Friday, July 22, 2016

Sky of a night and we

Can't you write a sky of a night , like this
As we are here, one time more,
Please?'
She asked me oneday,
When we were lying on the grass
Under the sky with stars twinkling luminous,
I looked at the sky and those glittering things
And thought how for ages they did bring
Amazement to us mortals living on earth,
I thought of human struggles and existence
And so many poems and plays and prose,
Of writings eulogising God and Goddesses,
Of stories which spoke of Love that could inspire,
Millions to go in search of life,

She knew I was thinking and having a travel
By mind to distant places, those valleys and Hills,
She knew perhaps what did I then really feel,
So she waited with ancient patience
Written on her face, her eyes deep and calm,

I was thinking of roads and lanes and streets
Which have I walked through only to meet
Her and our days and our nights,
I was thinking of journeys to the woods,
Of stumbling upon a brook,
Of coming across blooming Rhododendrons,
And also of those wonderous lakes
Where swans floated like white objects of art,
I was thinking of varied images that the world to us had brought,

'Are you thinking of going to any particular place?'
She asked me, after a long pause, silence when wrapped us more like the cool night dense,

'Yes,' I finally ventured to give a reply,
'I was thinking of a cottage built somewhere
At the hills, overlooking a Valley green
With flowering tulips and juicy berries,'
I said, gradually turning wakeful from the trance
That made me to ruminate and to mentally write
Words , arranged with care , placed side by side,

She got the cue perhaps,
Of the place from my spoken words
And unspoken expressions,

'It might be somewhere near Ranikhet,
Or Kaushani,
And it might be the onset of a sweet winter,
When the mist and fog would start to descend soft
Upon valleys there'
She remarked,

I looked up at the night sky,
The stars were twinkling there alright,
And I thought there was nothing more
Could I hanker after, at that moment.

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

At the souk

Met her the painter oneday,
At a corner of a souk,
She was busy painting canvases
(Which she told me) to her dreams
As they her took,

Watched her for hours
Completely submerged in her works,
People like me as passed by her,
And she in her paintings at the nook
Created a world of wonders,

It had been a lovely day
Quipped I seeing her
and those canvases spread,
She was filling colors
Orange, blue, yellow, green , red,

I looked at her, standing awhile,
Quiet as a stone almost,
She was stroking on the canvas,
With brushes she drew a sea coast,

Right in front my eyes,
Under the sky bright and with Joys mixed,
I looked at her fingers
As they upon canvas did tricks,

The seas came to her,
So also the seagulls and other birds,
The hills came alive by her touch,
And roads made by her flew upwards,

The souk was a lovely place
People walked checking those shops,
Garments hung loose in the air,
And before her I momentarily stopped,

She sang as she worked,
Singing a beautiful tune,
And how I looked at her
Drawing deserts and sand dunes,

One after another canvases were made,
And they were kept there hanging by hooks,
I just stood quiet like a stone there
And tried to fathom what pleasure
Her it really took,

Just to there come and sit every day,
Right there at the souk,
I just looked at her works of art,
And wondered what passion her really took
To make so many lovely things,
Every day , every morn and Eve,

I just looked at her,
And into a painted day
I, a swim with ease took,
Right there oneday,
At the souk.

Missing you,

Nowadays, when I get to sit quiet
And think over about us, our lovely times,
Your face appears in my mind,
And I feel that I miss you,

How do I miss you?
Like the way the clouds miss the sky,
Or the birds miss their songs,
Or the kite misses the breeze,

I miss you
For I miss my fancy
Which you have always in me evoked,
I miss my imagined land
Where you have taken me so many times,

O how do I miss you,
Your smiles, your little things
Like your words quipped spontaneous,
Your eyes which hold the oceans,
The scent of love which you carry in your palms,

O how do I miss them oft,
Your winged thoughts
How come to me
Only to increase that missing
Which stays like an inexpressible thing
In my heart,

O how oft I miss you,
When I hear someone talking about
A visit to the River,
Or to that pleasant place where trees whisper prayers of Peace
Being so caressed by the breeze,

O how oft I miss you
When I get to watch the sun rise on hills
Or a dusk settling in along a Bay,

O how I miss you
When I think of a song
Of yesteryears, from a flick,
Perhaps, depicting an empty street
In the sleepy quietitude of a moonlit night,

How I miss you.


(*Note : the painting attached was done by G.Seurat, titled 'on the island of La grande latte')

Monday, July 18, 2016

If You are Eve,

If you are Eve,
Come to me,
And make me man,
Your Adam,

We would with pleasures fill
Valleys of green and pastures
We have not wandered away to,

We would go there
And cherish our living,
Like birds do while flying together
In the sky at the dawn
Drenched by golden light

We would come to our best too,
At the dusk, again drenched by crimson light,

If you are Eve,
Come to me,
Make me a man,
Your Adam.

