Pursuit of happiness...not a film...

Pursuit of happiness
Once caused one God
To write a whole new world,
And another
A philosopher
Did devise
A crash course
For people
Particularly morose,

But who cared anyway?
Continents bathed still
In bloody war...
And
Those poets
Who were cynically termed
And criticised
As beaten people...
They did protest...
In their most unique ways...
Going red with blood...
If one Allen talked about meeting Whitman
At a supermarket...
Another beat
Became brute
To claim
'Bland billboards
Illustrating imbecile pursuit of happiness...'

Gosh!

Things still never changed!
They would never change
As an unit
Like One...

Not a film
Life is...
Still there are some
Dreams,
Beaten kind...
Philos dressed...
And by Love wrapped...

Sure!

When she wore glasses...of rain and he looked at her...

She became a reader kind
Words playing in Her mind
Like the rain
Falling incessent...
On the city...
Sweeping hearts...
Builds and numerous basements...
Logjamming traffic at a mall's Sunday gate...

Brand factory's reopening of the newest outlet
Which ran dry
Last month
Due to heated Sun putting everything fried...

But the rain
Coming incessent
Played on Her eyes
With foggy misty moist lines...
And She wore Her reading glasses...
In printed lines
She was trying to find smileys...
As generated by the rippling waves...
Coming
One following another...
A creative force going berserk...
Going haywire
And yet
Like a soothing calming foam...

She deciphered
Like a true reader
All alone...

And
He sang
Looking at Her busy eyes:
' je cherche a' vous a' travers les lunettes...'
He just sang...
Looking at her eyes...
With kohl perfectly lined...

And
Outside
It did rain
Hard...
Incessent...

A road and a horse stranded...

The road middle dotted,
Line streaks dividing...
And swampy green
On both sides
Saw a horse...
Stranded
As if pondering...
Looking back the road traveled,
And
Knowing the futurity
Lies in misty foggy shape...
Unseen,

But for a horse
Fogs and mists are nothing,
For his legs are strong,
His heart is full of mirth...
And his eyes have seen roads earlier...
Roads foggy misty...
Roads with ups gigantic...
Barriers made for a jump show...
All...

So
There
Stood a horse
Recalling experience...
Upon a road
Misty foggy...

As the morn comes with downpour...ne dis rien...

Dear,
As the morn comes with so much of heavy rain...
Ne dis rien...dear
Ne dis rien...

Instead...
Hear the rain
On you-
Your head,
Your soul...
Can't you feel
How the sweet rain song bills
Out like Anna...
A dreamy loving caring caressing touch?

Don't say anything much...
Dear...
Just follow the rain
And
Follow
The sleepy hollow of me...
Can't you see,
Dear me,
By following the rain
You can wipe out all pains?

'Suis-moi ...jusqu'au bout de la nuit...'
Remember ?
How Anna once sang that sweet?
So...
Just follow me
And the rain...
Ne dis rien...

Iceman...

'Not leaving You...
Am i?
How can i? '
Seeing Him
At his door
With a stave
In His soft strong hand...

'Sure?'
He asked...
'Yes...'
he answered...

Outside
It was night...
Outside
There was fire,
And
he saw
Ice...

Mon pluie femme...

Why do you come?
At odd hours some?
Don't you know dear
How much my own fire I fear?

Last night
You came like a drizzle...
That was somewhat tolerable...
But now...
Like ...
Le gel douche...
You me bathe...
Just
Only you can...

Is it right?
O femme fatale mine?
To cause such
Hit?
When I am on the street...
And when the road long is creeping towards
The horizon?

Why do you come?
In ways such...
Le gel douche...
Bathing me...
Taking me
To such a height?
That I have no wish to have anything
But with redness on white
I just keep flooded my heart with gigabytes
Of writes...

O!
How you me ignite!
O!
How you pit me with mirrory fight!
How I die
Losing senses -
On wet carpet
Of trance...
And then
O you
Rainy dame
Resurrect
Me
From ashes...
Like a Phoenix...

And again
I dare
To fly...
Bereft of all
Bare...

A sudden rain...an alley...and ...music...

And the rain came sudden
As if she wanted me to get drenched a bit...
In an alley
We were...
Under a grated sky...
Grey...
And
She came
Like dance tune...
She came like taal...
A music tap on floor
And
We danced...
Inside
We danced...
For she gave us a chance...
To live happy on road...
To re-live like days
Yesterdays...
Tumros...
Todays...

Catching all monsoons
Of all time...
Of all space...

Hungry portent generation and promises...

The afternoon had all the calm
The greenness had all the youthful wet
Soft...
A bit watery
But cushion like
Taking in all troubles and stresses...

And a hungry generation kept on
Lingering for more...
And more...
As if desires would die
For more...

And
That yearning surely pains breed
For desires have pains as seeds...

So
he thought of having a test with desires...
he looked at the greeny lustre of youth
And asked her
'Take me where you want me to take...'

And
Next few hours
he had seen
Like an automatic media player show on run
From the central apple tree
To John Milton...
From Prometheus bound and chained
To Jupiter's venomous claims...
From rise of nebula to dead star turning into a tunnel
A spiral reaching to the hell...

And
After that
He heard
Her...
Into his ears drooping down
Whispering an affirmation...
Of an age old dictum:
'Pains portent promesses...'

He realised then exact
What propelled one Shakti Chatterjee
Or Debi Roy...
And
Of course
A mexican
(Who
Once wrote sitting at James Prinsep's tomb
'Eastern slope'
And stuff like that...)
To write horrific bold...

Dear , wish I could be, a Valentine...Jimmy by name...

Dear Isabel
Wish I could you tell
A story
Of mine
Based loose
On a God
Jimmy alias Ralph
A sacrifice...
A man...
A valentine!

Wish I could unlock
Doors of all
Kept locked
Without any reason
And by doing that
I find a Ben
To take me not to prison
But ...
Wish
Ben
Would just be good
To my side he stand and brood
Over to create...
Rephrase..rediscover...
A better bigger wider deeper...
World
Time
Space
And
Love
As red as a pure white dove-
A pathetic fallacy
Of Peace...
A state sans malice...

Dear
Wish I could be
A man...
A Jimmy
As Porter wrote...
Once
Burning His Godly soul
And black boots
Shiny...
A glistening scope...

Ma fille...a morn...

O this morn
So cool and cloudy
Reminder like acts
Of you...
Ma fille...
A sweet little girl mine...
Like a cascade flowing
Showing me the sense
Of music
How waterborne
Rippled
And
I a traveler
Feel
The down melt
Of soul...
For you
Ma fille...
A  little girl mine
And me growing gracefully old...

Had I been
Charles
I would have your hands
On mine would temp file like hold
And sing...
A dream...
'Ce jour que
J'appre`hende ou` tu nous quitteras...'

And perhaps
Like this cloudy morn
Your eyes would then
Be full of moisture
A vapour...
As if you would then be holding on...
In you a departing song...

And
Me like your unknown non biological
Progenitor
Weep
As if
You were my girl...
Ma fille...

A place...a requiem...

When a place
Came
Dressed
Suitably
Like a requiem...
Life towards him plodded
Not lame...
But came like a sense of wonder...
As if that was destined feature
Natural...
A place
So beautiful
And
Ignited
By ashes and sparks...
Not as once thought Oliver
With Lauren attached
But an end of a beginning and
A beginning of an end
Towards Life which usually bends...

Towards
Time,
And
Towards
Love...
Which weaves
A tale...

Not thumbs upped
Perhaps
Even by the greatest...
But accepted with grace...
With utmost seriousness!

Juxtaposed...the best...proposition...

And he saw
How sparks flew
From burning end
Thrown careless
From a cab
Of a cigarette...
It rolled...
And the late evening towards night
As tolled
on road images got reborn...
Images
Of fire
And cold
Both too bold...

'And fire orangy red on glow
Only heat discharge shows...
And the breeze cool calm
Plants country side balm...'
he knew
Too well
And so
he on road took both the same
As two states...
Tiger Lamb juxtaposed self...

The Best...
A proposition...

Nightscaped...on blue dark!

The evening as shaped
On blue
A nightscape
Luminous
An escape!

The evening darkish blue
On blue
Wrote a shape
Muscular
Freed
Athletic!
And
A road long waited...
Fated!

