If I canst,

If I canst sing thee,
O morn, what is the meaning of poetry?
If I canst dissolve my self
To praise dew laden heart thine,
What is the meaning of praying for intervention divine?
If I canst take
A path towards purgatory,
What is meaning of singing life's stories?
If I canst get merged
With the pictures and images that thou cause as surge,
What is the meaning of my search?

If I canst take thy name,
If I canst learn to live with windows of mind opened,
What can I sing or write?
What can help me to meet thy delight?
What can inspire me to live bemused?
What can take me to Your Day Break, Your Deluge?

So take my words
As freewill offering of my heart,
At feet thine,
O the poetic morn,
O the everflowing light.

If my words take a form of a prayer,

If my words take
A form of a prayer,
It is so turned by thee,
For I know not
What other ways could there be,
To hold the rise of a kind of poetry,
If my words perchance take
A form of a song, hymn like,
Don't take them as mere flattery,
For I know not
What other ways could there be,
To hold the rise of a kind of poetry.

Keep Your Bless,

Keep Your Bless,
And nothing more I pray,
Just keep Your bless
So that I at the end of a day,
Garner strength enough
To sit and pray,

Keep Your Bless
And nothing more I pray,
So that at the end of a day,
I live to sing thy name
And be blessed.

I am going to make you dream,

i am going to make you a dream,
    i am gonna make you a painted country scene,
       
                                                         ~ 
               i am going to make you a sea,
                    i am gonna make you a humming bee,
                                   
                                                              ~
                               i am going to make you the sky
                                   i am gonna make you with peace fly,
                                                               ~
                                              i am going to make you a festivity,
                                                             i am gonna make you feel divine satiety,
                                                                             ~
                            
                                                           
                                                                  Just with me sing,
                                                                           Just with me, give in
                                                                                       To life.
      
                                                                               

Get swayed,

Get swayed,
With me to take to the waves,blue and white,
Get swayed
With me to take to the morning's rising tide,
Get swayed,
As a flower gets bent by the happy wind,
Get swayed,
To wake up to the chants of  solemn hymns,
Get swayed,
To feel the fragrant mist of the natural green,
Get swayed,
To make a life filled with pastoral scenes,
Get swayed,
To feel how birds throat their unpremeditated songs,
Get swayed,
With me to embrace life's journeys short and long.

When thou hast put gladness, in my heart,

When thou hast put gladness in my heart,
I can only see the world in colors of winter clad,
Colors I see in faces young,
Colors sprout in petals of a flowery song,
Colors arrive through the dewy mist,
Colors paint dreams on foggy streets,

When thou hast put thy gladness in my heart,
I see how with colors a morn breaks out.

My lips shall utter forever thy praise,

My lips shall utter
Forever thy praise,
My words shall flow
Forever to spread
Thy name,
O the Nameless,
For thou hath sown
A vast vineyard in me,
For thou hath me blown
To the farthest of the lands,
To the deepest of the seas,
My lips shall utter
Forever thy name,
My tongue will praise
Forever thy grace,
O the Nameless,
For thou hath caused
Me to know life,
For thou hath made me
Thy writes.

A few lines on the boy by the river,

It is so pleasant to see you boy,
Sitting restive on a greenish slope,
Through your eyes I could see
How that river shrunken flowed,
And how those bushes and shrubs,
Held white white wild flowers,nameless,
How that tree for ages stood,

like a woman with a peaceful grace,

And that few men I could see,

Pulling and rowing through sands their little boat,

Through your eyes I could see
How dreams in the afternoon air float,
How nature as a perfect refuge
Could cause one like even you,
To sit there enjoying an afternoon
Of a blissful pleasing solitude.

  (Note: on a painting by Paul Gauguin, 1888, as below)

With a heart as one takes,

With a heart as one takes
The birth of life as in mist dressed,
One sees birth of poems too,
One sees life with a poetic view,
And words like waters pour'st lines,
And words like art cause times
To flow forever, eternalised.

If there is a sky, and if there is the road of life,

If there is the sky above,
And the road of life below to take,
One can only got rhymes to bathe,
One can only got a life to make,

If there is the Sunshine bright,
And joys of going through the passage of light,
One can only feel the breeze,
Blowing into one's soul never ceased,

If there is the bless of poesy,
And sights of so many blooming daisies,
One can only combine everything
To make a life full of meaning,

And nothing there is no more unsavoury,
Nothing there is no more unpleasant,
For the road of life has got all the presents,
For the sky above with festivity upon one  descends.

Let me tell you something,

Let me tell you something,
As I am told by the golden sunbeams
Of the morning with a fancyful screen,
I am a plant of thine dream,

Let me tell you something,
I am the part of your unimaginable dream,
And I die oft by your sadness true,
But I rise like a morn of Your dazzling dews,
I reside in thy happiness unbound,
I live where thou keep me bound,
I go to the limit of life that thou sketch,
From the sky I clouds of Heaven for you fetch,

Let me tell you something,
I am a part of your undying dream,
I am the scriptures that thou recite,
I am your scattering light,
For thou hath blessed me with thy delight.

A hymn to an Inspiration of a write,

I think I care not
If You reside here or out of this world,
As long as Thou carry shine in eyes,
As long as I have the propulsion to write,
Thou art the search of my sublime,

I think I ponder not
What proses are there wrought
In the roads full of noises and din,
As long as I have the willingness keen,
To fill my pages with ink,
Thou art my ocean to sink,

I think I have no wish
To know exact what glories make the Sun,
As long as the golden rays fall on thine hair,
As long as thou drape me with a dreamy layer,
Thou art my search for the Beauty divine.

Is it not good to see people happy?

Is it not good to see
People so so happy?
Full of vivacity?
Full of fun?
As if they all are carrying the Warm Sun
On their shoulders?
Ain't it gives back joy and love?
To see people so full of mirth?
Celebrating life
As a gift?
Ain't it good to see life in kids?
As they jump, laugh, and cry aloud?
Is it not good to see people getting to the cloud
Almost reaching there? Without
All those things that usually keep them down?

Have you heard those angels?

Have you heard ever those angels?
Like creatures of God?
Have you ever heard them ?

No?

Well I hear them,
Oft, when You tell upon
Me.

Lets invade the world with Love,

If we may,
We invade,
Come,
We just invade the world with Love,
And paint rosy red on all cheeks,
Come we make poems our weapons,
And drop them rampant, as bombs,
On parliaments and houses which look like tombs,
Come, lets invade all dumb poker faced,
Men women sullen,
Walking like deadbodies,
Come we shake them up,
Jar them to senses,
Make them make out themselves,

Come, whoever, wherever you are,
Lets join the invasion,
Lets plunge all cities, towns, stations,
Lets invade all those losing hearts,
Lets make them stand up, joyous,
Lets light them up, to make them sing,
Lets ignite them, to become what they are to be.

Marionette,

I think I am a marionette,
Attached by different strings,
To Your fingers,
And as You move them,
I dance and swing,
Sometimes
I hold a guitar too,
And if You sing,
I just lend a voice,
Sometimes,
I hold poems,
And whence You give them tunes,
They become songs,

Afterall I am a marionette
Attached by different strings
To Thou.

Come lets consume the joys of a twilight,

Come My Heart,
Lets consume the twilight
Singing the birth of wintry mist,
Come lets be blessed and never be missed,

Come My Heart,
Lets drink a cup of sunset orange warm,
Holding in us an oceanic form,
Come lets be blessed and full of bliss.

What is there in this world left?

What is there, tell me, left
In this world, other than dreams and hopes?
What is there, tell me, kept
In this world, other than green valleys, with flowered slopes?
What is there, tell me, to sing
other than the Holy Parchments that thou for all bring?

What is, tell me, the only way
To be  forever gliding the windy way?
To be in the rightest spirit to embrace and begin a day?
Other than singing thou, drenched by thine golden rays?

How could thou color the sky thus?

How could thou color the sky thus?
How could thou make a morn such?
So silent, so orangy pink, by light painted?
How could thou make the air so scented?
How could thou make those birds to unfurl wings?
How could thou with serenity bless a poem to sing?
Why thou make me to gather dews and mist spread
On the sky so told upon, so written, so said?

Because my soul followeth hard after thee,

Because my soul followeth hard after thee,
Even on a street looking a halogenic foggy sea,
I could find shore where could me be safe,
Could I arrive in there carried by thine waves.

