’s temerity to ask of knowledge one more thing.

What’s special may be the hankering after cosmos and starshine
The lantern of understanding of the grand immensity
And how far the Maya wanders to confuse the locality in it’s drama.
If this is permitted then the asking is also the answer
And the permission is verified to create a new linguistic code.

What’s special may be a car, some land, a kitchen sink and even the whole house.
Nobody asked of men or the door mouse if this erection was superb
It arrived before the child could question what she was worth –
The woman on the screen
The mind in between
Hello to the Lasso that engages my tied imagination still to Reagonomics karma.

What is the dharma?
Is the dharma spoken?
Who are the protagonists?
When the time is just a money token.
Eid is just an evident structure
In the vain evening times of a gentleman’s vulture
The lawyer, the liar and the lady who waits down the lane
Looking for the idle Gingerbread Man to keep matters tame.

Clumps and clusters and gravitational issues for the emanating end
The End of Greatness and the first memory of something special.

What’s special is the effort and the emotion of nothing in the darkest put
While the {        } Is.

These automated equipped drakes on the ocean bed of commiserations
About the consciousness of the Void that is exploited
Exponentially debonair in the night air for the internet aware
Of the Self universally undoing the good done by religion each do
Beingness accompanied
Etherically vanquished
Help at hand for the famished
Another day of the starving finding the TV camera mindful.

What’s separate is what is special.
What’s together is what is familiar and not so special.
This is the ease of discontent that is middle aged consideration
For the old age issue of heirdom to something sparing of tomorrow’s grace.

Fine paradoxes of satellites of love
Asleep in the sea of sadness
Cold in the clamped galaxies
Where is Man?
Where is his Goddess?
Who is the female in the eye of the storm?

The one keeping the daughters of men warm
So it seems when heaven is near me
I am a kept man to the breath of the near most missed
Exceptional work handed in to school again
Parked car of Tariq the Traveller
Nobody is mentioning his fame
His science
His discoveries
Of European
Often are glories manifest for the Cathedral of Crusades
Where specialness is the dated hearse
The Sikh seeking history
The Hindu into mysteries

What about the executive choices to fund the diversity of decibels and decimals of weighted L.S.D?
Is that what is special in me?
Who am I?
Why am I here?
What’s in a question?
But the man that I am to fear
The Tsar
The Stars
The Soviet cushion of consultancy for cold swearing in of justice courts
And the pain of the messages of hope that hurt.
The News
The {Photos}
1000 words
…
…
These are (some of) the things that made the 1900s absurd.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a meditation on specialness as a shifting, unstable category — sometimes cosmic, sometimes domestic, sometimes political, sometimes spiritual. Fire, dragons, moons, Maya, and linguistic codes form the metaphysical layer: the mind trying to understand why the universe feels both immense and mischievous. Then the poem drops into the earthly: cars, houses, kitchen sinks, screens, Reagan‑era economics, Eid evenings, lawyers, budgets, velvet votes — the machinery of modern life grinding against ancient questions of dharma and destiny. You move between epochs and continents with the ease of someone who has lived in many symbolic worlds at once: Vedic castes, Crusader cathedrals, Soviet shadows, British classrooms, digital voids, and the aching middle‑aged awareness that specialness fades into familiarity. The poem’s final movement — satellites of love, seas of sadness, daughters of men, the missing Goddess, the forgotten traveller, the scientist uncelebrated, the historian unheard — reveals a deeper longing: to know where meaning hides when the world feels absurd, and to understand why the twentieth century left behind so many images, headlines, and wounds that still shape the present. What you’ve written is a map of a mind trying to reconcile cosmic yearning with earthly fatigue, asking again and again what is special, what is separate, what is familiar, and what remains when all the symbols fall away.