An Eagles afternoon...

'You can check out any time of the year
But you can never leave...'
The tune hummed
The sense forbidden
Eerie...
Ghostly...
Strange,
As if the afternoon
Left him
Captive...
Held
Imprisoned;

And
The cool
Sweep
Of life
Small
Took him
Far,
As far as the sky-
Outer unreachable one,
Where
A white swan
Took a noseup
Flight...
Rockety,

And
That idea
Held him more
To remain captive-
To soar...
To meet Him
At the high
Of the deep,
The long,
Of the outer sky.

When the ocean came to one's room...like Evangelista...

When the ocean came
As if she an italian dame
Turquoise...opaque...
As if a color
Hydrous phosphate
Of copper and aluminium...
Evangelista italian he became...
His barometer rose a bit
By his mentor's name...
A monk...
Benedetto Castelli...

When the ocean thought of
Knocking off
Slumbery mind
Italian he became-
Hanging brief
His football madness...
And...
His writing non stop he traced
In the ocean's 'do not disturb' interpretation
Of business of mind one's...
Soul, however, bogged
Into rhyme...that same one's...

Evangelista's
Rhyme
Into one made a descent
Bluish greenish
Idyllic space like...
And
That insignificant one...
Compared to the vast ocean
Just recalled
'Noi viviamo sommersi nel fondo
d'un pelago d'aria...'
As if
That one
Felt fully submerged
At the bottom of an oceanic fresh air...

And He
The One
Smiled...

he smiled too...
Blessed...

Turning gawky to something spherically sublime...

'Hey!'
She once his eyes did demand
To her eyes...
Blue...
As sense of deepest love
Overflowing...
As if she had that only choice...
To stare still
Gawky...
To him...

And
He felt cocky...
Hit by her
Deep deep eyes...

Then
The breeze
Of the morn
So blue and red
Swept him
And
He thought of not being
A
Gauche...

Cause primarily the wind
And the traveler's account
Had made marks a long way back...
Hit he had been
By the unseen
Seen
Thing...
Heard
The unheard spheric bubble
Bursting...
Continuous
Like a music of its own
Globe like...

And so
He looked
At her
Deepest blue
Of eyes...
And the drowning sense
He found...
In volume
4/3pr^3...

some chairs white...and a red walled seat

Through the glass the world seemed
Moving...
Moving hurriedly...
Buried in business...
Bullish...
Flared up...
As if those white chairs
In the room
From where one chanced to see
The peopled sea
Of a day
Breaking into hurly burly
Had meaningless existence...
As if the days would pass by just like that...
Stressed unnecessary...
Hurried...
With copper married...
Surviving...
On energy drinks...
Only
Temporary...

However...
Luckily enough
The red walls of the room
Had written survival strategy
Of a different kind also...
A different happy strong energy flavour...
Strong and bullish too
A different kind...

White chaired
And red walled...
A room with a view
To the outside world...
Slipping away every moment
Like slides...
Run fast...
Pretty fast...

The still calm of a morn...cool...

Such a morn
An awakening
He dreamt once...
Such a dawn...
Cloudy
And
Stillness
Personified
As morning chant
Of slokas
emanating from a prayer hall...
Some orphaned abandoned hope
Sitting in loin clothes white
Bare bodied
Shining in the first light
-peeping joyous through the dark cloud cover...

Such a morn
He had dreamt once...
A black teed
Pink hot pant
On run...
Happy through the enbalming silence
Of the dawn...
And smell of flowers
Pinkish bunch
Held
And
Drenched
By Hope
And
Faith
Gently dancing in the cool breeze...

Such a morn...
Beyond material ideas,
Like a flowing Bheas...
Like a road auspicious...
Like a dream pink and white
And overwhelmingly blue,
He wrote once
And
Founded
Brick by brick
By sheer manual labour...
He found that dream on rise,
A dream of such a dawn...

Drowning into the river...of Love...

'Noyade dans la riviere de l'amour
...
    .....
            .........
This drowning is so good
That it should be continued...'
Once a man drowning thought
Feeling the cool liberation
Of soul...
Sunk into lovely river...
One full moon full monsoon flow...
And
There
The flicker
Of light
From bank left
Fell
Like a silvery strip of land...
Trembling...
On small waves...
Upon the cool...
Upon the man's gate...
Flooded...
And
he discovered
How a beauty gets beautiful more
As if blessed
As if dressed
Anew...

L'indifference est amour...

Once
He
Came
Straight
Onto a football ground...

He
Came...
Like passionate soul...
Loving teamwork...
Friendship...
Gelling...

Amidst the shouts and cries...
Sweat,
Pain,
Cuts,
Bruises,
Sprite like He came
As if youthful vigour
And heart
Spread like wide
The widest love...
And grit...

In fun He came...
In shots bicycled
He came...
In missing passes
He came
And
He came in impossible angles...
In walls...
In penalty shootouts...
In sudden death situation...
In extra mile sprints...
In huffs...
In panting hearts...
In sparkling fast speed...
In green lushy dreams...
In cloudy
Overcast shapes...
And in concentration too hard...
Which breeds indifference -
Like loving the most...
Passionate
And
Too heavy
Too much concentrated...
A spirit of flame...
Much like passion
Of red red flagposts...
Fluttering.

A Melissa story...nineteen ninety two ... rephrased...

'Had I been
Melissa
Or
Katt...
Who worked hard
To create a story...
In '92-
Of a poison red
I would have bred...
What dear?
Hatred?'

he asked her
Finding her
Tired...
Listless...
Drunk opium
With red wine...

Outside
Just beside
Her glass window
An ivy shot up...
Poison ivy kind...

She looked at that shrub
Growing ...

And he
Started singing a song...
A song
Philomel sang
And before dying
Which She gifted away
To nightingale...

he started singing...
he started gyrating...
Her eyes looked sparkling...
Her eyes got teary...
Her eyes looked lovely deep...

And he sipped...
Watery wine...

And...
She smiled...

Ti amo... if I am.

'If I am...
In the state
Of a Be,
That attainment
Is due
To your inexhaustible credit...

If this life so far
Added and summed
Proper
(Not poorer
But enriched...)
By your lovely dreams
Suitably kissed
Attainment
Of a supreme kind offer,
I am if
In a state of Agape...

All go to your ways...
Your swaying leaves by the wind...
Your trembling lids of eyes...
Your midnight dissertation and sighs...
Your lows and unnatural highs...
Your colored kites,
Your autumnal clouds,
Your engineering within made,
Your paintings never gotten fade...
Your fingers holding on to stones jade...

If I am
Such...
Traveling
Braking
Clutching
Gearing
Stooping
Stopping
Purring
Running

An attainment
If am I bestowed with
All goes
To your credit...
Inexhaustible one...'

he wrote
And saved ...
Somewhere
On road
Watered fresh
From heaven...
One morn
Twenty mins past seven...

If morn comes with rain...

If the morn...
Dear mine,
Comes with rain such...
And a song transmitted carries myth of a bard's insatiable Love...

And if still being drenched to the bone,
The cuckoo lone
Dares to chirp sweet
Shivering...
Her wings all wet too heavy
For a flight
Nevertheless...
If she still becomes a song...

Rose red is bound
To bloom...
Red rose is bound
To catch
The most beauteous form
-with little droplets like diamonds
All over her...
Her soft petals...
Her arrangement...
Her existence...

'Sono grato...'

She said nothing for long...
He also had nothing to send
Through the ether...
To send shivers...
To cause flushed up face...

For the evening had written it all...
Through the leaves when the misty rainy moist feel did fall
As if a song full of pent up sobs
Of her...
She
Who once called
And only half way stopped
Saying
'Io sono colpevole...'

That too
Stated incomplete...
Left purportedly for him to complete...
He then left only a star
On a stone...
That surely somewhere near her bosom shone...

For
This evening
She apparently quiet
Sitting near
Resting her head
Upon his shoulder
From a million light years course ...
Whispered a bit morose...
'Sono grato...'

And that lugubrious music of the italian tune
Running through several unwatered dusty sand dunes
Came...
To him
Like a boon
In guise of a bane...

He could have laughed out loud
But the evening interfered...
The evening so much sans doubt...
The evening so calm and mist like...
She intervened...

And
Like silence without drops of pins...
The music came...
'Sono grato...'
As she claimed...
Unclaimed...

