Saloni Kaul, author and poet, was first published at the age of ten and has been in print since. As critic and columnist Saloni has enjoyed thirty eight years of being published. Saloni Kaul's first volume, a fifty poem collection was published in the USA in 2009. Subsequent volumes include Universal One and Essentials All.
So well and true we hear all that pervades our ears,
Aural perceptions keen accept music’s subtle dictates
Sans questions, unconditionally, as o’er the years
All children have trusted the tellings of adults as mates.
How easily we welcome nature’s wondrous sound parade,
A stunning spectrum sprouted from what was lovingly sown;
From dawn to dusk absorb both twitter and tirade
Of bird beast wind welded to soundscapes all our own.
Then all the tunes in mode repeat we love resound,
The old familiar we soak ourselves in for days wholesale,
And yet we seek the new, the novel, to astound ,
Each skintingling sensation sparkling quite like ale.
May you always delight in music’s grand display,
Be it of nature’s sound sense well or live performance play.
The car screeched to a halt to halt the screech !
Ensuing argument between two pedestrians, he said.
All behind halted and screeched stuck each to each
Like halterneck-drest bloom in flower bed.
Pedestrians took their screechtime in fuming chorus
Took those on the warpath severely by the hand,
For by this time they with more than their own screeches
With queued squads screeching to halt had to contend canned.
Comic to onlookers, crucial to those involved,
As screeching soundscapes are until you’re in their tide caught;
Those wasting time and time of others convolved,
As much ado escalates, stern lesson soon are taught.
Think then, does it pay to lean upon consideration’s legacy,
To end up rueful as Richard at his own profligacy.
Fathom Taste !
Impulsive babbling bursts forth pleasant in sound
As water without so much as second thought has its say;
Compulsive blabbering soon raises hedges round,
The listener walled in, helpless as keen-to-escape prey.
Celebratory in tone and how it thrills, each feat,
The clash of cymbals, whipping up drums at bandstand,
But try your hand at it without order, rhythm and beat
And see where with your ludicrous attempts you land!
There’s something in the order and rhythms of nature
That thundering loud rhythmic rain the senses accept,
In man’s hands pale repeats become a caricature.
We throw up our hands at each loud garish precept.
While moderation’s easy to explain, it’s questions of taste,
Do get to the bottom of it or life’s a waste.
AFFIXING THE HALO