The Song of Awareness(Poem)

Doesn’t matter for the seer.

Doesn’t matter for the Brahman(divine).

Doesn’t matter for the seen.

Doesn’t matter for the mystic.

Doesn’t matter for the pilgrimage.

Doesn’t matter for the path.

Doesn’t matter for the grace.

Doesn’t matter for the flowering.

Doesn’t matter for the king.

Doesn’t matter for the hermitage.

Doesn’t matter for the spirit.

Doesn’t matter for the immortals.

Holy dips
Hippie trips
Hefty lips
Doesn’t matter for the hell.

I ferry
into the kingdom
humming the lord’s name.

—Ehipassiko(Come and see)
—Yatha-bhuta(see things as they are)

—Drunken Monk(Under the holy warmth).

A Ring(Poem)

Long ago
there was a ring
that changed many hands.

Rumors came in
that the ring healed
the hearts of men and women
who puts it on index finger.

Then the fights came in
all died except one.

That single man on the earth
wore it
and healed his heart in all happiness.

—Drunken Monk.

Painted Faces(Poem)

The canvas
god gave
was empty.

But the colors,
themes, brushes
I chose were not pretty.

The strokes pained the soul
and the paper didn’t dry fast.

I mixed the colors
wanted something
Got something.

The palette knife
was blunt and the
final artwork was
like an old umbrella
feared of smooth rains
and metallic winds.

—Drunken Monk.

Poems: Old and New

Old poems—
Heavy heart and iron strings
Aged leaves and dead passions
Sunflowers and honeybees
Frozen roots and warm soil
Night skies and campfires
Warm woods, crisping of birds, and pecking the soul
Sweet solitude and sour life
Sailing the raw oceans
Winter sounds and dead ferns
Old age and wrinkles
Sleeping till the noon
Living a lie with easels
and flying away.

New poems—
Small talk and sex
lazy questions, insomnia and brown bellies
Hallow scratching and aping
Fake twilight and sot fathers
Abuse, trauma and depression
Unsocial shadows, souls and tottering teeth
Pills, pillows, and dead cigarettes
Shitty relationships, slurs, and leaking lust
Frowning over exes, nocturnal sweats
Guilty breaths, and smelly eyes
Still proving worth in your poems with salty tongues
All the F-ups.

—Drunken Monk.


Born out of a den.
named as ken.
lived as subterranean.
Watched shenanigans.
scraped the fen
of the pain.
could not handle circadian.
missed the train again.
the drop could not meet the ocean.
tried in vain.
would you care to explain?
this alien,
could not complain.
the curtains
fell again.
skipped yin and yang,
in disdain
with a bloodstain.
you might try again
for a beautiful Venn,
so make sure you are certain.

—Drunken Monk.

My Brother’s Gift changed My Life—It’s a book.

My brother gave me “On the shortness of life” book to read a while ago. This book though a short one changed the course of my river. Seneca’s brilliant words pierced like a thunderbolt though I’m not a stoic as such.

I never knew that there’s such thing called as the “Art of living” until I met this great thinker. It inspired me, it brought an existential crisis to me, and in a way crucified and resurrected me.

And it also brought a sense of urgency to my hibernated-slumber life. And every page of the book washed my soul and put me in deep meditation and contemplation. Here are a few of them for you to burn the flame—

  • 1)Life is not short.

This sounds contradictory to the title of the book but this is the first truth that Seneca hammers on your head. He says—

“It is not that we have so little time but that we lose so much. … The life we receive is not short but we make it so; we are not ill provided but use what we have wastefully.”

We waste so much time on things that don’t matter or on things that don’t matter now. We feed on Insta posts, drink YouTube scrolls, and sleep on Netflix-ing. If that’s not enough, we binge-envy on others and reflect for far too long on why life sucks though we exactly know why it does.

In fact, we tik tok our lives and finally think on the death bed—How has life gone by?

That’s why Lucius Annaeus Seneca pushes you to grab hold of your time and act like a mortal who is a simple slave to the silly fates.

  • 2)What is the proof for a long life?

“Often a very old man has no other proof of his long life than his age.”—Seneca.

This is a saintly saying if you think about it. Long-life doesn’t mean we add more numbers to our life but add more meaning to them. Consider Indian freedom fighter Bhagat Singh who was hanged at 23 or Bruce Lee who died due to Cerebral edema(That’s what Wikipedia says) at 32, they didn’t become oxygenarians or nonagenarians but their life was well spent.

Both changed the world in ways we cannot. And that matters a lot. Mere existence and sleepwalking to our tombs won’t do any good either to us or anybody.

Every living minute of our life should have some wonder and awe like a shining star.

  • 3)Choose your parents

I’m talking about intellectual parents, not birth-parents. Seneca says that we can choose to be educated by brilliant minds and great thinkers of history.

History is full of philosopher kings and queens, realists and stellar rebels who can teach us a lot. In other words, you can choose your mentor and be a mentee by sitting in libraries or swimming in the pools of wisdom.

Pick the classics and have talks with Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Buddha, Confucius, Lao Tzu, Hannah Arendt, Simone de Beauvoir and forge yourself under their guidance and light.

“You should rather suppose that those are involved in worthwhile duties who wish to have daily as their closest friends Zeno, Pythagoras, Democritus and all the other high priests of liberal studies, and Aristotle and Theophrastus. None of these will be too busy to see you, none of these will not send his visitor away happier and more devoted to himself, none of these will allow anyone to depart empty-handed. They are at home to all mortals by night and by day.”—Seneca.

This is the true “Walking with the dead,” we all should do.


Death is
the crescendo and the zenith
of life’s wave.
The crest and the final spring
of soul’s journey into the
stars and the stones.
No, it’s not a pale poem
or a coldly thing
but a redolent perfume
perfected by the
the flowering of finished fates.
The captain did not
leave for a final dignity or
damnation to stay with phantoms
but just took a tiny repose
in the synchronous unity,
to again give ear to
the primordial songs of silence
and the melodies of the multitude.
it’s not martyrdom
not a flight into oblivion
just a
post carted by the continental
and the maritime air masses
to the infinite.
A small pause in the
comet’s cruise.

—It’s not the end, for sure.