Romancing the the role of Man in the evolving universe.

World in a Grain of Sand

To see a whole world in a grain of sand,
How far the travel must have been of Man
Through convulse of vicissitudes cosmic, 
Compulsions of corporeal encrusting,
Vaporous equations in evolving
Of universe to the envisioning man? 
And yet there is travel unending, far
Into the realms unknown, beyond the power
Of the distant stars or depths of oceans
That embrace the global domes a-whirling,
Polarised with climatic isobars
Frozen in merge of heat beyond the Sun.
To see a whole world in a grain of sand,
Far, indeed, the travel has been of Man. 

(From The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

581. World In A Grain Of Sand

Musing over kindergarten school children at play in a park.

582. Voices of the Future

They rise but high, the voices of  future,
The shrills or cries now in delight or pain,
Children at play in parks or in corners
Hidden, frightened, or of joy forbidden, 
In schools or homes or at playgrounds, threatened
By their demons of imagination;
Cries and voices, these for world’s nurturing
That in the noble hands of mature men
And women who would not squander such gifts 
Of nature as minds of children flowering,
And would from this youthful chorus rising,
Make but a sober anthem for mankind.

(From The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

582. Voices Of The Future

In praise of daring, even once, to love and live beyond the tempering of life of caution. 
 
130. Love Without Passion

Love without passion is all I see around me: 
tightropes in a socio-economic circus 
on which husbands and wives, brothers and 
sisters, mothers and fathers, friend and 
foe balance precariously and walk, gingerly; 
seldom a firm-footed, free run across 
with passion and faith. 
The word love grips the tutored adolescent 
teetering on the tightropes, too, the young 
girl, who, afraid of losing her virginity 
in one wild sweep of passionate abandon, 
loses it anyway in a slow, ham fisted, painful 
stumbling of discovery through fear and 
care and shame. 
They all die with a doubtful honour, 
at the most, of a balancing act to their merit, 
but never the full glory of a fall, several falls, 
nor the euphoria of daring fear with faith at the 
mouth of failure, to taste the ultimate success, 
savouring the transcendence of fear.

(from Letters of Long Ago — © Ronnie Patel)

Love Without Passion

Once self-enlightened, the pursuit of knowledge must stop to let quiet reign in peace.

140. Enlightenment Lost

I flicked a switch
The light went on,
Then I pursued betterment:
Bigger, brighter than even the Sun,
Till I found I had lost Enlightenment.

(From The Unsung Log & Island Poems — © Ronnie Patel)

140. Enlightenment Lost

141. Enlightenment

Though knowledge leads to 
understanding, all understanding 
is not enlightenment. What is it then? 
What is enlightenment? 
It is a flash of lightning that 
illuminates the mind and at once, 
burns and chars every vestige of 
the dead wood called: knowledge.

(from The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

141. ENLIGHTENMENT

143. Sensitive Artists

Sensitive artists are usually quite lonely 
amongst a host of companions and admirers; 
they are ever alive, ever observant of 
the slightest nuances in the milling humanity 
and nature around them, from whom is drawn 
the inspiration for whatever the medium of their 
expression. Like a mirror they reflect 
everything, but possess nothing!

(from The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

143. Sensitive Artists

What Is Life About?

Life is about warmth of human sentiment, about service, about compassion, forgiveness and mercy: all time-tested instincts of human quality that distinguish a truly cultured human being.  It is not about justice, not about duty or honour based on cold reason devoid of sentiment; it is not about a juggling of technicalities; it is not about expediency more politic than just; but it is about a grand order of self, opposing its own corruption by the passing, seductive lures of materialism and even intellectualism. Many are led to believe that acquisition of material wealth and possessions available through it, including education and sophistication is the ultimate purpose of life. But, all this without the innate humility of the spirit is negated in the true measure of man. Arrogance in what we have, instead of gratitude for the opportunity of having it, demeans the very spark of divinity which we all have, but do little to recognise it, or develop it once we have become aware of it.
— Ronnie Patel

149. What Is Life About?

All creation is interrelated and in the slightest sense or immensely influencing one another.

151. Power of a Distant Star 

The font from which I suckle
Has its provisions from afar,	
For that I do not demean it,
Nor its motherly passions mar,
But conscious of a provider
Beyond the immediate hour,
I ever sense the presence –
The power of a distant star!