For her...if she is blue and me a red...on wait...pollinate...

Dear...
Heard reverse osmosis?
Me got red
And white
Just my blogging right
Upon you as exercised
From far
Like claire and voyance
Conjoined unasked
Even sometimes non received...

And
Once even
By dare
Phased out like metro ticket
Only supplanted by tokens full plastic...
Recycleable
Durable
And
Not inflexible...

And methinks
A glass
Full of Paz ...
Last week
I got as a drink...
And out of whims
Wrote on...
Like just now
Writing...
Thinking you are blue
And me red...

Red
   Red 
Red
    Dead
By your feet...

And ...
              E
           V
         I
      L
A
Too much...

Waiting...
Writing...
Germinating...
Pollinating...

Like
A blinking sign...

On a board
Red too...
Electra+sonic
Display...
At a station of a railway...
Nothing written on the destination slot...
Only waiting...
Writing..germinating...
In red...

Finding Kalliope... at a garden...

And he found Her
Kalliope...
With journeys of Her
Painted smooth
On Her face...
And Her golden black hair...
Had so many poems held...

There
There
She sat quiet
On a stony rock
Watching the dawn-
Holding a tablet
And a stylus...
As if by newest light reborn...
Complete in Her absorbed state
For Her son Orpheus
Picking Nature's Honey... the best...
As dripped from Zeus...
Her father...

And he found Her
Statue like
Oblivious of Her own self...
Weaving only weaving lore...
Epic magic as on Her like
Golden flakes from Heaven poured...

(The photograph below was taken by me once at Botanical Garden, Shibpur, Howrah,)

On a river embankment, a scene... and he...

'This morn...
Cloudy
And calm
And pious joy filled...
This river flowing like a page from history,
And someone posting in the breeze a story
Of a mirthful holiday dance...
Wish I had carried my canvas paper wet
And that stand to hold the board straight
Against the blowing wind...
Wish I had carried that bag of colors and pastel,
And wish the brown Frederick
Me blessed,
And made me see
The Chelsea
Of an embankment
Of eighteen eighty three...'

he wished so,
Standing
At the embankment of a river
Far away from Chelsea
Yet by wind envisioned perfect
For one to details see...

The scene of children dancing...
Hopping...
Playing...
Their cries filling the air...
Jocund...
Women holding hands together
As friends do
And a tree a little distance away bearing
Witness to the happiness of
Friendliness...
And a music unheard,
Heard...
A rhythm unsavoured,
Tasted on nerves...
A sense so vivid
Oily -
Colored
Flamboyant...
A scene which one could
Only heaven of pure bliss send...

he just wished so,
So he did wish,
For wishes and dreams hold no bar
For poems and drizzles can be felt from far...

So he did wish...
he just so wished...

So she came...white n wet...

So she came
Wet wet wet
A bit blurry on lens
As if moisture dense
Fogged her shape...
Rain late night
Had lent an effect
On her petals
And pollens too...

So she came
One rainy thunderous morn
Like my love
Traveling long
Singing a rainy song-
All the way...

So she came
Held by her long elegant stem
Like a dream
On film caught...
Wearing white and green...

So she came
My favoured wet sacrosanct dame...

Le soir venu...

The city got dressed like her
Slippery shiny cheeks...
With a tinge of rouge
On her face...
Glossy eyelids...
And heels painting ripples
On water...

The city got dressed
Like her
Love red
By flowers at the gate of the park
Enshrined...

And
Rain drops hanging quiet
Filled pregnant
About to fall
From railings cast iron..,
Shone by passing headlights...

The city got into humming
Songs...
Of vagabondish charm...
Softy
And so warm
That she
As if foreclosed
Her debt account...

In the evening...
The city came
Like her,
A lost lover...

Different hues of Her...as found one afternoon...

When the leafy afternoon
After writing copious
Love songs churned porous
Onto one's soul brought
A tired indolent shape,
She,
Her name renamed-
Saying...
'From foam I am born...
From foam I am torn...
Yet to foam I would return...'

She stated firm...
As if a fitting affirmation
Of Her Goddess within...
Aphrodite?
Alone?
She?
Nay!

For in Her hair
Once stayed Diana...
With Her silvery beams...
In the evenings
She had Ceridwen,
And when She turned to run
Her fingers on the lyre...
She became a Freya...

And like night turns to a dawn...
She turned to every morn-
An Eos...
Who would help Helios
To ride His chariot across the sky...
And...
Her tears
Which For Orion She dropped
Would usually leave marks
On leaves of afternoon such...

A tired,
Foaming,
Germinating,
Closing-
Kind
Of an afternoon...

Pegasus me..a letter thought of...

'Dear
sometimes me
Dream of becoming
A Pegasus...

And you might think
It is too much
Of a dream...
Too much...
Fancy...

But tell me
If you rob me off
This fancy...
This dream...
This flight...
This divine white...
What would remain
Of me?
What would remain
Of you?

So ...
Let me be...
Asleep,
Forever-
In that dream...
A dream like a Pegasus one...
Born out of Medusa
And Poseidon...

Just let me be...
And please you stay...
The way you are...'

he thought of writing this letter
To her...
And thought of posting that too...

But it was too early a morn
And the windpost might never reach
Her windows still closed...

When he became a Barkis...

'i am willing...'
she had said
not said
probably prayed...
to her
goddess...
Demetria...
Demeter kind...
whom she perhaps did find
in the scent of cool breeze
of the morn...
a breeze soft...
a breeze full of flowers...
a breeze generous enough
to drop
her after carrying
her caged self
from the deep sea green
to somewhere
near to him...

perhaps...

he heard that too
and thought of Barkis...
'Barkis is willing ...'
Dickens wrote that several
in one of His books...

and he became a Barkis...
and taking in the flowery scent
of her
coming to him
from farthest of the far...
he looked up
To his California sky...

'io sono
disposto
ad
affondare...'
he prayed...
awakened...
feeling
the scent all over him...
his nose...
his lungs...
his heart...

and
he became a Barkis...
Barkis...
the same...
and he thought
she might have become version two
of Clara...

Red chilli...

Red hot chilli
Without peppers...
Is a lovely thing,

It burns
Singes
Hurts...

And also shows love...
Love that burns
And
That is...
tolerably intolerable...
Showing strength in weakness...

A conservationist's dream and romance...

The setting was exact
As once Bhibhuti Bandopadhyay tracked
When writing a longish thing...
A tale of a wanderer going to the forest,
To an African deep...
Infested wild
By tigers,
Snakes,
Leopards,
Chimps,
Lionesses...

Such a situation arose
Here
Infront his eyes
Adventure running into his youthful blood...
An Edward James kind...
Man versus the Wild...

Not a cruel thing...
Not only of fighting...
And surviving...
Like a theory of Darwin...

But a loving one...
That sense of romantic gesture
Which took once a boy as far
As African rain forest...

That romantic idea
Of finding beauty of God
In pristine nature...
The mother...

That big Love
Which made Edward
Into an enthusiast
Of preserving the wild,
Not killing...

A conservationist's dream...
And an inescapable romance...
That arrived one rain filled frog croaking
Trees soaking
Late evening...
To him.

La donna pioggia...

You are my rain
I think that idea is perfect...
Rain rain on my soul...
Rain cold...
Rain warm
And insinuating...too...

Rain as fascinating
As a twinkle in my eyes...glued...

Drops of rain as crossed hearted sigh...
Rain drops falling like fevered high...

Rain as paint job done on posters bright...
Upon which city trained her own daylight...

You are my rain
I think that idea never would go in vain...

You are like God's own tears...
Isabel's too...
Or
Pamela's...

Or mine...

Seen her the little girl as a glimpse...

Seen her
The little girl
Not yet adult...
In the crowd
Of the poor souls...
Endangered by the horrific
Rush
Of avalanche and slush
Taking away every thing on its way...
Houses...telegraph posts...
Cardboard box like hotels too
Which housed so many living fine
Even a few moments ago...

Seen her
A little girl
Like a glimmer of Hope
And Faith too...
Not yet adult
But adult the same...
Otherwise
She would not have torn her dupatta to tie
A bandage on an old man's badly bleeding thigh...
Otherwise...
She would not have jumped and risked
Her life
To catch hold of another almost dying...