Upon an instrument of strings,

'Upon an instrument of strings,
Fingers I ran,
And music occured'
The musician told me,
An evening after his performance,
Standing I was near Him,
Wishing only to know
How could He create such a show
Of light, love and dreams,
Only through those strings,

His voice lent solemnity
To the hall, empty,
After the show
People had to go
To their homes,
To their own ways,

And the musician was wrapping up
His bags and baggages,
His stringed instrument was there laid
On a cotton cloth, so beautifully red,

I looked at his dropping figure
As he collected little things,
His notes, the stand, the bow,

I looked at his fingers
There music apparently still lingered,
The hall, though empty, had the traces of music too,
And that big door which opened outside
To a street, was letting in the densest dew,

'Got my answer? Did not you?'
The musician asked me,
Looking straight to my eyes,

'Yes...'
I murmured,
'Can I ever be proficient
To create that sense
Of love, light and dreams,
Which You so effortlessly create?'

I asked him,
Almost pleading
To know,

'Why not?
Just get into love
Get into the music of life,
Get just there...'
Saying this,
Carrying his
Instrument of strings,
He started a walk,
To that door
Through which came in
The densest dew,

I just followed him,
That evening.

I sing aloud thee,

I sing aloud thee,
Chilled by the morning's golden sea,
I sing aloud thee,
Of thy love
That fell on me
As mercy thine,
A waking up,
A morn,
With such beauteous skyline,

I sing aloud thee,
Drinking morn's mist and fog
Of a winter warm and sublime,
For thou hast been my morning,
For thou hast been my life's singing,
For thou hast been my birth,
For thou hast been my poems waking up
With a passion of prayer, a wish and dream,
For thou hast been my all encompassing love,

I sing aloud thee,
With songs filling me,
For thou hast given rise in me a morn,
For thou hast kept me born,
For glory I see in thine lucid eyes,
For thou hast shown me the wonder of the sky,
For thou hast made me to conceive,
The beauty of a life with amazement and joys to live.

Its raining awesome times...

Its raining awesome times
Dear, its raining awesome times,
The bells are jingling with wonderous rhymes,
Its raining awesome times,
I guess blessings and prayers work up all lines
To fall in a melody, and to cause heartful chimes,
Its raining awesome times, Dear,
Its blowing awesome times.

When the morn blooms and grows,

When the morn blooms and grows
Up above the sky and the greenery below,
One can only sing a song of dove,
One can only be an eagle drenched by love,
When the morn with smile greets
When one feels the happy treat
Of flowers woken up from unbroken dreams
Of a blessed state of golden beams,
One can only with full throated ease,
Sing life's mirth to the joyous lease
Flowing forever, blooming true,
Clean and bright, like a poem
Rewound and renewed,
Filled and swept fresh
By a morning's delightful grace.

What more can I want from you?

What more can I want from you?
Other than those bunch of flowers, filled with dew,
Which You hath on me showered,
Your act of lifting me,
To the ocean of the sky,
Stretched to the extent of my mortal life?

What more can I seek from You?
When Thou hath with Truth and Beauty me enthralled?
When Thou hath kept me forever in happiness installed?
When Thou hath kept me covered from all darkness?
When Thou hath, kept me with carols of winter blessed?

What more can I seek from You?
When Thou hath taught me a language so pure?
When Thou hath provideth me with a dreamy misty lure?
When Thou hath caused all seasons to come to me as Godly?
When Thou hath cleansed and purged all things that hindered me?

What more can I seek from You?
When thou hath filled me with the widest panoramic view?
When Thou hath asked me to be sacrifced into the pyre of thy praise?
When thou hath in me an inundation raised?
When thou hath transmuted me with poesy so relentless?

Under a luminous sky,

Under a luminous sky,
Often bedazzled I lie,
And the cars with lightning speed
With the roads hold a feat,

The whiff of wind a bit cold
Comes rushing too bold,
And I bedazzled roll down sleeves
Wishing the warmth of winter to blow its breeze.

O mind mine,

O Mind mine,
How with me thou climb,
Faraway hills, mountain cliffs,
Where dreams mix with your golden mist,
O mind mine,
How you tug me along
Through the road of a breaking morn,
How in heart thou sing a song,
Of cocks and chanticleer,
Of a sky bright and clear,
O mind mine,
How in me thou rise divine,
A sense of widening spatial time.

I am just a mortal,

I know nothing much
Of your ways,
But I can feel thy footsteps
Outside,
Where I have laid a carpet of grass,
A few vines,
And pots of roses,
Watering them all by my blood,
Like flowing words of a poetic heart,

I am a mortal,
I know nothing
Of your ways,
But when the wintry night
Comes home to me
With a happy feeling,
I feel thou hath dropped somewhere
Feet thine.

Unto thee,

Unto thee,
Truly,
I have given me,
And the outcome
Has been awesome,
Once given,
Have not I reached Heaven?
Have not I witnessed
The season of colors
That springeth
Like a shower
Full of gaiety?

Unto thee
Once given,
Life becomes me,
And all forms and shapes
Of the world come together
To make this microcosm a worthy place,

Unto thee
Truly
I have given me,
Who hath provideth the sea
Of astonishment,
Ariana,
Unto thee,
Have not I given me?
Knowing there has been
No other plausible way
To hold the glory of a sunny day,
Knowing there is no other cause
To live life till its clock will pause,

And there will be
Another journey
To make,
To another time or place,
Another birth
There will emerge,
Another life will then beckon me,
Unto thee,
Like poetry
Of colors,
Perhaps.

O Poetry!

O Poetry!
How every day, every moment,
Thou like a tune sublime,
Fill me with your shine,
How you come to me as wind,
How you drape everything with your screen,
How you turn simple little things
Into a fountain of my youthful spring,

O Poetry!
How your wonder ushers in mirthful satiety,
How you keep reasons and rhymes as your piety,
In worded forms, in me, forever entwined,
How verses of your blessed savoury song,
With sacredness wrings out of a winter,
A festive season written agelong.

Wish could I sing, a song never ending,

Wish could I sing for You,
A song filled with happy moments few
Collected in my palms, filtered by time,
Wish could I bind you like a holy rhyme,
A rhyme that is learnt by birth of a flower,
A rhyme that ever flows at the heavenly bower,
Wish could I sing a song of life,
As in a scripture long ago prophesied,
Wish could I present you a lit up sky
Where stars and starlets with the limitlessness lie.

Thou art Divine,

Thou art Divine,
I that knew million years back,
Whence You came to my pen,
As unending timeless rhymes,
Thou art Divine,
I knew that a thousand winter solstice hence,
For whence Thou dropped thine bless,
I hath felt the universal sense
That made this mortal life, a wonderous poem.

Like a sky painted by His warmth,

Like a sky painted by His warmth
A morn from behind trees look up,

Like a friend calling one out
To go explore those clouds
Filled by His Benevolence no doubt-
His act kind yet glorious
That makes the night the baton to the morn pass,
That makes the Beauty, christened as Mist,
To unveil Her face to be kissed
By the rays so luminous,
A morn sacrosanct breaks out,

Like a sky filled with The Bright,
The Morn strikes His unmatched Light,
And one takes his love of life to the road
To be filled by the falling gold that pours,
To be filled to his heart's brim,
by the foggy wintry sunny beam,

Like a sky painted by His warmth
A morn from behind the houses look up,
And one taking the road, catching those clouds,
Gets transformed to a troubadour, no doubt.

'Who plays the flute?'

Who plays the flute in me?
Who fills me with,
mirth and melancholy?
Why the tune of flowers on bloom,   
fills my soul's little room?
Why does the breeze flow,   
in such a way, so much perfumed?
Why is this abrupt rise,     
Of a desire  in my eyes?
Why my words do take the form,  
Of a curious fiery oath?
Why is there a flood of scriptures,
In my heart, breaking forth?
Why is there such a dare
Of words long confined, to come out bare?

(Note: it is a transliteration of poem, from Collected works of Rabindranath Tagore, Birth centenary edition, vol.4,pg 312)

From clouds to flowers,

'Have you seen those clouds
Up there?
Like a orangy lair?
Have you seen them?'
I asked my dame,
And she looked up,
Her lids of eyes opening,
To the beauty that Mother Nature for us brings,

'Where?'
She asked,
'Up there,
The south eastern side
Aren't they a lovely sight?'
I asked her,
As usual,
My ritual of watching the sky,

She placed on my lap
A bunch of flowers,
Nameless, a bunch a bit golden white,

'Are not they good, alright?'
She me asked,
Her face by the setting sun masked,

'Surely...
Who will them deny-
The beauty they deify?'
I made a reply,

'Now drop your eyes from the sky,
Look at those flowers...
They are but my dreams dyed...'
She answered,
My dame,
And this time,
I just found no reply,
I just smiled.

A look into Thine Eyes, is like being into a Paradise,

A look into Thine Eyes,
Is like being into a Paradise,
A look into Thine Eyes
Just simply keeps me blind,
Of all moving unmoving things,
Of all noises that this world usually brings,
I become deafened, dumb,
I leave this world, to be a tomb,
A look into Thine Eyes,
Is like my soul making me fly,
To another world, another space,
Where nothing moves, a stilled scene- picturesque,
Like a vale, running few miles wide,
And Thou there standing quiet,
And a few hills, mountains, greeting us
Shadows of them as we both think to trespass,
And a music quite cinematic
Both of us just there drink,
Like a wine that keeps us blessed,
As our eyes on each other's rest.