(from The Unsung Log — © Ronnie Patel)

201. IN PRAISE OF MOUNTATINS & GOD

Romancing of a nomad

217. A Silent Wanderer

A silent wanderer I am
In the wonder world of man,
The glorious sky, my sheet,
My bed, the giving land;
By day, the cool of breeze I am,
By night, the light of day,
Mindless of where I go I am
Or how long or where I stay,
But, in the passing all alone,
I once shall pass your way.

(from The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

217. A SILENT WANDERER

Poetic, philosophical explanation of times's fusion.

Book Of Ages Past

Asfandiar the historical persian warrior who received the boon of invincibility is now imagined as the lonely persian man railing against wars and greed of mankind to deaf ears -- wisdom unheeded as usual by succeeding generations.

Asfandiar- The Lonely Persian Man

Questioning the indifference over unrequited love with memories and hope.


(From The Unsung Log & Lovelight——© Ronnie Patel)

The Unsung Log (Recited)

Years of Ecsatcy & Anguish

Sensing the possible fear of the dead—the diminishing visits of loved ones to the graveside.

213. The Forgotten Dead

Nothing dies here,
A crippled heart lies here
In a crate, down under 
The sodden patch of green –
Immortality’s green;
Nothing dies in the grave,
Nothing is paralysed,
But, above it memories
Fade, and that is the dread
Of the quiet heart:
The beloved’s fond, but
Slowly forgetting tread.

(From The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

213 THE FORGOTTEN DEAD

Incredulous of relating tales of love and recall of memories.

227. Mohabbat-ki-Baaten

Mohabbat  ki baaten kyaa bataaun mein tujhe,
Kitne diye jale the kitne diye bujhe;

Ulfat ke alfaaz kyaa sunaaun mein tujhe,
Kitne lafz nikle the kitne lafz pohonche tujhe;

Yakeenan kahetaa hun mein na bhooloon ga tujhe,
Arre itnee yaadon se yaad aur kaun karegaa tujhe.


Calcutta:			26 November 1987


Tales of Love

What tales of love should I speak of,
How many flames were lit,
How many flames, extinguished!

What words of love should I speak to you,
How many words did stream from my lips,
How many words did reach you!

But I assure you, I shall never forget you,
O, how many with such remembrances
Would ever remember you!

(Salaam-e-Shauq—© Ronnie Patel)

227. MOHABBAT KI BAATEN

On a chance stumbling upon an incredible, silent encounter.

229. Was He God?

Not an entity worth a passing thought,
Yet he knew himself, truly, utterly;
He was worth nothing,
Yet nothing was of little worth to him;
He loved and admired all life and living,
Learned everything he could every day
From anyone who came to pass his way;
Yet, there was no pride in all his knowing,
Never a strong felt need for all its showing;
He was a simple man:
Not an entity worth a passing thought,
Never uttered his name – was he God?

(From The Unsung Log— © Ronnie Patel)

229. WAS HE GOD?

It takes deep, meditative concentration to hear the sound of one hand clapping in the incorrigibly cacophonous world

230. One Hand Clapping

“The sound of one hand clapping”
Is a soundless sound,
A few this soundlessness pursue;
The rest fill this world 
With a disturbing din:
The clap, clap, clapping of two.

(From The Unsung Log and Island Poems—© Ronnie Patel)

230. ONE HAND CLAPPING

Musing on a balcony over a sailing ship on the horizon, vicariously as a sailor.

231. From The Balcony: F4 Seabrooke

It has always been a distinct lure for me to see
A vessel on the horizon, unmoving, seemingly;
In imagination, my mind is at once cast
Upon  its group of men, their peregrinations vast:
Where have they been, what have they left behind – 
What wives, what mistresses, what families,
And do they yearn for their return in time?
What food do they eat, what language speak,
What gods or none do they worship?
Does harmony prevail among them, or do some
Contend and yet some savour appeasement?
Are their children going to school, are there
Photographs pressed in grimy wallets --
Of their sweethearts smiling, none to fool?
What kind of cargo does the vessel bear
But mere toys of trade for the trading men?
Ah! The vessel is moving; now it is there!
As long as there’s a sailor on the sea
And time on hand for me, I will
Sail with him, sitting alone on the balcony,
Unoccupied and unmoving, seemingly.

(From The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

231. FROM THE BALCONY, F4 SEABROOKE

The gift of innocence and wonder with which mankind is blessed at birth remain on call with some, though lost to most.

233. Innocence And Wonder

Within my mind, an innocence lies,
Which combined with wonder, washes
Clean the stains of each day’s impressions:
The deforming, corrupting lacerations
Of self-seeking, want and gain;
And in constant debate, diminishes
Their power, their strength, their seed,
Yet remaining unaffected, indeed,
To feel, to sense, to live out
The eternal experience, unfolding
Beyond life, beyond death and
Each duality dividing, beyond
The subtlest seduction of knowledge
And its boundless burdening.