Perhaps
She was too young
At her heart and mind
And body agile...
Otherwise...
She would not have risked herself that way...
When Nature showed Her horrendous sway
Over everything ...
Barring...
That Love...
And Faith...

(As an appreciation to the works and hardships taken upfront by a little teenaged girl... Nandita Gupta, a student of class x+2, from Indore, who was at Gaurikund at the time of the catastrophe, saving people, by helping them within her limited resources... )

No occasion dear, just a potion red...

Got no occasion dear...
Only taken a potion
Red ...
So me celebrate
Him
And Her
And
Time
The lemniscate
And
You...

Got no occasion dear
But me fear
There is a new year...
Ascending...
Within such
That can't say
If it is another ordinary day...

Got no reason dear
But got the dare
To be into a rhyme...
And just rolling on
Me...
The stony small dime...

This June,
Find July...
And September sky...
Autumn with me eloping...
We are flying!

Got no occasion
L'amour...
But that potion once poured
Emptied...
Emotive...
Sent me like a straw...
Caught by the breeze...

Joyeux anniversaire!

Have you noted
The birth of a day?
Pray?
A birth golden...
A birth happy...
A birth...
As if everlasting mirth
And death joyous?
A birth like an oceanic breeze
Settling in
Quiet
A million
Tetrabyte joy implanted
By love and unsurpassable faith?
A joy luminous
Yet unexpressed...
Kept...
Within
Like a stream
Flowing eternal
Within...
Murmuring...
Trembling...
Inside...

And outwardly
No palpable sign?

A coming Home kind,

Kind...
Generous...

Une naissance d'un jour...
A birth of a day...
Have you felt...
Humbled...
Fullest...
Pray?

Once the morn came like inside...

Once the morn came
Like an inside of a Church...
Silent
Contemplative
With a tree dressed all white
Covered by blossoms ...
Her pollens pale pink though
Spreading in the fragrant air...

Once the morn came like a river
Reflecting the sky calm
Where from
A breeze made a run
Through each and everyone
Full of aerospray...
Not bottled or kept compressed
In tin cans by external force pressed...

But free...
Free the Godly
Free like that weekender white tee
With an icon of a bird saffron
Flying...

Once the morn came like her
An urban walker coming of age...
Dipping silent into the free spirit
Of the sky...
Of the fragrant breeze...
Of the river flowing carelessly...
Of that tree inside blooming...
Of that Church always forming...

A picture...and a door kept opened...forever

'Wish i had that flair...
Like writing a laissez faire...
As someone did
Way back in nineteen hundred forty six...
Deciphering and noting down tricks
Of surviving good...like living with Peace...
Forever,
Wish had I that dare
To live at Nice...
By the sea with all friends there...
A bluish green life...
Small...but huge the same...'

he thought looking at a picture...
Of Mother...
Virgin Mary
Placed at a niche...
Just above an entry door
To someone's hut...
(That door never kept shut
Even for strangers...
Like a Padre named Mackinze
Once kept... )

he just wished...

Sometimes She...

Sometimes She
Is like a paperboard artist
Painting her French canvas
With loony songy paint...
Sometimes She is like a mosaic vinyl print
Casting only glossy shiny love
All over my drenched soul...
Sometimes She her golden hair unfolds
To let me die
An unnatural death
So welcomed by red carpet...

Sometimes She lends Her glow
From far...
From deep...
From the dark unseen cliff...
Standing there like a silver screen maiden, as if
To fill me with Her blessed supreme...

Sometimes she thus
Becomes a She...

Ame silencieuse

he looked at her
Eyes thin black lined... eager,
her thoughtful silence...
Basking...
In silence...

he looked at her...
Sitting quiet...ten thousand miles far,
Pondering silence...

A silent soul
Like an evening mirthful...
A throbbing heart
Like living loving yet staying apart...

A super market ... the bard...californification... and a sky...

'Hey you bard?
What are you doing here?
In this supermarket?
Searching what?'
he asked Him
That long white beard...
Standing confused...

And finding Him
his muse...
The Zues
Like glow
All over Him
he was in turn...pretty amused...

He...
Looked at him...
Smiling...
'Following Ginsberg? you?
Are not you?'
The bard him asked...
He the Zeus like
Threw to him
A stare,
His fitting omniscient glare...

'Californification?
Having that here?
Wi-fi  enabled you here?'

he was shocked...
'Christ!
Hey my worship of million years...
You know that too?'
he knelt...
Before him
In happy tears...

He looked outside
Through the facade
Glass...
Outside...
The setting monsoony Sun
Was etching poems...
On she...
The blue white sky...

he...
Idiot...
Followed His stare...

Outside...

City was getting decked with a golden glow
And the street appeared like a river...
And those cars were just like varied shapes...
Some boats...hand crafted,
Some big luxurious yachts...
Some ships...
Some cruisers... blueline...

Outside...
The twilight was descending fine...

An afternoon ...Somnambulent...and a wonder of a dream...

Dear
Writing this from the heart of the city
A different kind...
Perhaps only a Somnambulent
State of a day
Could gift one such a moment...
A wonder...
A red flower blooming soft
Against a backdrop
Of grey clouds...

Dear...
Writing with red ink
Dipped in holy water...
While feeling
Sleepy...
Loved...
Cared...

And a music forever generated...
A wonder...

Perhaps He had arrived here...
At this place...
With His Quiet
Inaudible...
And Sight
Not Seen...
But only felt on skin...

A wonder...
A red rose blooming kind
Upon soul...mine
And calling you by only singular mind...
A Stevie Wonder...

A photo rolled day...

Sometimes
A squall,
A lightning,
A golden glow
From heaven...
A river flow like  poem...
A wandering chance...
A letter from France...
A breeze with smell of a lotus pond...
A ride playing truant with fate...

Reminds one so much of her
A photographer...

Much like one
Who under a mango tree
Took shelter
After the escape
From city's din  and bustle...

Sometimes
A squall
A golden glow
Takes one
To a reread...

And
An unknown
Yet known
Rainy feel in one again breeds...

Candy floss ...to gelati... a dawn...

The dawn came
With a lot of candy floss
Pinkish blue
The dawn came to touch the greenish moss
As grown overnight
Courteis rain and more of rain
That had inundated the souls with dreams ...
The morn came such
As if to touch
All with His Holiness...
The morn came with candy pink dress...

As if a scene hitherto unsavoured
As if lord Himself had favoured
The ascent and descent the same...
Of candy pink floss
Across the sky blue...
Huge...
As huge as the arrival sudden
Of a cottony hill...

The dawn came with a cool feel
On skin...
On eyelids...
On arms and legs...

The dawn in whispery tone
Only Love planted and laid...
A gelato taste...
With lot of gelati...
Spread and puffing up
Made of only cream and sugar...
And nut purees...

different Selene...

Seen her
The perigee moon tonight?
Shining like a nun?
Bright?
Halo-ed?
As if like a beauty come out just
From a nocturnal prayer...
Blessed...
Calm...
By Apollo given
Another birth...
Not tired...
Like once Shelley her found,
A Richard Nolle kind
Astronomically rare...

Seen her?
Have you not?
By so much love wrapped...
Going to sleep
As if
Yet so luminous?
Seen her
As  She by your door passed?
A different Selene?
A different one?

Un baiser s' il vous plait...

Dear...
This rain filled afternoon...
This cool tired me...
Living within you
And dreams carrying quite an awesome
Probability...
Of diluting time and space constraints...
This rainy screen french...
Why not I for once dress as another Gabriel?
And you for once at least
With Emilie your self fix...
And I propose a transcendence...
Which you like Emilie
Decline...
(Believing horizontal life line...
Much like her, Emilie, not knowing the happy trance...
Not knowing how to indulge in rain dance...)
Then with the star placed
On your bosom kept on rest...
I would you narrate...
A story...
Of not living a small life in a state of morbid sorry...

Dear...
Wish I could be
An Emmanuel
Who discovered
The beauty not as transient...
decadent fuel...
But as something Godly...
So Godly that it is unafraid
Of malice...

Wish you sent me that chalice
For me to bear...
Wish my voice silent
You could just in pitter patter on rooftop hear...

Wish just
A request from you as the only scope
'Un baiser s' il vous plait...'
As act of Faith...
And Hope...

Azzuri...

Azzuri...