When You pass anon,I walk a cornfield,

When You pass anon,
Through my door bearing the sun~
On thy face, thy dress,

Thy soft soothing footsteps
Just me reminds
I am to remain
Forever weaver the same,
Spinning rhymes,
Colored clothes,
Spinning songs
Only to float,

When You pass by
Anon,
Through my door
Bearing the sun,
I with ink weave a charm,

A charm like that of cornfields,
Turned golden as it seems,
By liquid ether so dreamy thing,
A charm of lovely winter I for You bring,
And I think I You see,
Walking through a sea
Of golden corns whispering in the breeze,
Singing me a wintry morn's lovely tale without cease,
And so many dreams come to kiss
Filling a canvas with a sunny gold unleashed,
A Claude Monet, a Giuseppe de Nittis,
I see myself walking a cornfield.

'Which tune turns my soul...'

Which tune rings in me,I know, knows my soul,
Which keeps me for days awake,
From whom what I get as deliverance,
Why I stare at the path of the sky,
Why on door mine morn leaves a dye,
Why evening sings a wooded dense song,
How Thy flute keeps me entombed,
Keeping me from all banal works, torn,
I know, knows my Soul.

(Note: it is a transliteration of a short poem,from collected works of Rabindranath Tagore, vol, 4, pg 301, Birth centenary edition, a humble tribute)

Seeing her, is like living it good for times forever,

Seeing her,
Is like living blessed for times forever,
Seeing her,
Like a painting, an afternoon on her shoulders,
Bathing in the sun,
A book of poems on her lap,
Is like being into her dreams,
Her own inexpressible self,
Seeing her,
Under an afternoon sun,
Gold on her shoulders,
Is like a painting perhaps,
Her eyes reading words,
Never written but painted like flowers,
Is like being a poem forever,
Seeing her
Overlooking life
As flowing
Beneath,
A rivulet,
Is like being into a painting.

(Note: loosely based on a painting, by Richard Johnson, USA )

Every poem one can make,

Every poem one makes
Adds to his or hers colors of mirth,
Every painting one makes
Gives one another birth,
The birth to know and feel blessed
The birth to be given to Supreme Kindness,

Every tune one can make
Can only one to a Garden take,
Where one keeps all of hers or his,
Where one feels that perennial bliss,
To be in poesy, in a rivery flow,
To be taken over by a windy blow,

And one's life becomes a life ever joyous,
Life becomes a Life Pious.

A verse I laid,

A verse I laid
There my maid,
A verse I laid
Up and spread,
For You to catch its original hue,
A verse I laid
Up there my maid
For You to make it relaid,
Knowing Your fingers of music
Can only embellish a betterment of it,
A verse I laid up there straight
To float it where You bind me as Fate,

A verse of flowers known and unknown,
I have surely laid it to be borne,
To the hill tops, cliffs, cities small and big,
To mountains that shine with cloudy layers of dreams,
A verse I laid for You , my poems,
Holding my offerings of times, like carpe florem,
A verse I laid for You, my maid,
Knowing only You can possibly make it remade,
To become something as Eternal
As the reddened orangy burning Sun,
An afternoon as good as a poetic flow,
An afternoon that in eyes with fancy glow,

A verse I laid
Up there my maid,
For You to hold it to make it something,
For You to cause it to find its own rhythm,
A fancy, a dream, a melodious ornament,
A delightful afternoon that could only spread-
The feel of warmth of tender Love,
The feel of serenity of a sleeping dove,
Peaceful, tranquil, blessed as Paradise,
A verse I laid up there for Your Heavenly Eyes,
That carry no dearth of  knowing anything,
That could only provide proper meaning,
To every thing that a mortal like me could make,
To every dream that me can a plunge take.

A wintry morn, a song of Love,

A morn like this
Draped in wintry mist
And in flakes of golden dreams,
Always germinates
A song that states,
Life is all about waking up
With passion of Unbound Love,

And love I see everywhere
Love dripping I drink from the wintry air,
Love of life I find on cheeks,
Turned rosy pink by the feel
Of incoming northern breeze,
Love I find dressing the sky,
Love I feel in the wings of birds that fly,
Love I find in friendship of blue stars,
Love I find taking me to the farthest of the far,
Love I find in rhythms of life,
Love holds me up in unending flowing lines,
Love I see how crosses the morning street,
Love I find how life with broad warm smiles greet,

Love I find as the only choice
That lends music to downy feeble voice,
Love I find as the only potion
That keeps mankind in harmonious motion.

When the world has been at its newest state...

When the world has been at its newest state,
When life has occured as a painted scape,
If unforgotten dreams I perchance evoke,
If in worded forms I just a mortal life in paints soak,
If I turn myself out as a fantastic poetic pour,
If I become just a song to cause a deluge in shattered shores,
Don't just call me an impossible dream,
Just feel in your pulse a swing,
And make join life to celebrate,

When the world has been at its newest state,
When rhymes Holy move us to an Unreal Real State,
Just feel in your pulse a swing,
And make join the street to celebrate.

'Come lets sing a song of a twilight...'

'Come lets sing
A song of a twilight...
Now that you have
Got written all things of me,
In your dreams, in papers,
In the face of my poems,
Never even dared by me
To be written,
Now that you opened the doors,
Now that you have kept me floored,
Knelt, bowed,
Lets sing a song of a twilight...like a vow...
Now we together sing a song,
Now we make this life really awesome,
Just hold me on to face your face,
Just color me by your brushes that keep all things blessed,
In colors of yours so unending, so rhythmic,
Now that we have discovered our truest selves deep,
Lets sing a song of a twilight then...
Lets burn us to make us like a twilight of Heaven...'

Someone hushed in me,
And I looked around to discover She,
That She who hath compelleth poetry,
That She who hath been there before this earth was perhaps created,
That She who hath made even Zeus,
But perhaps remained unmentioned, all through,
That She upon which replicas were made of all deities,
That She who hath remained a myth,

I looked around
And found She,
As a part of me,
Already written
On the twilight sky,
A poetry.

Who writes you?

'Who writes you
Morn?
When with eyes woken
You are born,
Every day,
Who writes you,
Say?

Who bestows you with such lines?
Who makes You so divine?
Who sings the breeze in you?
Who showers you with dazzling dews?
Who nurtures dreams that bind you?
Who pours music in your heart, beau?'

Once a soul asked another,
Sitting as they were
Under a clear crystal sky, highly defined,
Once a soul asked another
Sitting as they were
Having a breather,
After traversing a few thousand light years,
Once a poem asked her life,
Sitting as they were
Illumined,

And life answered:
' because the wind has only happiness
In his flowing movement,
Because the flower has only dreams
To wake with wonderous essence,
Because the river has only mirth
To run to the ocean where she could with her destiny merge,
Because the sky is primordial, like a morn , shiny and wide,
Because divinity is like a Truth, a Dawn, a Holy Tide,

Because life is a road never ending till the end to ride,
Because Life is, coded as Infinite...'

Hearing this reply,
The Poem bloomed,
On a page white,
Hearing this,
The Poem,
Bloomed to a morning~
An amazing life.

And the kid played his violin,

It was an usually unusual evening,
I was holding a chalice,
And the kid his violin,
It was an usually unusual evening,
I was holding a fluid lucid pen
And he his strings unhidden,

'Dad, are you going to listen?
I have got a new note taken...'
He asked me,
'Why not?
Play the tune'
I replied,
Resting my chalice close to my heart,
And the kid opened his,
Those knobs which could tighten those strings,
His bow he started running,
From d to e, catching a Morris,
His thursday evening -
A musical practice,

And waves came to me as if,
I was standing infront of a huge musical sea,
Waves just plundered me,
I closed my eyes,
I tried to feel the fall and the rise,
Of  a tune, every moment unraveling
Itself,
A Morris,

It was an usually unusual evening,
I was holding a pen,
And a chalice,
And the kid played his violin.

enflamed...

Opening a book of poems
I was about to read,
When she arrived noiseless I did not notice,
Opening a book of poems
I was about to read,
When she left a leaf I did not notice,

And then leaves I turned
The book full of pages with words that me burned;

When she wrote fire, I did not care to note,
But words of the leaf singed my throat,
Like a strong brew, carrying the strongest blend,
'Gosh!' I said to myself,
'I am again enflamed!'

enflamed...

Opening a book of poems
I was about to read,
When she arrived noiseless I did not notice,
Opening a book of poems
I was about to read,
When she left a leaf I did not notice,

And then leaves I turned
The book full of pages with words that me burned,
When she wrote them I did not care to note,
But words of the leaf singed my throat,
Like a strong brew, carrying the strongest blend,
'Gosh!' I said to myself,
'I am again enflamed!'