(*Note: painting courtesy: Flimt, Adam and Eve, 1918)

Upon a Renoir (as found in a museum)

Walking down the aisle of the museum
When we came to that hall, where Monet mingled with Renoir, and other greats,
We stood for a while by those paintings set,

A Renoir there was with much care kept,
We heard those people there thronging
As they were busy celebrating something,
A holiday, a vacation, a pious occasion,
Perhaps, some sat at tables with paper and potion,
The day they were thus passing through,
Ah, a Renoir could only bring that with details to view,
Cloaks, jackets, hats and bonnets,
All pictured just perfect,
And how could one dare to catch the attention
Of a viewer even when there was nothing really to mention,
No revolt, no grand opening of any fair,
Still how people there (like us) stopped and stared,
At the big grand canvas of life filled with laughter and fun,
How we stood in front of a Renoir, without making a turn
To other things that were there sure in the hall,
We just stood there and watched with Heart's content
That congregation which perhaps had caused a windfall.

Friday, July 15, 2016

At a lusty dusk

At a lusty dusk
When the sky got the rouge
Of love , so yellow , orange and blue,
They sat , the two,
And watched how
The colors of their love got spread,
From the sky,
To the river bed,

At a lusty dusk,
When the sky got the rouge

They sat there, the two.

Finding a field unsown, one morn

Once when you go out into the fields unsown,
You find the glory of the morn,
Filled with birds' song,

And you think how wonderful is it
To take the morning's greet,
Right into one's soul,

When all things appear lovely and gay,
Drenched by the new rays
Of Sun and the breaking of a new day,

Then you perhaps stop somewhere
Where you feel the cool air
Blowing through the hair,

At that moment precise,
You think of how Divinity lies
In the open wide Vast ocean of Sky.

Thursday, July 14, 2016

A turn of a day, by that river,

Whenever we would get time spare
We would just go there together,
Me and my love,
There we would sit on the sand
Warm and golden as would turn the land
In the afternoon when the sun would drop
Down gently kissing the river and her waves,
There we would put our legs
Into the water cool and blue
And get the feel of the dappled things' hues,
The silence of the place would then slowly into us return
With beauty of finding the day's turn,
We would sit to watch the trees and the green,
We would get sublimated into the scene,
Which could only to us more of Divine Love bring.

Those evenings musical

Every evening, when the house would become agog with activities,
after the lull of the afternoon,
when uncles and father would return home,
Grandpa would switch on his turntable
And put LPs upon it,

Usually it would be a Bismillah Khan
Or Bade Ghulam Ali,
From his room the music would emanate
Till it got spread through the corridor,
Reaching the rooms , the hall, the yard
Till it reached the portico and even beyond,

We had then also returned home
From our daily ritual of games and matches,

Mother and aunt would blow the counch shells
And put incense sticks at the tulshi mancha,

Grandpa would recline on his favourite armchair
And take puffs from his hookah,
His eyes would remain closed,
He would then be dipping into music,

And the house too would turn musical,
Aunt would be humming a tune while chopping vegetables at the kitchen,
Uncle would be reciting a poem to us
From our textbooks, teaching us the nuances of poetic diction,
And we would sometimes break out singing in chorus,
Our rhymes and verses,

At the backdrop, the LPs would turn on the table,
Spinning and churning music,
As the evening would become night, slowly
Almost imperceptibly, musically binding
All and sundry.

Field of dandelions

The field looked like a clouded one,
Foggy and full of dandelions,
The day was there slowing waking up
Amidst the green, in  molten rays of Sun wrapped,
Distant cooing of birds came like calls
To send heart wandering where hues autumnal
Grow like dreams spread wide and far.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Way to heaven

It had been some ten years ago
Got that song , simply oneday, out of a radio,
I was then on the road, surely, traveling,
To a hilly spot, I remember certain as do I feel,
It had been a stupendous morn,
The sun had then out of the thick woods born,
Carrying warmth through the mist laden air,
I was made spellbound by the scene fair,
Then I thought out of the woods
Where time like ancient algae ridden statue stood,
Came floating a flute so enchanting and soft,
Must have reached near heaven I thought,
The greenery with their mossy layer wrapped
The music perhaps that got my attention rapt,
And I just tried to get taken away by the Beauty so
Which took me to the hills and their wonderous show,
I heard the murmur of a brook too,
Cool crystal clear water as came to my view,
The rippling sound got interfused with the flute,
I thought I was made to just there stay put,
I dropped off the car and stood quiet,
Slowing getting drenched by misty light,
And the flute , it was weaving a calming day,
I just stood there losing all words that people usually say,
I just stood there and heard and felt
How the dews and fog and mist before me melt
And planted their marks of water on leaves,
How there , I felt within the way to heaven, deep.

Maria was that girl

Maria was that girl
Who would by weather go,
She would sing if the sky is blue
She would dance if the land is green,
And with songs she would show
Little children what it did mean
To go by always singing,

Maria was that girl
Who would be always at her free will
She would teach the children to feel
The sweetness of the flowing breeze,
She would never stop or cease
From doing what her heart would to her tell,
She would gather the children around her
And mesmerise them by her musical tales,

Maria was that girl.

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

A walk with her

Holding her hand in mine one dusk
Singing a praise to the day
Walked through the meadows just
And got by her whispers of love swayed,
It had been such a walk wonderous
To feel the grass beneath waving soft
And to get the fragrance of flowers
Waking up after a mild spell of shower,
Holding her hand into mine
Walked a few miles green dressed
By the setting sun's shine
Had been so beautiful to trace
Our Love getting slowly spread
Across the meadows dotted by blossoms red.