(From The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

233. INNOCENCE & WONDER

Visitor’s encapsulation, poetic, of life in New York

237. The Big Apple

The pit-less eyes on The Big Apple skin,
Squeak of  the slither of  slugs, slowly 
To the surface rising – surprise, surprise! 
The New World, an inch at the most 
From the corrupting core of platitudinous 
Pinnacles that past generations soared, is
Now past the very height of its peaking:
Skyscrapers of acid rain, flush with foetid flesh
And moral pain – and oh, the  puking, puking, 
Sluggish slugs from their deep slumber rise
To a brief round of confounded life, and 
Slithering swift on The Big Apple skin, come
To convulsions grim. Their death-knell rings!

(From The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

237. THE BIG APPLE

In praise of flowers spared from the commerce of celebratory or decorative zeal
						IP
239. Flowers In A Vase

Am I not appalled 
By heads of flowers
Stuck in a vase against a wall
In heartless destruction:
A housewife’s decorative gall?
Would I not like to see 
These fulsome flowers free,
Swaying in the breeze
To nature’s own decrees,
As though of a dance
In adulation of God?
O, indeed, would I not!

(From The Unsung Log and Island Poems—© Ronnie Patel)

239 FLOWERS IN A VASE

Not all marriages are made in heaven.

240. Marriage In Separation

Awake, she felt her dream shattered,
As much as he coped with a nightmare;
She would not sleep, she felt fettered,
But he did, if only to dream;
Thus lived a marriage just begun:
One awake, one asleep, together
But not for a moment as one.

(From The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

240. MARRIAGE IN SEPARATION

A paradisiacal concept of the nothingness of the Absolute that lies beyond everything.

242. Concept Of Paradise

I know I am nearing that absolute light
Far beyond the blinding flash of the sun,
Where, deadened of all the senses, I shall
With the absolute consciousness be one;
No, I speak not of death’s visiting dread --
I have paid the price of the fruit that Eve
To my father fed, and God forbidden,
Lived and died endless cycles, unbidden,
Save by the resurgent magic of Truth
That has led me now  to the Absolute;
I am soul-set to be where nothing is,
Yet where all, but quite all that is, subsides, 
And peace beyond the much imagined peace, 
Makes true every concept of paradise.

(From The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

Ronnie Recites His Own Poems

242. CONCEPT OF PARADISE

Hope, the relentless challenger of adversities, ultimately questions time, or death, one’s eventual terminator.

244. Wrinkled Face of Hope

O, passing time, are you not tired
Of writing a line each day upon my face?
What makes you sure that you will not 
Run out of space? For, I intend to live long!

(From The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

244. WRINKLED FACE OF HOPE

The futile cycle of life lived with imaginary purpose

251. In the Wastepaper Basket

Life crumpled like paper in 
A wastepaper basket out in the sun:
Warm, hot, dry; then the rain!
Life wet washed, dried, un-creasing
Opens out again and blossoms
Like thoughts of a thoughtless man
Living fast, free, high; then, disdain!
Life’s paper, blank, in wastepaper
Basket, carelessly crumpled up again.

(From The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

251. IN THE WASTEPAPER BASKET

A perspective on life, lying on grass and looking up into the sky.

252. Birds Flying High

Birds are but flowers
Of the sky, flying high
In the clouds, 
As mankind in youthful 
Strut speckles the earth
With life between shrouds.

(From The Unsung Log—© Ronnie Patel)

252. BIRDS FLYING HIGH

Interpretations of history contorted for political reasons have been the cause of much unhappiness in the world.

395. Victims to Vile Histories

O, the molehills 
Made into mountains,
Out of all proportions 
Blown, until, 
With a leaky pen, 
Rancour wrote the will
Of man -- a worthless, 
Tritely testament,
In blood, its ink from 
The inkwells of war,
On parchment pages 
That were fields before,
Where children played 
Like lilies in the breeze
And fell, sad victims 
To vile histories.

(From The Unsung Log— © Ronnie Patel)

395. VICTIMS TO VILE HISTORIES

About Ronnie Patel
Ronnie Patel was born in Bombay, India and is a published poet. For the last several years as a retired man, he pursues writing poetry, abstract painting, transforming his own photographs into paintings on the computer, playing golf for exercise, and runs a bespoke, private art gallery. Married, he currently lives in Berlin.


Ronnie Patel

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