If life is a river, a sunset is a poet,

If life is a river,
As wise men have always claimed,
Then I propose a proposition :
Sunset is definitely a poet,
For on water flowing
One there can get the proper hues
Of life,
Of that unclouded joyous sky -
Lucid straight,
Pretty conspicuous
Like a big canopy
Unbarred, limitless,
as it can ever get,

If life is a river
Then sunset
Is a poet,
Full of smoking teacups,warm,
A group of children running around
Like humming bees, a busy swarm,
Filling in the general serenity,
And beautiful still life portraits
Of trees forming perspective,
As if a photographic scene,

If life is a river,
Then sunset
On it, is a poet.

A Time ago...

A Time ago
We are but spirits
Like angels with seeds
Of infinite wisdom and innocence supreme,
A Time ago
We are but rhythms
Of life held in heavenly cups of wine
God that gave us to pour in us like lines,
A Time ago
We are but angels divine,
To paint this world with wonderous shine,
To fill all mortal souls with immortal glories,
God that gave us to turn our stories
To tales with music profound and vast,
A Time ago
We are but angels just,
Filled with cornfields.

Eos,

For You I sing
Eos,
As You arrive in chariot with wings
Flying over the river, Okeanos,
Your horse
Painted by Golden Light,
Dispersing the mist of the night
Still vague as curtain at that horizon,
Over those structures standing sleepy quiet,
For You I sing
Hemera bright,
As You arrive
Like a legend quite,
Transmuting dews of the night
To diamonds with carats never measured by metered light,
For You I sing
Eos
Sweeping the land, oceans, sky,
With winged poesy as You arrive,
In forms of marvellous lines,
Written a myth like,
Of Hyperion and Theia,
Of Tithonos,
Of winged Golden Horse,
For You I sing
Eos.

Eos,

For You I sing
Eos,
As You arrive in chariot with wings
Flying over the river, Okeanos,
Your horse
Painted by Golden Light,
Dispersing the mist of the night
Still vague as curtain at that horizon,
Over those structures standing sleepy quiet,
For You I sing
Hemera bright,
As You arrive
Like a legend quite,
Transmuting dews of the night
To diamonds with carats never measured by metered light,
For You I sing
Eos
Sweeping the land, oceans, sky,
With winged poesy as You arrive,
In forms of marvellous lines,
Written a myth like,
Of Hyperion and Theia,
Of Tithonos,
Of winged Golden Horse,
For You I sing
Eos.

Hey Mother!

Mother,
There canst be any end to your gift,veritable,
The blood which flows down my veins, eternal, a fable,
You hath given me the gold of Sun, the dazzle of stars,the silver of Moon,
Making my life as blessed as your never ending boon.

(Note: it is a transliteration of a short poem by Rabindranath Tagore, titled 'Matribondona', done by me, a humble tribute,)

Fourth December,

Fourth December,
Comes every year,
With white flowers,
And memories,

Fourth December
Comes every year
With a page white
Blank, nothing as if
Left there anymore to write.

(Note: 4th December, is the death anniversary of my mother, )

Poet

He puts into verse
All those images that emerge,
The beauty of words caught by the wind,
The waves of a sea churning a rhythm,

He puts into verse
All those metaphors and colors,
The runaway tune, the flowers on bloom,
The music of bells, the flapping of sails,

He puts into verse
Life that in him makes a surge,
The filled spaces, the empty rooms,
The flowing tresses, the canvas of dunes.

Love is like a pie, with layers,

Love
Is like a pie,
With layers,
The first one is full of susceptible tarts,
The second one mossy bitter, chocolate dark,
And the third, full of berries, red.

Some afternoons are just like a ride down a road...

Some afternoons are just like riding down a road,
Watching people buying things for the winter cold,
A muffler, a sweater, a jacket, red and black,
Some afternoons are just like running through a track,
Singing a song of warmth and affection,
Crisscrossing through the traffic in slow motion,
A car, a bus, a huffing old van,
A waiting diva, with a floral pattern,
Standing anxious,looking up her watch,
A painted road, with golden yellow patch,
A few palm trees having whispery talks with the sky,
A billboard announcing a destination to fly,
A four point crossing, busy traffic guards,
Yellow orange faces filled with lively laughs,
A vendor selling corns of maize,
A coal burner lending a bit of a haze,
A shop at a bend, belting out songs
Of Clapton, Washington and winters long,
A little girl on her dad's shoulders,
with amazement gazing at the stream of vehicles that passed,

Some afternoons are like a ride down the road just.

Set against the cool breeze,

Set against the cool breeze,
On a street,
Swept by morning's dream,
I stand quiet
Watered golden by life's wine,
I stand silent,
With blooming lines
White on my branches,
Like a tree almost,
Dressed for a winter,
Hearing chanticleer,
Heralding a season
Of warmth, bonfires, and songs,

Set against the cool breeze
Wrapped in dreams
I inhale a wintry life,
And a few leaves
From me drop and take the wind.

Set against the cool breeze,

Set against the cool breeze,
On a street,
Swept by morning's dream,
I stand quiet
Watered golden by life's wine,
I stand silent,
With blooming lines
White on my branches,
Like a tree almost,
Dressed for a winter,
Hearing chanticleer,
Heralding a season
Of warmth, bonfires, and songs,

Set against the cool breeze
Wrapped in dreams
I inhale a wintry life,
And a few leaves
From me drop and take the wind.

'Lover'

That book which you had given me, to call clouds, once,
Opening it today found it sunk in knee deep water,
The next page turned out to be a river gliding away far,

That book which you gave me full of plants,
Today can't move a single inch through it,
For it had grown a forest really dense and deep,
Those plants had grown tall and wide
Enough to hold up all the sunlight,

That book which you had given me to learn stream,
Found it turned into a huge waterfall, wild, having its own rhythm,
Even that white feather, that page marker,
The book where I kept it,
Found that it had been by magic
Turned into a sanctuary, of birds,
They are flying, swimming, sitting there ,
-quite a pleasing sight,

All those books given by you
Are now like deserts, ranges of mountains,
They all are now like horizon,

Interestingly,  today a few friends have come home
To have a look at the library owned
By me,
Now tell me, what should I tell them?

(Note: it is a transliteration of a poem called 'Premik', by Joy Goswami, from his collected poems, vol ii,)

'Lover'

That book which you had given me, once,
Opening it today found it sunk in knee deep water,
The next page turned out to be a river gliding away far,

That book which you gave me full of plants,
Today can't move a single inch through it,
For it had grown a forest really dense and deep,
Those plants had grown tall and wide
Enough to hold up all the sunlight,

That book which you had given me to learn stream,
Found it turned into a huge waterfall, wild, having its own rhythm,
Even that white feather, that page marker,
The book where I kept it,
Found that it had been by magic
Turned into a sanctuary, of birds,
They are flying, swimming, sitting there ,
-quite a pleasing sight,

All those books given by you
Are now like deserts, ranges of mountains,
They all are now like horizon,

Interestingly,  today a few friends have come home
To have a look at the library owned
By me,
Now tell me, what should I tell them?

(Note: it is a transliteration of a poem called 'Premik', by Joy Goswami, from his collected poems, vol ii,)

A walk in the clouds,

'A walk in the clouds?
That's what you seriously propose?'
She asked me, one afternoon, amused,
Finding me,
Dreamy,
'Yes! Dear!'
I answered with assertion,
Looking at the beautiful sky,
Where some birds I caught in flight
Happy rolling and moving on,
With the sun painting them like a song
Of a winter golden and warm,

'Okay! What am I supposed to do
To take with you
That walk?'
She asked, curious,

'Close your eyes, just
And feel the warmth of the setting sun
On your face, skin,
Feel the light screen
Dressing you,
And whisper anything with a meaning'
I told her,
Looking at her
Obeying my words,
Her face west wards,
Her skin lighted by the beam,
Her hair getting brownish tinge,

'What am I to say?'
She asked,
Her face in twilight glory basked,

'Just anything...'

'Like what?'

'Like... a song, a few lines,
A prayer, a rhyme...'

'I know not any such thing...'

' nay, you are not the truth saying...'

' I donno...'

'Okay, then let me you show...'

Saying this
I closed my eyes,
Standing beside her,
Getting the halo,

'This world is wonderous,
And so is our birth...'
I muttered, almost unheard,

And I her heard,
Repeating the truth,

I felt her words spreading into the air,
Warm, side by side, like a parallel,
Of my utterance,

Like a wave, sent through
To travel a few million years,

She must have felt the same,
For I heard her breaking into rhymes,
I heard her calling my name,
In so many different ways,

And we walked
In the clouds,
No doubt,
Blessed.

Conversation, no.13,

-wish to live in you for years,
Will erect a single storied house, right there, to start with,
Hey! Why are you laughing?