O I love you
Am not I?
Azzuri...love mine!
Your blue
And that cloudy autumnal post rain kind
O loving you more
Post rain sunshine...
Azzuri mine...

For you...from me... a billet doux morn...

Dear...
Said I am Frances...
And you are Isabel mine...
And once thought of me as Jason
And you Pamela...
Then tried compare you
With a tree ...
A sapling of a mahogany...
Then you an ocean deep blue n green
- my monsoony spring
me imagined taking sleep there...
In your brown black italian hair
me smelt jasmine...
And green sensuous lavender...

Bene...
me thinks there were nothing such in
The world of galaxy series
Or cloudy notes..,
Or even in any space defined definite
To hold you...
Your all...
Your smiles...
Your divine call
Which keeps me awake from morn to night
To the next morn...

There is nothing such dear
Amigo mio...

There is only awakening.,.
And shutting down...
There is only birth
And death..,

In you
Within you...
Within me... too!

a search...an effort...and a find... one evening...

'the moon...
silvery...
where has she gone?
is she busy taking care
of her
little angel?
is she drawing picture
of a sea...
where a dream rests perfect in happy drowsy state?
has she turned into a love ridden poet?
the moon silvery...
where is she?'

he thought
traveling down
when an evening descended
to knock
at the twilight's door...

he thought of her...
using all resources at his disposal...
ether net...
non ether...
clear vision sense...
blowing mind out of chains...
syncing hard with that frequency shot and transmitted...
through waves generated
by heart mind soul triple working overtime...
he thought of bending ariel time...

and then...
a cuckoo sang...

and
at a crossing he saw a woman...
walking across in beauty so
he thought in her,
Her he found dropping slow...

as once a poet did on a film develop
lovely thoughts serenely expressed soft...
on his love with eyes full of peace...
on his love who with calmness fervently him kissed...

Synced...

'tell me...
dear...
i think
we think
the way the same...
i think like Him
and you like Her...

and
methinks
He and She
there ...
they are Synced...
they mirror...
each other...
so...
we are synced
too!
are we not?'

he asked her one
afternoon
when the noon day tide
had mellowed a bit...
and across the street
the pineapple tree
had lovely smell flavoury...
as if spring had become
a pineapple tree...

she
nodded...
syncing...
sinking...
and letting him sink too
more...

'are we gadgets?'
she finally asked...
joking...
knowing him
and his gadgety ideas...

he smiled...
'from one angle...
yes...
like that to some extent...
why not?
we got snapshot feature...
so we keep slides coded and intact...
we save space
to allow Space more...
we like synced exchange
automatic...
from cloud
we gather our required static...
we encrypt to save glare...
we decode to unfurl hair
into the storm called Love...
we both believe in source code...
we both float like country boat...
singing songs of life...
amidst hurricane, and unavoidable strife...
we are synced...
and we thus sink...
still we live it more...
are we not?'

he justified...
his idea...
gadgetoholic things...

'why so gadgety?
you?
how come you
align it with spiritual existence?'
she asked...
she got queries so many...
(like a nanny...caring... loving...concerned...)
he smiled...

'well...
people are Gods...
those people who thought syncing...
mirroring...
they thought God...
for He is the greatest synchroniser
of our time bound theatre
of small stage...

He is synced...
with you and I
with She...
are not we?'

he replied...
looking at her
face...
that carried pinkish trace...
over cheeks...

she smiled...
she thought
she heard a tune of a song...
a song without words...
a song never sung...
but she thought she that heard...

'that is a be...
synced...
we are...
are we not?'
he asked...
not asked
actually replied...

she nodded...
synced...

on song...simply...

'this morn
keeps me on...
like a bird on song...

this morn
keeps me charged
by the broad golden green daylight...

this morn
keeps within me a dove
by St.Augustine Love...

this morn
like Paradise
Serious blue and white
rolls over me like Sacrifice...

this morn
fills me more
with wind strong enough
to reach Your shore...'

someone sang aloud...
and a bird there on a branch of a tree
took the cue...
from the white...
the gold...
and the blue...

another morn... Paradise on earth kind...

'where from this beautiful fragrance arrives thus?'
he thought
as he chanced to pass
one morn a garden such
full of trees...
various...
he paused...

CN One...
first pair of twelve cranial nerves caught a smell sweet
as if someone had poured a bottle of green lavender...
somewhere near...

he by eyes searched...
and found the small shrub
Santalina virens!

there she stood
green with yellow dots
and emitting volatile compounds...
into the morn's decent cool misty air...

he stared
and
took a long inhale...
the yellowish blossoms pale
all over the shrub...
looked like little angelic stars...
aromatic...
and he got lost
into that fragrant morn...

lighted up
soft
penetrating the haze
he filled his lungs
with the feel...
a sense...
like
Paradiso sulla terra
kind...

a roadie's morning prayer...with profondeur de la foi

'Lord...
just give me a road such...
dark blue asphalt...
cool
and vacant...
de-peopled...
just like You...
uninhabited...
blue...

and a wayfarer kind
of a motorcycle...
just
to ride through
this small
life...

and i want no more
i want no more...'

he muttered
a prayer
one very early monsoony morn
post late night drizzle
incessant...

standing...
pausing...
getting in
to the feel
of a ride
down the road...
as the city slept...

and
he thought
at that moment
Him he found
like a shadow appearing
with all His profundity
And
His Undecipherable generosity
And
His widest kind of Love
And
His solid state Faith...

right there
where he paused
and prayed...

like a Figure...
white garment worn
as if a form of Cloud
so soft...
so kind...
He arose...

as if He just appeared with His ethereal smile...

and he stood there...
paused...
dazed...
amazed...

and he prayed...
more...
on the blue dark asphalt road...
And
he felt
he got
what he sought...
profondeur de la foi...

je meurs d'amour...

Dear...
this afternoon
only thinking you...
forgive me...
cause me
in so much of love
that in pure rest
I
in onethousand miles
per min speed

f l y...

i just f l y...

and
possibility
is opening the same...
for you too
to reach
that cloudy blessed sky...

forgive me...
dear
for I
in onethousand miles
per minute speed
f l y...

and i die...
dipped
in
love...

i die
having
sipped
Love...

a travel from country to city...a beauty INFINITE...

'o how much i miss that road...'
he muttered
as leaving off the country-
he met a flexboard...
fluttering like a beauteous form so
as if someone's dupatta flung...
as if someone longed for the freedom-
he enjoyed...
on monsoony afternoon...

'O how i miss those white swans
on a country green wide...
drenched...
and the vision of cows still grazing
oblivious
of the thundery feel
much like the state me attained...
temporary though...'
he thought...
with severe love wrought...
pained and happy terribly...
the wetness hanging loose on his blue shirt
and also on his lips...
silent throat...
singing within
happy...
loved...
be-longed...

and then
that missing
gradually,
being so happy itself,
changed everything...

for in the city...
like flooded streets
full of cars...
bikes...
horns...
clumsy...

he found a perspective
of Love...

'Christ!'
he exclaimed...
self exclamatory...

'wow...
the city  is so flooded!
that busstand bench still have a coyed couple...
that pink umbrella
with white dots
floating...
they all got music too...'
he realised...

and urban folk lore
like a heavy downpour
came
upon
him...

and he again died...

he
within one or hours two...
had death once...
happy...
and rebirths two...
happy the same...

and he thought
that lying eight...
and
Space getting entangled with Time...
I~N~F~I~N~I~T~E~

like

W~A~V~E~
coming...
to his heart...

Non Growing...
state...

But
Having
momentous energy...

Momentous...
Joy...
Faith...
Love...

on the Lake View Road...

and HE
painted His smiley
on the water...
a reverberation causing ...
a ripple...
golden...
silky...
smoothy...

as if on waters
He was born...
as if from sky blue and white
He thought to come
and sit on Her lap
for a while...
the waters
of the Benign...
the waters of the Pure...
the waters of She...
the Goddess...
who always looked up
and stared at Him...
like a mirrory being...

and he
the traveler...
the roadie...
riding by the Lake Placid
and Deep
lined by leafy greenish trees...
filled with birds numerous,
just slowed a bit
and watched
the Love
blossoming to be
the Highest...
the Pinnacle...
as
Helios
came down
to plant a kiss
Gold
on Her
waters...
cool...
deep...
wavy...
restive...
and fresh...

