Father of Syria

'Stay here quiet for awhile'
The father had told his girl with a smile,
The day had been usual, a Syrian kind,
Some people were starving, some looked desolate, almost dying,
But the father till then that didn't mind,And then just a sudden jolt, a cry,
What did came swooping, a drone ? A fly?
'Gas!' someone yelled, 'bomb!'cried another,
Down the street ran the father,
He had left his little one, only daughter,
Beside the shop, beneath a tree,
The smoke couldn't make him see,
What was happening and why?
But he heard surely her cry!Minutes passed like moments of shock
The buildings had turned into rubbles of rock
And mortar and debris of bricks,
The father from the dust his daughter picked,
She was gasping, was not she?
The father in the smoke couldn't see,People he saw running like ghosts,
Sooty, grey, figures unrecognizable most,
And he picked his daughter up,
Was she breathing? Or had she stopped?The way to the hospital looked miles away,
The fathe…

The Mystic Mariner

The Mystic Mariner*You have taken charge of the ship
And dared to venture out
To the ocean blue and deep,
Braving all storms and gales,
Like a sailor who knew it all
How to make a voyage without fail,
Wonder I seeing your spirit so bright
Had you been a disciple of Ulysses
Always searching for new shores of light?You oft served me as a towering flame
From far guiding me through hurricanes,
By your words, deeds and rhymes,
You have remained oft like an implement
A beacon, a weather cock , a wind chime,
All fused into one, a superb force
A fatherly figure who opens the doors
And windows too of my heart and mind
So that more of wind and light can I find.

(* as a tribute to Madan Gandhi ji , written as a part of a TSL venture on NaPoWriMo)


#saaqiO Saaqi, when I come to your tavern
Don't you keep me thirsty for long
As I have come to be intoxicated
By your brew, the one for which I'm so fated,
Pour me a cup of your sweetest wine
And let there your music shine
For without your heavenly liquor
How can I in dreams fly far
Away from all the noise and din
Come Saaqi, fill me to the brim
So much so that words do come pouring
From my mouth like music ringing
Sweet, succulent and devoid of pains,
Come Saaqi, give birth in me that lyrical sense,
With which can I sing a song for you,
A song laden with a poetic view
Of all that appear oft so prosaic,
Saaqi for you must I take
A plunge into the beauty true,
Saaqi I know I can do it only for you.

Where I come from

Where I come fromWhere I come from
Is a place of magic
As oft seen by children
A land of fairies and goblins
Surrounded by trees smelling like incense
And flowers which bloom there
Spread colors fanciful and wild,
How there have I lived for years
Always like a curious child lost in dreams;Where I come from
Is place by the river
Where the morning breaks with chirpings
Of birds waking up in woods nearby,
As I see them flying high in the sky
My soul gets winged shape too,
I fly with them by my mind
To distant places to find
Serene blessedness spread
Like mist of early winter,
In spring the place becomes even more beautiful
Songs of earth there float
In autumn when the leaves the trees shed
I watch them being carried by the breeze,
Till they come to my porch
And lay there quiet drenched by light,
In summer the pilgrims there arrive
From places unknown, walking days and nights,
They sing their way making the air
In musical chanting wrapped,Where I come from
Is a place filled with

A poem written by a poet, religious intolerance , necrophilia and allied things

Poet you have done it right
As a very very modern poet should write
Fusing elements that you have found
Floating in the thin air ; quite unbound!You dared to put into your lyrical grace
Things that we the people oft do brace
In our daily lives, filled with false pride
Our acts of violence, vendetta and verbal jibes,Some one talked of doing unholy things
Ghastly and diseased thoughts which bring
Shame in my blood, angst in my veins, And I ask myself, am I getting poisoned too?
Am I losing my mind, slowly becoming death?
Am I making a compromise with intolerance?But then , poet, you are a learned man,
You have written many things, seen through plans
Of political flagbearers changing attires
- One coat glittering for a ball,
Another subdued one perfect for a Fall,
Nehruvian hats, non nehru caps,
Saffron shirts guarded by black cats,
And so on and so forth happening oft,
Poet, don't say you're naive and ignorant of
How political affairs are handled here
Even that do I not serious…


When he was born I remember how had I dreamt
Of him becoming big, oneday like other kids,
Ryan had been the eyecandy
Fair with pinkish hues on his cheeks,
And how we tried to build our little things around him,Our world was around his needs,
And he would rarely talk back,
Even when he was three years
He would only shout and scream,
I asked my spouse
Oneday after gathering enough courage
To face any truth
'Is he okay?'We went to the doc,
And again I asked the same thing
'Is he okay?'The doc nodded his head
Somewhat dubiously,
'He is, I'm afraid, in the spectrum''Spectrum?'
'What spectrum?'
My spouse asked him,
She was having beads of sweat
On her forehead
And on the tip of her nose,'Gosh...we are so lost'
I thought I heard my wife almost cry,
Was she wailing?
Prehaps,Then on
We are living on the spectrum
Of light
Punctuated by dots of inexpressible silence,Silence was the key word of Ryan,
He remained silent,
Ages grew,
The trees i…

To Derek*

To Derek* "He saw the poetry in forlorn stations
under clouds vast as Asia, through districts
that could gulp Oklahoma like a grape,
not these tree-shaded prairie halts but space
so desolate it mocked destinations." In the world where poets and so called intellectuals
Throng like unashamed swarm of bees
Seeking honey,
You stood like a monumental passage of grief,
You talked about home and exile,
Black women with shiny foreheads
Resplendent and oily,The people in New York called you
The Mighty One,
A poet who had been profound and complicated ,
To me, you are as long as your poems
Which made me travel to torqouise seas and white sands,
Palm trees I heard roaring in the air,
In your words the world seemed restless yet strong,
Passionate yet morbid,You have made me find beauty in distant lands,
In wings of pelicans
And candy floss shaped clouds. (*this writeup is dedicated to Derek Walcott, the poet extraordinary)

Tiasha , me and poetry

Can an evening be
A thing of beauty?'
Tiasha asked me,The lake before us
Caught all the hues that passed
On its  water, a picture of dusk,I looked at the scene
Calm, still and serene,
And wondered what it did bring, 'Surely it can', ventured I
As a possible reply,
Looking at the colorful sky,Tiasha looked at me
Her eyes speaking quietly
Her love , her unsung poetry, 'What did the evening
To us really bring?'
She asked, almost singing, 'Love', I thought I should've said
'That really the evening made,
That really sky before us laid, '
But then I those words left
Unuttered, not expressed,
I just in my heart them kept,Tiasha being what she always had been
Perhaps gathered traces of them from the scene
And my hands to her face she doth bringAnd then she kissed on them gently and soft
Like an angel perhaps, straight from heaven dropped,
Making me unburdened, as if held aloft,I felt I had become a bird then
A creature winged, devoid of pains,
Ready t…