-single storied house? I just can't it take!
If we can't have a talk
With the moon
From morn till night,
Then what is the use of having a tiny house, with no height?

-okay, done!
Our house will touch the moon,
And there will be a staircase rising to catch her silvery tune,
Going round and round,
With wonderous scenes framed and hanging at every turn,
And there will be trophies too,
Of deer with horns too good to be true! Intact!
How is that?

- no, that is quite horrible!
In our house, there will be a forest, like a fable,
Around our bed, there will be hills,
And a rippling brook,
Running down,

-okay! done!
And
That brook will have a carpet,over it,
for us to have a seat,
And the ceiling will have Rajasthani motif,
And the windows
Will have cloud full of grandeur,
With designs ornamental,
Straight from Lucknow!
Hey!! Why are you laughing?

- why should the cloud wear the same thing?
Everyday?
Some times she would wear a Baluchari,
Or something light,
with small prints,
And there would be a diamond studded butterfly
Upon her bun,

-okay! done!
The cloud will wear all those, grand,
And then there will be a shehnai,
And beatings wild
Of drums!

- no! It appears too wild!
Tell me another story,
A bit mild...

(Note: it is a transliteration of a poem titled 'kothopokothon tero', by Purnendu Patri, from his book of poems and artwork, 'Kothopokothon', vol.i,)

'Today, Zoya...'

'Today,
Zoya,*
I wish to plant
A seed of love mine,
Onto those clouds,
Generous and alive,
As you do
Plant seeds
Into me...
Right there
Into that lighted chamber
Full of water
And oxygen,
Right there
Where
My sapling hope
And tree of dream
You caress,
You trim...'
He told her,
Zoya,
One fine morn,
Sprinkler
In his hand,
Fertiliser too,
Green, organic,
Taking the role of a gardener;

And plants full of flowers
He thought of growing true,
In the garden of Paradise,
His own device,
With moths and butterflies,
With fragrant air,
With music heavenly~
Flowing like a stream,

Plants full of blossoms
Generous and alive,
He thought to grow
Right there
Into the chamber
Of his lighted heart,
Full of water
And oxygen,
Like a gardener,

He thought
He had seen his own self
As a poet
Creating Paradise,

He thought
He had made out
Zoya
In his mortal life.

(* Zoya: meaning ,alive and beautiful)

I think You have taken me,

I think
You have taken me,
Surely,
For in every word I see
You
As poetry.

Come, drink with me,

'Come,
Drink with me,'
I told my heart,
One day,
Quoting Rumi,

Come drink with me
The Potion Holy
Of Happiness
And life,
Come drink with me,
Life to the last.

'City' / 'Shahar'

Heart, you have seen big cities smart,
And all those citizens' accounts,
Their bricks and mortars,
And endless talks ,hurrried steps,
Hopes, despairs
- perilous,
They had burnt them down in my own agonies,
But still at the fringe of those huge burning orange clouds I have seen
The birth of Sun;
Have seen Him at the port,
How He carried burdens, loads,
Like a love seeped farmer,through the saffronic clouds;
Have seen those stars sparkling too,
Beyond the glare of gaslights and towering heights,
Seen those stars towards
the southern sea taking a flight,

Like wild ducks.

( Note: it is a transliteration of a poem called 'Shahar', by Jibanananda Das. The picture attached is of  the original bengali poem, written by J.Das, taken from his book of poems)

Old neighbourhood

The old neighbourhood,
Still has all those things,
I think,
Associated strongly
With our memory,
That lane
Through which
We ran our bicycles,
It is still there I presume,
And that long boundary wall
Of Mr. Robinson,
White one, running for yards,
Upon which we stuck posters
Of our favourite cricket players,
Kirmani, Kapil Dev, Shastri and Vengsarkar,
That wall has stayed there too I think,
And that beautiful road with palm trees
On both sides, running like a dream
To reach the end of sky behind those hedges and bushes,
That is still there, I guess,
And that watch tower
From where we could see miles of green cover,
That is still there, I guess,
With its iron staircase,
Spiralling up,

The old neighbourhood ,
It is there somewhere
I think.

Once thought to leave, a bunch of Emily,

Once thought to leave, a bunch
Of Emily,
Right at your veranda,
Like a float of cloud,
A misty shape,
Spread,
Right at your veranda.

With winged sunshine,

With winged sunshine,
You, love mine,
How in my heart pour
Your winged soar,
With kindness divine,
Untiring and endless
How You touch me
Both in birth and death,
With winged dreams
Ceaseless as it seems
How You make me see
Ambrosaic music of measureless seas,
And here I sit, quiet, and listless
Getting colored by Your Holy Embrace,
While waves of poetry drown me,
While morning dews own me,
Simply.

As the sparrows return,

As the sparrows return
Chirping their ways,
Carrying corns
For their little nestlings,
And as the sky
Kissing cow hoof dust
Turn gradually dark
From pinkish west,
I my tired legs put to rest
On the stool,
I prepare to get bathed in songs
That soothe,

And I hear you
Reciting a verse from Bukowski,
I hear you telling me drowsy,
Bacchanalian,
Like a confession,
'I only did to you
What sparrows did,'
I hear chirpings of poems
From your throat,
I hear you telling me
Verses of love.

On first thanksgiving at Plymouth,

With prayers on lips
There stood the priest,
Thanking the Lord,
For food, for harvest,
For wine so blessed,

There at Plymouth,
Faces with hunger also stayed,
People starving, skeleton like,
With hands into their mouth,

The First Thanksgiving at Plymouth.

(Note: the painting attached was by the historical painter, Jennie Augusta Brownscombe, titled The First Thanksgiving at Plymouth, 1914)

Sometimes the morn comes, with such beauty,

Sometimes
The morn sweet
Comes with such beauty,
That I just look up
To the sky,
Draped by mist,
And dreams I feel
Quite impressionistic
Leaving indelible marks on my soul,

With eyes full of thirst
I savour this life
And pray for more golden drops...
I just pray
For more songs.

A pen sketch,

A sketch of a winter afternoon,
A song,
A guitar,
Gibson,
Acoustic,
A river,
An old music.

If life is not poetry, then what is it?

If life is not poetry,
Then what is it?
Say?
What is the value of living time static,
If life does not move one to write a few lines,
Love, then what is the meaning of life?

If can I not open windows and doors
To let in the breeze and the glorious sunshine
Of a splendid November, so graceful,
Then what is the reason to claim life
As the Most Beautiful?

If life can I not make to be charged with most blessed intakes
Like the pictures painted by Blake in his 'Marriage', a poem,
Phrases kept where he like underlying content of heart,
Cleansing doors of perceptions to get closer to the Infinite,
What is the import of being a lively thing, then? An animate?

Say?

A page from an old scrapbook,

A page
From an old scrapbook,
She upon discovering,
To me took,
A simple page
That withstood time,
A simple page
With simple lines...
A little yellow tinge it had,
And smell of eucalyptus
I think I had that too,
From that page with yellow old hue,

I read those lines,
Vernacular,
Simple,
A few lines just,
Honest, candid,
Reminding me of my teens,
My boyhood,
And of a city,
Which had so many telephone lines
Overhead, crisscrossing the sky,
And trees with branches spread
In winter making art on the landscape,
By their shadows,
And pavements,
The page from the scrapbook reminded me of them too,
Upon which we had walked, hopped,
Even danced,
Quite unashamed,

I just looked at that old page
From a scrapbook,
And images came dancing to me,
Images so full of fun,
Images so so young,

'Hey!
Where have you found this?'
I asked her,
'You guess!'
Was her answer,

'Please don't quiz me on this!'
I pleaded, helpless,

But she,
Being she,
Never gave me the definite clue,
'Read it?'
She asked,
'Yes...but...'
I was unwilling to part
With the old page,
Of my teens,

'It is mine!'
She asserted,
And took it ,
Almost sweeping away,

I looked at her,
From my desk,
I just looked at her,
Going away.

Window

That window
Filtering in
The afternoon scene,
Talks so much about you,
You there sitting quiet,
Singing a song
Of love in winter,
And I looking at you
And simply thinking lines,

Your face getting lit by the afternoon gold,
And I writing on pages, songs and romance,
Dipped in you.