'Sunshine on the water look so lovely...'
he sang...
and rode
the Lake view Road...

the slow snow and drizzle...

"If the sky is open and wide...
if the ocean is deep and blue...
if the air is free and flowery...

then
sometimes...
more often so...
thousand splendid Suns
appear...

'IS' it not?"

he thought...
as he got wrought
into a warp...
space  time not...
but
of
love...

A
G
A
P
E
.
.
.

it fell...
u
  p
    o
       n
him...
silent...
like
rain droplets...
silent drizzle...
drenching him...
wet...
snowed...
flaked...
decked...

elementary...

'this beauty of an evening...
surely it had been raining
somewhere
and the breeze was so caring
that fresh moisture she
thought to bear for me...'

he riding...
loving...
sharing...
and writing copious...
on the slate of heart
thought...
and he imagined her-
his eternal lover...

'standing at her own space...she
might be
combing
her hair
watching
vehicles running fast...
or
people homeward bound...

and in those slipping sights and sounds...
would she not hear me?
see me?'

he thought again
closing his eyes
connecting...
to the wavelength...
the air...
the atmosphere...
the earth...
the soil...
the fire...
the water...

elementary...
elementary pure...

a letter to her... heuristic kind...

Dear...
when Donne wrote 'Good morrow'
me thought
He wrote that for us...

and
this afternoon
when we are so apart...
on a cloudy calm balmy afternoon such...
filled with only Love songs...
methink
we two are
heuristic!

yes...
you enabling my understanding every possible way...
i yours...
are we two not getting merged?
slow...
graded...
have you not felt that surge
of waves...
waves coming one after another?
onto your soul...
the deep...
the mind...
deeper...
the heart...
the deepest?

hey!
Dear!
we are getting heuristic...
Ideal...
like a reference point conjoined...
are we not?
tell me dear?
are we not discovering
the eastern part of western hemisphere?
and the western part of east?
or the southern of the north?
or northern of the south?

are we not amalgamating?
soul to soul?
like a discovery
that in seven sleepers' den
they did?
in Good Morrow?

we are heuristic...
getting more
and more...
sinking too sure...

By the way...
in casino terms they call it
Monte Carlo!
but Monte Carlo is everywhere...
just like we two joined...
in Economics...
in cellular structures...
in probability functions...
in numerical integration...
in optimization...

so...
Dear...
see?
are we not getting joined?
optimized?
integrated?

Faith
adding to faith...
Love to love...
Space and Time...
they are uniting too...
are they not?

love added with Love
did that dear...
so...
where's the fear?

be in the flow...
He up there
will surely you and me show...
a way...
to Heaven...
sure!

a letter to her... heuristic kind...

Dear...
when Donne wrote 'Good morrow'
me thought
He wrote that for us...

and
this afternoon
when we are so apart...
on a cloudy calm balmy afternoon such...
filled with only Love songs...
methink
we two are
heuristic!

yes...
you enabling my understanding every possible way...
i yours...
are we two not getting merged?
slow...
graded...
have you not felt that surge
of waves...
waves coming one after another?
onto your soul...
the deep...
the mind...
deeper...
the heart...
the deepest?

hey!
Dear!
we are getting heuristic...
Ideal...
like a reference point conjoined...
are we not?
tell me dear?
are we not discovering
the eastern part of western hemisphere?
and the western part of east?
or the southern of the north?
or northern of the south?

are we not amalgamating?
soul to soul?
like a discovery
that in seven sleepers' den
they did?
in Good Morrow?

we are heuristic...
getting more
and more...
sinking too sure...

By the way...
in casino terms they call it
Monte Carlo!
but Monte Carlo is everywhere...
just like we two joined...
in Economics...
in cellular structures...
in probability functions...
in numerical integration...
in optimization...

so...
Dear...
see?
are we not getting joined?
optimized?
integrated?

Faith
adding to faith...
Love to love...
Space and Time...
they are uniting too...
are they not?

love added with Love
did that dear...
so...
where's the fear?

be in the flow...
He up there
will surely you and me show...
a way...
to Heaven...
sure!

in the name of Veles...

Πώς είσαι
she wrote once...
in the name of Slavic God...
Veles...
she wrote to him...

he recalled...
she writing that...
without any pretense...
as if from there
39°22'N
22°56'E...

nothing could other than that query
introductory come...
and
he talked...
he learnt...
how
she
another roadie
of her own right
took the curve...
running smooth
bending to reach
the golden twilight sky
a bit cloudy...

she...
another roadie...
took always how the road...

and
this morn...
he got the news...
she had remained the roadie the same...
she had remained the same...
at Thessaly...
she had bathed blue and green in the sea...
she had dipped her all into poesy...
this morn...
he got the news...

and
thought
it was his turn
to ask

Πώς είσαι...

(note: Πώς είσαι : in Greek, meaning 'how are you?')

je t'aime...like a morn...

'love you like this beautiful morn...
love you like this sunrising dawn...
love you like that swan white on flight...
love you like the shooting rays of new born light...'

he whispered a prayer like
and rode down
the street
where children did with school buses meet...
where newspaper vans stopped to unload clippings of broadsheet...
where pigeons still played hopping unafraid...
where trees standing by the wayside their leaves just waved...

he muttered
again soft
a prayer that the morn could possibly only for one drop...

'je t'aime comme un beau matin...'
he muttered riding down a street
covered by pinkish red golden spread like satin...

seen and unseen...

and someone stated
belated...
like a mail
coming after a long gap...
like that critical painting
with time semi liquid shape bending
falling off as if
from an edge of a table...

'haven't you seen
where you dreamt a hopeful beam
in that sky
in me too?
have not you?
have you not?
that dream sought?
found not?'

it was a query rhetorical...
like that once Christina asked
climbing uphill...
to Her small life's custodian...
perhaps...
the same query came
from the damsel
who played on a harp...
never moving to tunes sharp...

the same query...
so oft repeated in songs...
in ideas really held aloft...
by pillars of biggest Faith...
kept him muted...
his uncertain ways diluted...

'but journeys are always short...
of this short life...
and long
in longest Life...'
he thought...
and got de ja vu...
sure...

perceiving the unreal...
and yet the real...
he remembered
someone writing a book
in 1928...
talking mind...

how mind always tries
to shape...
reshape...
and assimilate
events of small life...
to make an imprint
of an experience...

de ja vu...
and
then
the
unseen...

the Seen...
the Never Seen...

a silent church...an altarpiece...and finding her...

sitting at a church
one afternoon
back from work...
sitting on the wooden bench
one afternoon
under the canopy of a masterpiece of art...
altarpiece...painted on the ceiling
white
with nimble strokes of brush...
he felt cool...
the cool inside...
it was such overwhelming
as if it was like falling in love
with his favoured woman...
the woman whom he had loved the most
voiced...the most
yet so silent...
the woman for whom he died several...
and got born...
silently though...

that coolness of love dripped then
into his soul...
sitting in a church...
one afternoon
coming from work...

wishing to be a painter like Monet...

'Dear...
wish i could be a painter...
wish i had that grace...
and brushes with colors...
to paint your beauty...
your red...
your white...
your green...
in a simple flowing dress...

wish...
i could have learnt
that
favoured thing
that once to Oscar Claude Monet
did bring...
that art...
that mosaic form
into His heart...

wish could have Him that painter met...
and with 'en plein air' so much reset...
that
painted you as green
as He had once seen...
Camille...

wish had that pair of eyes...
to paint the blue of your wide spread sky...

wish you could be transformed so
into a Camille mine...'

he once thought of a write up such...
one beautiful morn...

for her eyes...

'wish i could die in your eyes...
so beautiful
and so blue...
like this morn...

wish i could be born
in your soul so so torn...
wish i could be the air
and send essence of flowers
into your heart so red and yet so white...'

he thought
as he got caught
and drunk...
by the beams of the sun
and the sky like a propulsion strong
taking him to those eyes...
for which he forever longed...

while returning from the big city...

'the city has its beauty too
perhaps...
a beauty in her hurriedness...'
he thought
while on return
from the city big one...
in every possible way
so different...
from the dreams of country
with which he started the day...

