THE CAPTAIN SLEEPS TONIGHT -- CAPT AJIT VADAKAYIL

This for future poets who want to carve a niche for themselves on this planet. 

Poetry is the flow of intense thoughts— otherwise it is NOT poetry.  

It need not rhyme , unless you are writing it as a nursery rhyme for little children to sing along.  


Once you start reading poetry you will NOT be able to stop.  


And finally when you do stop, you will feel something inside your heart— if it is good poetry.  

Love and nostalgia take very little effort to make that impact. 

Gone are the days of Victorian bombardment. An ordinary man on the street can write good poetry. 


Good poetry means 90% of the people both erudite and illiterate who read it will be impressed. 

The remaining 10% misanthropes of this planet , who need something other than poetry to get impressed, please excuse.

after six months of camping, in lonely avenue


wound up taut,  like a high tension spring


suffering from the blues , when lonely winds blew past


falling apart from the seams,  when bad new came from home


yet,  never allowing a sight to get out of his heart


controlling his biological urges,  being the perfect family man


changing coats constantly,  as the situation on board deemed


judge, doctor, policeman, accountant, pest control, cook


journalist , plumber, head shrink, soldier ( without license to kill )


businessman --you name it--he does it as part of his job


round the clock, not 9 to 5 -- day after day, without holiday


giving away prizes, which he , and only he had earned


yet, willingly being the scapegoat , when murphy's law ruled


trying to figure out the blurred line between fact and fiction


living on the edge, never feelin' immune to the prospect of failure


working for bosses who had mastered the art of exploiting vulnerability


steeling himself to read telexes which started -- "we fail to understand--"


being the punching bag for thankless owners , managers and charterers


being forced to take uncalculated risks, against his better judgement


trying to push his ship, to keep pace with a pea brained schedule


pushing mr.pride aside,  when dealing with customs and coastguard


itching to bloody their noses , but somehow,  holding his peace


forcing him to add more names, to the list of people who could kiss his ass


being patient to wait for one more minute, past eternity


dealing with faceless men, and spineless backdoor hustlers


who got their kicks ,by sending missiles by telex from overseas


rubbing shoulders with powers that be , who put their mouths into motion


without putting their collective brains into gear --even once


deadening his raw nerves in the cold comfort of whisky heaven


--the days his bosses played petty mind games of domination on him


distrusting angels which fly too low-- not believing in messiahs


burning bridges behind him , when the situation became 'no go'


combating the sinkin' feeling that time is running out on him


time and again, counting the odds against tomorrow


wearing lucky charms , combating ulcers and nose bleeds


yet thriving on the virus of pressure , like the quintessential shark


which need to suck salt water past its gills to stay alive


after all this--


this modern seafarin' gypsy has passed on his crown of thorns


packed his bags,  and is now a stranger in even stranger lands


destination home-sweet-home, his DTGH is only one


wending his weary way to his hotel room, he drops on the bed


the windmills of his mind come to a smooth halt , as he falls into slumber


they had been ceaselessly turned by winds of anxiety, the last six months


it is unwinding time now for this poor wanderer


HUSH! 


NOT A SOUND!!  


THE CAPTAIN SLEEPS TONIGHT!!!

DTGH--   means " days to go home "


CAPT AJIT VADAKAYIL
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