A scene from a park, one late evening,

'Tonight
Is the night,
I want to know you...'
She, looking a bit absentminded asked him,
'Why tonight?
What is special about this night?'
He asked her,
Feeling, no doubt, a bit down,
For he had kept nothing bound,
But she had those eyes,
So full of curiosity,
As curious only genuine care and love can cause,
As curious as a child,

'What are your queries, shoot,
Why like a silly girl, you brood,
When the night is so warm and up close,
Why, like a poet desolate, you appear so morose?'
He held her hands which were uncertain,
He tried to feel her unnecessary pains,

'Why are you so?
Why you every time by words bloom Rose
In my uncertain, suspicious heart?
Why you from me so often fall apart?'
She asked, her palms getting sweaty,

He looked at her face,
A girl so good, nonetheless,
Late evening written sad on her face,

'So, you are worried?
But why?
Don't you know where actually I do reside?
Where I wish to take a real plunge?
Where my favourite, my poems, often like golden times, emerge?
Don't you know how your eyebrows
Hold my ups and downs?'
He asked her back,
Afterall that was the way to show her the right path,
The beaten track,
To pull her out from clouded state,
To make her find her smile,
That could only egg him to walk a few more miles,
That could make him to weave stories and paint submarines,
That could make him to present for her a night warm and yet serene,

'Nothing,
Just sometimes,
I get worried by your shocking lines...'
She confessed, finally, looking really shy,

'Come'n!
You know...
You are looking what like?'
He asked,
His face full of suppressed laugh,

'What?'

She asked,
Naive her face,
Her eye brows twisted,

'Well,
Like a wine, fully spiked!'
Saying this,
He ran a few yards,
And she chased him.

Poetry and prose, a differential,

Consecrated my self to poetry,
Long before I learnt prose,
Enflamed my soul with poems,
Long before prosaic things made upon me claims,

And whence at the end
Of a day,
Like a poem evening happens,
I keep away a bit from prose,
For poetry has a burst in me,
For words in metrical arrangements I see,

However, prose I know is poetry's twin sister,
She is not, less imaginative,
Prose I find also rhythmic,
Prose I find like a never ending sea
Of words, so figurative and bright,
Prose I just keep in my writes
Where they are not momentous,
Where they are really vast,
Like a Pacific perhaps,
Words where play with words,
Words where marry images,
Words where carry metaphoric tune,

Prose is poetry's twin sister,
Who does not know that on this earth?
But when evening comes to life, to celebrate
Poetry's hand I just take.

The portrait of an artist, as a young woman,

Last month,
When she asked me
To pay a visit
To her studio thirteen,
I was not sure
What to expect,
For she usually does not make a call,
For her artworks keep her busy from morn to nightfall,

And God knows why,
She has a way of knowing my
Yes and no,
As if she has been residing in my mind and soul,
For years,

So
Last month,
When she asked me
To make a visit to her studio
Thirteen,
I was not amazed,
Not amused,
I thought she needed something,
And I would be her errand boy,

So,
I went
To her place,
Straight to her room,
Where canvases she kept, hanging, piled,
Abrupt sudden like
Her dreams burst,
Full of variety of colors,

Colors were on her face,
Colors were on her simple white dress,
Colors were there on her nails,
Colors hung loose from her cheeks and brows,

'What this time?'
I asked her,
Looking she a bit demurred,
'Well, thought of a project,
You might me into that help...'
Saying this she
Unraveled a canvas
Before me,
Full of abstract designs
Made out of lines,
Taken, I thought, from all those proses and poems
Which I had given her just for art's sake,

I stood there really amused,
Her paintbrushes how had made me her muse,
While my words all through
Searched her.

Debt and repayment,

'This one is for you'
Handing me
A bunch of roses,
She said,

'How can I this gift repay?'
I asked,
She looked at me,
Momentary
A glimpse,
But it was no less than eternity,

I murmured
A fragment of a poem,
As old as that Mahogany Tree,
Which grew in my garden,
A fragment of that poem, ancient,
I to her, recited,

Afterall, I had nothing to repay a debt,

So I read out those lines,
As ancient as that Mahogany Tree in my garden,

She heard those lines,
With attention, rapt,
The moment which deserved it, apt,
And causing wonderment
To me,
She replied:
'You made me an ivy vine,
Filled with blossoms,white,
Can I borrow those lines?'

I felt
An adornment
She had worn
For me,
To strike me
With her soulful beauty,
And debts
Of roses more
She had left for me.

My Princess is like a warrior,

My Princess
Is like a warrior,
Often I find Her in my dream,
My Princess
Stands on a cliff,
Her hair flowing down,
She the deity I find,
Leaving Her sword
On the mound,

My Princess
Stands there
Like a warrior
Of my dream,
Her face towards the Sun,
Her hair like a cascade down,
My Princess
Stands there alone,
Like a legend, a myth,
Like a deity,
A Goddess from a pagan folklore,
A warrior
True,
My Princess stands there
Drenched by the yellow and blue.

When morn breaks out,

When morn breaks out,
When buds with dreams of flowers sprout,
When the sun paints golden orange,
I just stand with hands like wings spread,
And,
I become a bird,
I become a song.

Had I been a Harry Houdini,

Had I been
A Harry Houdini,
I would have made a life
Filled with sunflowers and mustard fields,
And lilacs too,
Spread all over
This earth,
From one end to another,
wide like a vast field
for everyone to have a blessed view,
Had I been
A Harry Houdini,
I would have reshaped this world,
With my wand, only to make it
Beautiful.

The song of an evening,

She placed her fingers
On her lap,
And closing her eyes,
She started to sing,
The song of an evening,

I know not where from
She inherited that voice,
But her words,
They took and filled the room
Of my heart,
In her song, sparrows I heard,
And her face held the evening unbarred,
An evening cosy, an evening like wine,
I heard her song spreading flowing divine,
And I closed my eyes too,
And Her song of the evening
Filled the room
Of my heart.

Groovy,

Oneday we would go groovy,
You and I
And the music of the sky,
Bright, illuminating our faces,
Oneday we would go groovy,
You and I
And along the road touching the horizon,
We would begin a breed, a Race,
Oneday
We would just fold our legs,
And gasoline
Would make us
Burn to reach the height,
Of poesy,
Straight,
Oneday,
We would go groovy.

Once upon a time, in a wonderland,

Once upon a time,
In a wonderland,
I met Alice,
And She told me,
Life is just a minute,
A pulse,
A flowing motion just,
And also by falconic dream
She in me implanted a scene,
Of humming bees,
Unlimited sky,
Deep blue seas,
And butterflies,
Seahorses too,
The sparkle of dew,
The honeycups,
The ageold moss,
The music of blooming petals,
The Holy Trail,
The white lotus,
The mount of Helicon,Olympus,
The Divine Bell,
The road to freedom,
The jump of joy,
The green grassy cover,
The four leaves of clover,

Once in a wonderland
I met Alice,
And She by Her Potent dreams
Made me pregnant,
Since then,
I have become
An
Anthology of dreams.

Stella,

Found Her,
Stella,
My fate,
Last night
An ariel view,
In a fanciful flowing silvery dress,

And wrote a single word
On a page,
And kept staring for long,
As a sage,
Forgetting
Breath.

Life is just a dream,

Life is just a dream,
Life is just a rhythm,
A tune,
A music,
Only one needs a leap...

( Note: picture courtesy: 500px, )

Sometimes evening arrives, like a calm,

Sometimes
Evening arrives
In a shape of a calm mind,
Walking weary,
Silently time passes by,
Sometimes
Evening arrives in such ascetic lines,
That the passage of the time
I just fail to make out,
Only the sky
With a soft glow tells upon me,
And I take the color,
Of fading light,
And I hear the calls of You,
Your calls getting mingled with calls of the dusk,
A dying luminance,
Yet so beautiful,
And dust of the road I perceive
How they mix
With the descent of mist,
A haze,
A transcendence
Of all things then in me happens,
And I think I see your face
Somewhere there
Where those trees stand lining up
Blessed by the arrival of an evening of winter.

If morning is a dream,

If morning is a dream
Of a beginning, of a day,
A poem, a songy lane,
I am your garden
Of blooming
Periwinkles,

If morning is a dream
I am your garden
Of blooming rhythm
And periwinkles too,
Freshened and sparkling,
Filled with dew.

My love walks in beauty,

My love,
Walks in beauty,
And if you her see,
You will find my claim
Is not an imitation
Of a poem,
For you will see in her
The unlimited happiness of a dusk,
And golden hue too
Falling from her hair,
And her face,
Holding the lamp of my soul,
If you her see,
You will definitely agree,
My love,
She walks in beauty,
Her feet stepping rhythmic
On the ground,
And the cloudless sky
Covering her head
With a veil, a poetic essence,
And her eyes,
They are sublime,
Holding stars of my imagination,
My love,
She walks in me like a flowing motion,
Only to drive me more,
To write a few lines,
To do an encore
Of a music,
My love, she walks in beauty,
And if perchance,
You her see,
You will definitely agree
To my words,
My triumphs,
My fantastic views,
And also it may be the case,
You will find Beauty everywhere,
Once you feel Her Godly verve, Her songy choir,

For my love
Walks in beauty,
And it is a real pity,
There is no Byron around,
To sketch her deep, wide and profound,
To recast what He probably had found
Two hundred years back,

There is only me,
And a wonderous lighted sky,
And an array of dreams always from my pen's nib
Willing to away fly,

And there is
My love,
Walking in
Like a beauty,
Never ending.