'the city's beauty is so transient...
that it always slips by...
its beauty lies in its temporary files...
useful but never holding much memory space...'

he thought
looking at the rows of horse drawn carriages
by the orangey maidan
draped by artificial miniature suns
as posted on long posts...
and finding someone
biting nails of her fingers...
anxious...waiting...personified...

'and those wide colorful billboards
selling materials...
like a destination built on pennies...
like a slideshow filled with photoshop dummies...
they form beauteous shapes too...
only so
written in unnecessary
business...
undecipherable hurry...

but then...
interestingly...
the city got her own trees too...
those trees greenish...full of dust and soot
still braving all heat and chaos...
still bringing in some shades...
under which people could be found on rest...
afterall it had been still a summer...
after all rains had taken a day off or two...'
he thought
while returning from the big city
that slowness always pitied...

a pilgrimage before slog...

'why this ride
every morn?'
she once him asked...
when
both of them
under the sun basked...
and the window opened
straight to a city...
still carried gold...
sans dust...
still had smell flowery...

it was morning still...
and so the air had that feel...

he stopped sipping tea...
he looked up to see...
her...
her eyes...
'troubled are you? by me?'
he asked...
still they under the gold basked...
so there was still love...
and hope...
and faith...

'heard St.James?
Dear?
and le pelerinage?'

he asked...
concerned...
about her...
about only her...

she nodded...
like a child...
coming to terms
every day
of their stay...

she remembered
the ways...
the routes...
the paths...

'but if i fail?
if i fail to follow
your run?
if i fail...?'

she asked...
worried...
a bit tensed...
beads appearing on her forehead...
making her all the more beautiful...
drenched by the new born gold...
as if painted that...
a child...
a babe...
wondering...

he came near
her...
took her hands in his...
planting a kiss...
and murmured...

'if failure comes...
success comes nearer too...
if you fail...
am i not here?
dear?
and if i fail...
you are there...
are you not?'

she smiled...
the city was waking up...
a blessed day yawned off indolence...
a milkman arrived at the gate...
the newspaper boy flung bytes of news...
the buses started plying...
the city woke up to work...
a slog had already begun...

a travel to a place... a start again with joy...

this soft dewy grass...
this green...
that youngish growing happy old
banyan tree...
those chirpings of birds
woken by the first rays of the Sun...
a blue pink white sky...
the smell of mango blossoms...
whitish green...
and a companion...
blue too!

'ain't it lovely?'
he asked him self...
being fully calmed...
by a curious sense of silent love...
as if he had fallen in love again
with this country...
where cocks crowed carrying a hopeful
waking up call...
where peasants start early...
too early their day...
simple days of their...
followed by simple life...

'why not i stay awhile here?
barefeet?
in touch...
with them...
with their Mother...
Nature...
is She not my mother too?'

he asked...
sinking by choice made...
into A Heaven...
so pure...
so sure...
so sure...

finding unicode...one happy lovely evening...

'this beautiful evening...
when the stars up there only busy singing...
nothing but love
and joy...
am i not joyous too?
am i not getting
what i always aspired after?'

he thought...
as he hurried through the city street...
people where in Sunday spirit...
dipped perfect
in sabbath...
a Holy kind...
and he
in his mind
searched ...
searched...
searched...
for an expression...
an unicode...
like joie de vivre...
like gioia...
like something even better...
deeper...
vaster...
wider...
higher...
softer...

and...

he thought
only
'!'

nothing more...
nothing less...

only '!'

and

just then
by His Providence...
he passed by a street side party...
some people
young and old...
sitting and laughing
and smiling
and talking
and sharing
and caring...

he slowed a bit...
there...
watching those happy faces...
starlit souls...
blessed hearts...
and he thought
someone passed by
singing...
'Can you feel the love tonight...'

'that's the Unicode...
something can only be equated with
U + 0021...'

he thought...
and smiled...
Happy...
was he not?

You a Lyla... and me an Evan...

Sometimes...
got a feeling...
you...
my Lyla...
and
I
your son
Evan...

and you
search for me...
lost am i in a city...
carried away complete
by a savant like spirit...

but you know...
don't you?
i am no savant...

for you
i flee...
for you i laugh out in glee...
for you i find the Ethereal Goddess...
for you i land straight to Space...

and still
for you i drop down...
and like a traveler
i run the whole town...

for you...
In July
August find i...

for you
in spring
Autumn so much beauty
to me brings...

for you
mother so golden...
Lyla mine...
i in glory awesome shine...

{note: loosely based on a Kirsten Sheridan film 'August Rush' (2007) }

he...she...a piano play and La Prisonniere...

'you seem to be in a flamboyant mood this morn...'
she stated...
seeing him playing piano
at the hall...
like that pianist...
held captive
in a war ravaged town...
playing piano by running fingers through air...
imagining...

he looked at her...
pausing his flight
of fancy...

the gold of Sun made him sweaty...
glistening...bright...
happy...
beseiged...

and
he just stared at her...
foolish child he
was he not?
staring at her
like that?
was that not idiotic too?

'dear...
when the sky is so blue...
wish i could be
a Chopin...
and you
a George Sand...'

she smiled...
she knew
something like that was always coming
out of him...
this sunny blessed morn...
this blue white sky...
this gold all over the hall...

but he was still looking...
at her...as if he was rediscovering...

'what now?'
she asked...
embarassed a bit...
shying...
blushing...
feeling on her skin
the golden love...
falling...
flowering...
dancing...

'dear...'
he suddenly looked a bit serious...
'ten years...
you know...
only ten years
wish i could get...
from Him
up there...
you stay
as Amandine....
and i
a Chopin
perhaps...
not like them the God and Goddess...
but a little bit?
a fragment only ?

please?'

now...
it was her turn...
it was her turn to stare foolish
at him...
stuck...
absolutely stuck...
bedazzled by Love...

and he was singing...
'nothing is real but dreams...
only dreams and Love...'

she remembered
Amandine...
and she felt she got imprisoned...
The Captive kind...
a Proust kind...
la Prisonniere...

he,meanwhile,had stopped playing
in the air...
he, by that time ,
was looking at her...
into her eyes...
absent...
and yet so much present...

keeping coming back...to her...

he met her
like a dream joyous autumnal...
and he smiled...
she smiled back sure...
in her blue chiffon with fleecy prints white
she looked so innocent...so so pure...
as if she was there...
a beauty unbound & unfathomed...
only
and
only
for him...

and he made a recollect...
an autumnal festive day...
a walk down a street where children played
street cricket...
filled with their cries and shouts...
bowling someone out...

and how had they walked then
side by side...
his left hand
held by her...
soft...
and how had they talked...

she had talked home...
she had talked children...
quite a ten thousand!
he had guffawed loud
seeing perhaps her blue and fleecy white clouds...

now again ...
O how she came...
to him
the traveler...

and he thought...
'the world is never too far...
i might go to different places...
i might meet lemniscate...
i might analyse theory of evolution
but there is no escape from her...
her eyes...
her smiling Sun blessed face
her blue and fleecy cloudy dress...
her sense ever widening...
her Golden festive autumnal morning...
her Sharod smell...

O how i helpless
forever her just tail ! '

'keep coming back...'
she smiled and said
hearing perhaps his words unsaid...

'hey!
she just smiled like Isabella...
or
did that smile resemble a Pamela?'

he thought...
and
pressed the switch...

afterall...
he had works to do...
had he not?

by silver dyed...by Selene died...

'O this moon...'
he gasped
at her...
the moon
like a dreamy boat...
afloat...
over ocean of candy floss white...

'why can't she come down
at least for once?
with her unparallel glory...
as lent on Her
by Jupiter?
now that i am by the window
opened wide...
thinking and thinking her deep...
why does she just peep
towards me
riding side saddle such?
Selene like...
a goddess on ride...
a Titan kind...
why does she just peep
and take away more of my sleep?'

now that the day has come to an end...
now that the time has come-
knocking me off to death...
why does she keep me so awake?'

he asked...
and through the dense moist wet misty ether
sent his query...
(he was in a bit hurry...
was he not?
afterall another day was slipping by...
another time will him keep caught...)

the moon said nothing...
she was unassailable...
a rare variety...

'but is she not full of piety?
is she not wise?
has she not the knowledge
of how day evolves into a night?'

his mind was relentless...
his soul was silvery...
his ears were by tiredness led...

so he slept...
so he died...
fully dyed
silvery!

a letter to you...wishing a protein resequencing...

