Priyal Panchal

Four Poems


Discarding daily ritualistic practices,

Courageously chanting pragmatic didactics,

This wondering monkey-mind

Jumping from tree-to-tree

Of thought-tiring theories,

When relishes relief in a rare pose

Is indeed, falling prey to the joy of praying,

Surrenders to a momentary ecstasy,

Eating a fruit of joy

In ephemeral poise

Without chattering mind’s noise,

An epiphany hidden in ritualistic practice’s prayer -

When the soul sheds layer after layer

To meet the spiritual master

Seated at the core of this oniony-self’s soul.


Universal Eye

(Upon understanding the meaning of Yoga)

Born without sense of ‘I’
We learn to identify
Through words like ‘me’, ‘mine’ and ‘my’
All else is ‘All’, I am ‘I’
We let our ego fly high
But salvation there does lie
Where I is all and all is I
Only if ego does die
And we unlearn to say ‘I’
Then can the spirit rise high.
See not all as all v/s I,
Open the universal eye.


An ink-kissed author
has fewer things to bother
some things mandatory,
While some come in handy
an inkpot of ideas,
a nib of words,
a flow of emotions -
blue, green, red, purplish, black,
dark, grey, insolvent -
a rhythmic flick of fingers
tuning a thought that lingers,
an unclenching fist
and an unquenchable thirst,
an unrestricted burst
of poetry
oozing out of every blob
that stains -
of some moment 
pushed behind by time
yet served fresh again by the mind 
plated with a pinch perspective
and forked, to help roll it completed
before it gets chewed on to
only until
it is out
in ink
of water
ultimately set free
breaking stony belief,
turning the direction of thoughts,
regurgitating a pearl of wisdom,
from the very bottom,
raising the self above a selfly selfie of insights
to see the other side,
wear another skin,
and be re-attired from within,
an ornamented pearl 
then embellishing 
the sense of selflessness
soaked in ink.
For the love of ink,
An ink-kissed author
estranges  -self-  soliciting  -solitude-  in turn. 

In Her Words

(For Eunice de Souza)

Her words and voice echo in the alleys of St. Xavier’s College,
Bird flocks sing poetry in Vakola’s streets
Her presence wins over her absence
If she were buried at Westminster Abbey, she would’ve dressed in red and black 
With a necklace of skulls to complete her favourite look
But, here at St. Anthony’s church... for her funeral,
She lies in red and white wearing a necklace of silence
Friends, relatives, students, fellow poets… call to her, their hearts recall
Majesty of this magic lady, 
and melody of her tone.

Her parrot may narrate the obituary she once wrote for Mr. Death
Mr. Parrot finds death a Hasty man, with no manners to woo a lady,
“At 77, isn’t she entitled to more before he could steal her breath so early?” says her parrot!
Cynthia at Emie’s still waits to pedicure Eunice’s figurative poetic feet,
Over Rita’s gossip and Miss Louise’s titbit.
The priest at the church paused mid-word
To see the visitor he saw as scandal-scintillating, now slain and dim.
So swiftly she sailed off… to another world
Of being in poetry.

Being a poet,
She searched for tales to turn to poetry,
With surreptitious secretive glances
Amongst the crowd at church or the chapel, or even the temple
Across the street, where she found Prabhu for example.
she too learnt from green-eyed furry friends,
what she advised other women to learn -
how to die alone!

What she forgot,
is advice on how to mourn
The loss of a soul-sisterly poet, 
who wrote poems 
that helped you cope with life, and also with… what she euphemistically calls the otherness
of lovers.