Worded an evening,

When the dewy mist
Settled a bit,
She asked me,
'So
Where do they take you?
These words and phrases...
All these long pssages,
This evening,
What do you think?'

'They,
Are like my heart's joy,
My darlings of heydays,
My journeys by trains and trams,
Ringing, within,
To artful works,
Brown terracota,
Dokra black,
Wooden shapes,
Earthern wares from Bankura...
Horses and elephants,
And...'

I took a look
At her,
Her curious gaze,
Her shawl,
Her flattering laugh,

' and?'
She was eager to know,
' and...
What?
I am here,
Writing life,
Like,
As you sit before me,
And we talk,
Like,
As the cars are honking down
And our words getting painted into a poetic form...
This evening...'

She smiled,
'Winter,
Wrote Eliot,
Always keep people warm...'
She observed,

I took a sip
Of the wintry late evening deep,
And life us beckoned.

An afternoon and a windchime,

And there is,
Sometimes an afternoon of winter,
With windchime on a door,
And warm sun on the floor,
And a few moments
Of perfect poesy and indolence,
A bit of indulgence too...

And there is
A time stopping for a while,
To see,
Just to see
And to be
In a state of creative energy,

Crafty, design like, 

And just to live,

By poetry,

And nothing else,

For the moments,

Hold perhaps all.

With a face full of wintry sun, when the afternoon walks,

With a face full of wintry sun,
When the afternoon walks by,
How can I
Remain wordless dumb?
When with a sky pasted on
The afternoon walks by,
How can I
Stay not tuned
To the sweet music of the noon?
So I sing out a song,
So I feel the afternoon born
In my throat, eyes, and cheeks,
So I savour the season,
So I sizzle, so I dreams relish,
And my words,
They just
Follow the flow,
They just sunbathe,
And fill my heart's page.

Of old radio transistor, and winter,

Some mornings
Remind one
Of life spent in a small town,
Once when the people had perhaps
More time at disposal,
To sit and sip life,
To start the days without hurry,
To listen to radio-transistors,
Waking up blessed by poems and songs,
Full of jingles, 'Dulal chandra Bhar'
And ad lines of cold creams,
Like perfumed antiseptic 'Boroline',
Orange peels, and songs of time,
Some morns
Just one remind
Old winter and radio transistor
And life woven by unhurried time.

Sometimes about this time,

Sometimes
About this time,
Looking at the skyline,
I wonder
Who actually chose what?
I poetry?
Or poetry me?
Sometimes about this time,
Looking at the sky,
I wonder,
Who actually wrote what?
I poetry?
Or poetry me?

Because there is a morn, beautiful,

Because there is a morn,
Beautiful,
So much filled with songs,
Because there is the wintry sun,
A verandah, so much warm,
Because there is a breeze,
Northern flavour, with trembling leaves,
Because there is a sky,
Bright, lighted, mild,
I get wrapped in blanket,
Coffee smoke, smouldering white,
I get sunk in the screen of light.

Never kept anything not given, life,

Never kept anything not given, life,
Think, how gave away
A book of Dennis Brutus,
Only to You,
Silent,
Within a fraction of a second,
A red clothed rose,
A lamp that withstood storms that arose,
And ambers of cognac,
And things lyrical,
Non lyrical too,
The moon lit sky bearing a distinct opened view,
Lampposts shining over streets to be trodden,
Songs of Cliff Richard, unbroken,
And pastel twilights,
Never kept anything not given You, life,
A wink of an eye,
A blasted high,
A philosophic trance,
A footapping, a waltz, 

rhythmic dance,

A winter of romance,

Musical bandbox warm,

A photographic morn,

A pen that kindled flame like words,

Kept nothing not given, life.

Her stole,

'Buy me that stole...'
She me told
One evening late,
Winter closing upon us,
Through a market as we happened to pass,

'Which one?'
I asked,
For stoles there hung like colors
Wavering in front my eyes,
And yet no more beauteous
Color could i find
To cover her shoulders,

'Stoles i have no idea,
Stolen as i stand here,
Shivering'
I said,
Colored by her shopping spree,
Her 'retail therapy',
Her face like a girl so happy,

She looked for awhile,
She suppressed a smile,
She came like late evening of a winter,
Closing in,

Her stole
Became my arms.

A few lines written upon 'talking in their sleep'

'Ýou think
I am dead?
Reading Edith,*
Do you think
I have become leafless a tree
Of winter
With withered grass
Under my feet?'

The tree
Asked me,
Her branches mossy brown,
Her trunk with no leaf,

I looked at her melody,
And thought how she had gathered dreams
Of Edith
Much like me,

So with softer tune,
I took graphic art
To cover her winter
With words,
So with rhyme
I took a dream that could underline
The leafless shape,
So with color
I thought of filling her,

For Edith
Was there
In between us,

And winter awesome
I dreamt to make for her, just.

(* Edith M Thomas, a poet,
'Talking in their sleep', is a poem by Edith,
The picture attached is a media art, done upon an illustration, by me.)

One heartful of wintry afternoon

When those long coconut leaves
Draw calligraphy
On walls,
With one heartful
Of wintry afternoon
I run to you.

Thinking of gifting you a morn, dear,

Thinking of gifting you,
A morn dear,
A morn of such a mid November,
Filled with cornfields,
Green sparkling
With the nightly dews still,
Smiling much like a dream,

Thinking of gifting you,
A morn dear,
Spread all over this earth,
A morn only for us,
To catch the intent
Of a songful bent,
Of our lives,

Thinking of gifting you,
A valley this morn,
Full of flowers and butterflies,
And beehives too,

Thinking of gifting you
A plot of a countryside,
Where a river flows singing with lo and hi tide,

Thinking of gifting you,
An unprecedented morn,
A garden of hanging Babylon.

'Let us go out then, you and I'

'Let us go out then, you and I...'
She told me, almost reciting,
A love song, so known, so familiar,
Reminding me my university days almost,
Young when evenings spread out against the sky,
Then also the winter had yellow fog,
Bracing window panes,
Bearing different connotation,
For us,
And how many years since then we traversed,
How many years of walking the lanes,
We had since then made,

'Had we not traveled? You and I?'
I asked her back,
'From those days till date?
Have you ever wondered how we have made a life?
From J. Alfred Prufrock, to the present time,
How long and far had we walked?'

She looked at me,
She read poetry
In my words,
The evening sky which moved sluggishly forward,
She noted that movement too,
And probably felt on my skin the falling dew,

'A different love song now sing for me,'
She demanded childishly,

I opened a book of verses,
A random page I took
In my hands,
And starting singing,

She joined me soon,
And the evening moved
Slowly.

Finding Rajarshi,

'Recognise him?'
Sudesh from his wallet
Handed out a picture,
'Goodness me!'
Uttered I,
Could not unfix , my eyes,
'Rajarshi? Is he not?
Where have you found him mate?'
Asked I Sudesh straight,
curious, shocked,
To see that bloke in the picture,
Smiling as he seemed,
His hair all trimmed,
His moustache no longer boyish,
But grown thick and black,
And his eyes,
Sharp, slang like,

'Found him two years back,
At a station where I went to tread a beaten track...'
Sudesh informed,
Clouds in his eyes,

'Surprise, surprise...
Such a boy
Was he, remember?'
Asked me,
Sudesh nodded,
'Who could ever him forget?
His pranks, his mimicry,
His long trunks with logo of navy...'

'And his jokes,
Sickeningly bright,
His horrid faces,
His cat calls in the middle of the night...'

So we talked,
So we talked,
Finding Rajarshi.

Oneday Aniket,

'Oneday Aniket,
I will be the sky'
He said,
To his childhood friend,
One winter sun
Falling on their backs,
Sitting as they were
On the sixth floor open terrace,
Looking upon the flowing city,

Aniket
That winter
Sang John Lenon,
All through,
Aniket that winter
Took Mahanirvana,

'One day
Aniket,
I will be the sky,
You will see...'
He whispered
Glowing beautiful
By that winter afternoon,

And from that sixth floor,
They saw the city flowing by,
Indolent, warm,
With the sun on their backs.

'Never saw a goddess go'

'Never saw a goddess go,'
He perhaps quoted Shakespeare
Undone was he as by the morning glow
Falling through the window
Upon someone's face,
'Never saw a goddess go...'
He repeated, wrapped in the windy flow
Of a morn, beautiful as ever.

A basket of verses,

Once opening the door,
Found a simple cane basket
Full of flowers
And a few verses,

Flowers like them
Seen I at the Lake Market,
But verses,
Saw them nowhere around,

Kept the cane basket
And those flowers
Knowing blossoms of the season
Might get withered,
Much like that Van Gogh's picture,

But those verses,
Kept them not locked,
For they needed no such possession,
Those verses
Kept them not for me,
Kept them under no lock and key,

Just let them be blown
Just let them be blown...

Rhythm of a dream

'Are you not listening?
To the rhythm
Of those leaves falling
Forever
Like a noon day dream?
Are you not listening?
To the rhythm which I hold
Walking, laughing, singing,
Sleeping and waking?'
He asked Her one day,
As lips his quavered to say
All those simple candid things,
For dipped he was in the poetic breeze,
Sweeping as it was, him, away away from
Real scapes, real plains,
He asked Her oneday,
Thinking of a long shaded wintry lane,
Where he had walked once holding songs,
Where he had walked one whole winter long,

'Yes I do'
She murmured
Much like an afflicted bird,
And opened she her wonderous wings
Only to lift him to the origin of dreams.

An afternoon for You,

An afternoon can I
Drench with magic flow
If you come to me to sow
Music in my heart,
An afternoon can I
Melt for you in wine
If You come to shine
In eyes mine,
Like Ahania,*
Carrying the Holy Book
Of The Four Zoas,

An afternoon can I
Drop as a balm sublime,
If You come in favoured lines
Holding the melody of life,
Octavian
Or the rhime royale
Painted on the street,
So gold draped.

(* is an emanation, of Blakean myth, counterpart of Urizen)

Winter's tales

Winter has its own tales,
Of songs, dances and masquerades,

Winter has its own tales,
Of finding misty serenades,

Winter has glowing evening,
Singing potentially a choric song,

Winter has its own tales
Of yellowish haze under vapoury lamps,

Winter has its own tales,
High bonneted, like elizabethan,

Winter has its own tales,
Crispy, breezy,a bit bohemian.

Noirita,

Out of sheer whim
Once gave her a name,
Noirita,
Out of sheer whim,
Once called her by that name,
Noirita,

She was amused
And her curious eye brows hinged upward a bit,
'Why? Such a name for me? Poet?'
She had asked then,
And i remember still
Looking at the grassy velvet
Under our feet,
I had probably slid
Into another space,
Another time,
And only gave her a smile,

And God knows,
The southern west frontier of that Sky
Was all reddened,
Then,

Once gave her just a name~
Noirita.

Hello Behrman tune.

One wintry afternoon,
When the bells sang 'hello Behrman tune'
He thought he felt proper the afternoon,
He felt he had witnessed the creative force,
For his paintbrushes got blessed with colors of a rivery course,
And buried in that flow was he so deep,
He thought bells ringing he could keep,
Forever, in his eyes, hands and throat,
He thought he had been for ages rowing a boat,

And he kept on drawing figures
On the canvas lit up by the dying sun,
He kept painting dreamy shapes
Like waves falling on golden sand,
He kept coloring, while songs he sang,
Of rivers, seas, big vast oceans,
He kept working on his words
With bells singing Behrman like a surge.

With this breeze, with this season of love,

With this breeze,
With this season
Of love,
Love,
Take me to Your winged charms,
With this album of songs,
As ever Brightened,  as a sky of a morn,
Morn,
Take me where I was born,
To that Gandharaj tree,
That field of poesy,
That lotus pond,
Take me there,
As a whiff of air.

A morning of incoming winter,

A morning
Of incoming winter
Is long shadows,
Like-
Patterns on the floor,
A photograph of a door,
Sun on heels,
Designs on window sil,
A clear holiday sky,
A book of poems to read-
Leaning back on armchair,
Stretched legs and warmth on feet,
Cold cream smell in the air,
And
Stray leaves blown by northern breeze.

If I be music, and You the lyric,

How that would be?
If I be music and You lyric,
Or vice versa,
How that would be?
If I be words and You the tune
And together we make forth 'O bonni doon'?

How that would be?
If I be river and You an ocean
Or vice versa?
In me you lose your motion?
And yet from You I get a life as potion?

How that would be?

Flavour and cojone

'How's that?'
He asked her one beautiful afternoon,
With winter singing a mellifluous tune,
Sitting under a tree sprawling as they were,
Reading poetry of the wonderous winter,

'It was really good,'
She whispered soft,
Causing a tremble to the warm lethargic air,
But her eyes had a look dimmed and demurred,
But the breeze had not yet caught the ends of her hair,
To get blown a bit
To be in the righteous poetic spirit,

'Cojone and
Flavour...'
He heard her
Saying
Looking at the scribble on print,
'These words need them I feel...'
She added as her appraisal,

'Got that?'
She asked him as if to clarify,
This time not looking on the pages,
Where his words sat still for ages,

'I guess so...'
He answered,
And flavour of wine
He smelt
Under the tree
As the afternoon melt
To be
More beautiful.

199th

Its your 199th
The last,
The garden is decked with flowers
Anticipating your willow
Your hooks, pulls, cuts,
Your looking up to the sky,
Your padded walk,

199th
The last page
Of your long book
Where you wrote everything it took
To make yourself a God,
Has arrived,

And Shivaji Park
Might be feeling sad
Ganesh chandra avenue too,
So also that boy at nets at Perth
Or at Wellington,

For 199 has arrived
As You yourself declared,
As your last,
And the garden is decked with flowers,
Anticipating you,
Your padded walk,
Your willow,
Your pulls, hooks, cuts,
And straightdrives,
As good as shooting arrows
Aesthetic, sublime,

199th
Has arrived
In due time.

Lets write a song tonight,

Lets write a song tonight,
Lets make the night a write,
Like songs of wintry evenings
Keeping closeted in cozy dreams,
People sing, a bit drowsy by Hippocrene,

Lets make us a song tonight,
Song of being diluted into the dewy light,
Song of singing life by accompaniment
Of drums paddled twice dropping one beat
Lets make for ourselves a warm songy treat,

Lets make a life tonight,
A life held by lines and rhymes,
A life held by strings that by fingers come alive,
As a guitar sings instrumental,
As a rock song of flowing petals,

Lets make us a music tonight,
Lets sing for that fountain of Mt. Helicon,
Where muses found John Milton,
Lets make an inspiration tonight.

A Henri Lebasque, a dusk,

Once got stuck
Into a work
Of Henri Lebasque,*
Once got stuck
Into a dusk
So ravenous,

And gratified
I stood
Looking at the face
Of the sky,
Changing to a misty wintry evening.

(*french post impressionist painter)

And there is a night, leaning on,

And there is a night
Leaning on
So full of songs,
With people on streets,
Queuing up at sweet shops
Buying bags full of truffles, choco-pops,
And there is a night
Full of memorable songs,
Leaning on.

Titus

"Beautiful, is not he?"
Nikhil stated, murmuring,
After staring for long
At the painting mounted
On the wall of the gallery.

The late October evening
Had by that time crept in
In form of nostalgia,
Through the big glass door kept opened wide
To allow curious visitors like him,
To get into the exhibition cum sale.

He kept looking at the boy in the painting,
His lovely innocent eyes,
His hair partially visible under the hood,
The play of light and shade on his face
That had lent an orangy shade
On the canvas.

"I need to buy this painting"
Nikhil decided.
He walked to the enquiry counter.
A woman in mid thirties, there,
Flashed a generous smile,
Seeing in him perhaps a connoisseur.

'I have a wish to buy that painting...item number twenty eight'
Nikhil put forward his wish and also his card.

The late October evening
Had by that time settled within
The hall.
A group of young art lovers had made a boisterous entry,
Their animated discussion jarred the silence of the hall a bit.

"Thats like Rembrandt's Titus!"
Someone from the group exclaimed,
Walking to that item
Number twenty eight
Nikhil had chosen to buy.

Nikhil was growing impatient.
"Madam, can you tell me if I could buy that item
Twenty eight
This evening itself
And go home straight?"

The counter woman looked up.
She perhaps saw eagerness in his eyes.

'It is not the usual practice,
But if you insist...
Well, you can
Ring up the artist...'

A few minutes later, Nikhil was standing near
The fresco that waved softly in the wind,
Just outside the glass door of the gallery.

The street was full of cars and blowing horns and light beams.
A typical late October scene
Of the city.

'Hello,
I am Nikhil,
Madam,
Got your number
From the woman at the counter
Of gallery...'

Nikhil stated with breath bated.

'It is not for sale...'
The voice at the other end replied, cool.

'Not for sale?'

'No...'

The female voice affirmed.

'But, if I may, ask you the reason?'

Nikhil was curious.

'For it can never be sold to someone
Who had been so forgetful'
The artist replied in a huff, before hanging up,
Abruptly.

Nikhil stood there, dumbed.

He remembered one late October evening, some ten years back.
He recalled his first meeting
With Sree, the young graduate from Art College.
He remembered so many things.

The city, flew careless,
of his journey down the memory lane,
His act of sudden recall,
His late October evening,
His Sree painting him as a boy
As if he had been
The last surviving dream
Of her,
Like a Titus.