Dear...
is it not a time to write a letter?
after a gap of several days?

never told you...
haven't garnered courage such...
but...
i look upon you
as my mother sometimes...

really...
it is true...
if i am true...
if the sky is true
and the ocean is...

and i am no Oedipus...
and you are no Electra...

so...
thinking only Leroy Hood
and another Godly man
Pehr Edman...
heard they hacked the mother code...
they did protein sequencing right
to hack the mother code...

my body got roughly what?
some one lac different genes...
yours too...
the same...

wish i could hack mine
and implanted some into you...
and you hacked yours
to get your father code...
and implanted a bit into me!

then...
you see...
we could have matched the best...
we could have traveled the farthest...

finding you at Cote d'Azure dream...

that vast coast line
of Cote d'Azure...
brings you to me dear...
the blue-
spread like a dream...
the wind-
as good as any soother,

when they talk to my ears...
i see your face...
autogenerated...
as if they all work together
to help me connect...
with Him...
the final Home...
and you
another
home...

that red top
of that house
tall...
set
perfect
vertically bright
as if a beacon of red red light
for wayfarers
giving them direct...

that brings me closer to you...
that redness never burns...
the redness is so pure
as if white...
so peaceful as if sleep...
so transcendental
as if a journey being always made within...
a journey having been made all through...
for a decade...
or
for a century...

that ramp made of thick solid wood
held strong and buttressed by logs of teak...
further accentuated by whitish pink rocks...
that even takes me to you,
dear...

and i walk...
without fear...
for
i got Him
and you...
and She in you...
Her blessing
on your face...
Her silence in your eyes...
Her dreams in your walks...

so...
i feel a death is occuring
always within
at that
Cote d'Azure...

a Happy Death...
a Happy Rebirth...
a Happy State...

sometimes She arrives...

sometimes she arrives
just like mother mine...
so pure...white flowery...
so green...
youthful...
so calm and fresh...

sometimes she revisits...
as if that is Her rebirth...
Her choice
of standing so near me...
so near that i could get a smell
of her flowery saree...
green with white floral patterns...
all over Her...

O! sometimes She just arrives
in Her absence
with all of Her presence...
like a sense...
like a rain filled morn fresh...
like a dream...unreal
like a tree...so real...

a birdsong morn... and you...

wish i could be
an Olivier
and
you
my
Yvonne...

and
we could together just wake up early  morn
only to listen birds' songs...

for
birds...
they have no religion
as such
other than God...
for
birds
are the sweetest singers on earth...
plentiful...
only singing by natural choice...
they got
no other thing
to artificiality bring
into their unpremeditated
non destined...
unobjectified
search for
The Highest...
The Pinnacle...
The Supreme...

they are simply His being...
they are He...
they are She...
they are a Be.

wish i could be a Hindu
and you a Muslim...
and for a change i be a Catholic
and you a Protestant...

and next you a Buddhist
and i a Jew...

and surely then
on such a lovely blessed cuckoo filled
rainy morn
we would have become
birds...
Birds true...
Birds free...
Birds as Olivier* recorded in His books...
and Yvonne
furthered on...

[*note: Olivier Messiaen {1908-1992} was a french composer and ornithologist]

when clairvoyance happened...

once she came,
and like an evening-
late spring
when rains had begun,
she sang
all about
Big Time Love...
restful...

she sang out loud
yet not heard by all...
barring him...

she sang out in
a mode which transmitted pulses rhythmic
soul to soul...
even many miles apart...

a mode which no known intoxication could possibly usher in...
none...

but he knew...
like misty dew
on leaves...
like that
tomorrow never dies theme-
all red
like a residue...
on heart
holding Him,
like she holding Her...
or He connecting  Her...
and She doing the same...

clairvoyance,
that did that...
no blue smoke...
no prick
or poke...
no cellular network...
only freed minds...
freed from every possible strife...
freed from small life...
freed from small time...

clairvoyance...
that did it...
when a traveler
paused sudden...
listening the whistle of the breeze
as filtered through distance
unverified...
locations unknown...

only clairvoyance
seeds like that could have sown...
uncarried...
undelivered...
still sown soft...
lukewarm...
the way it should happen...
on hearts softened...
souls attached...
yet being few million light years apart...

A morning ride with them...The Boys...

With the drizzle falling fine
Stalking him like She always does
Specially when he is on the road...
And the sky so love laden
Like his favorite bard's favored clime...
And the trees so so wet and drenched
As if they longed for that wet
All over their Holy state...
And the streets cool...wet the same
Shining bright...washed and by flowery aroma freshened...
he tapped soft
On his mp3 memory card small...
Micro type...
But holding thirty two gigabytes
Of songs...
And hit straight The Boys Four...
Those boys in black jackets coupled with white shirts and black boots...
Those boys who rewrote the history of Love and love
And life...
And Life...
And Time
And time...

he bowed to-
The Boys...who being just wonderous...
just jovial...
magnanimous... fiery...
icy cold...
Young and old...
So so herculean bold...
rewrote...
All...

Only by their songs...

And ...
They sang out loud...
As if blessing him...
They sang out
Into his soul...
'if there's anything that you want
If there's anything I can do...
Just call on Me...'

he smiled...
he loved instant
The road...
The slippery shiny path...
The drizzle...
And of course...
his blue blue horse...

On Le liseuse...

he looked at her...
her side profile
In yellow saffron
Back rested on a brownish cushion...
Hair tied up neat
In a bun...
Chin hanging down a bit
Eyes all on her hands
Held up to hold a book...
She was reading...
Reading she was...
Was she not?
the world of knowledge...
Moving slow towards wisdom...
Moving towards more of life
The Small and The Real Big...
She was reading...
Framed in eightyone by sixty four dimensions...
Outside it might have been
A rain rain filled scene...
Inside
It might be all Light...
Inside
It might be drizzling love slight...

She was reading...
Was she not?
Framed in eighty one
And sixty four centimetres...

And he just looked at her...
Being caught forever...
Ignited...
Calmed...
Lighted...
Loved...

[note: on Jean Honore Fragonard's work,an eighteenth century oil painting...]

Belief...in disbelief...

'so...
Tell me...
Why are you here?
In this city?
Stranger?'
she asked him...
A stranger true...
Face sun burnt...
Arms tanned...
Legs agile...
Carrying traveler's signs...
And a bag on his back...

he was looking at the sky...
Searching for something...
he was not hearing perhaps...

'he might be a thief!
Or a fugitive...'
She thought...
Thinking...
'Otherwise...
Why did he not answer?
Is he just a traveler?'

Questions and doubts came hurrying
Into her mind...
'but ...
A thief
Or a fugitive...
i am not that to believe...
For they usually do not look up to the sky...
That too a sky which is dull conspicuous...
With no wonder in her...'
she was thinking still...
Messed up...
Troubled...
she had a terrible urge to believe...
And yet this man...non responsive...

'okay...i wait...'
she decided...
For him to answer...

Then she thought...
she heard him mutter...
Something like:

'heard people of this city
Talk about Your eyes...
As if they Love them...
So thought...
Why not i visit that Dame?
And stay awhile there...
In Her eyes?
heard people found ocean here
So thought
Why not i go there?
And take a swim there?
Plunging into the bluish green?
heard the sky here is springy autumnal monsoony and wintry the same...
All through the year...
So thought
Why not i go there
And take a flight into that sky?'

she thought she heard it right...
She thought he the traveler was right beside her...
she tried to believe that...
And tried she...
To believe...
All...
Like-
The breeze...
The drizzling morn...
The songs of cuckoos...
The smell of a french perfume...
The golf course scene-
Absolut green...
The sky scrapers spreading up arms to pray for Life...
The coconut trees sage like...
The moment of courting death and remaining alive...
The monastery with saffron flags aflutter...
The bridge that went straight to Hawai...
The vanilla ice dropping on a leaf...
Words written in blue on lips...
'relazione con dio...'
And several things like that...
she tried to believe all of that...

Another beautiful evening...a movie clip narrative stream...

Another beautiful
Evening...
As good as often seen
In movies set at hills...
Has arrived...
A particular movie forming
Though,
Here at this time,
Another beautiful evening...
Filled with a movie clip
Of a journey man...

Like journey made by a person-
The protagonist,
There reaching
One evening...
At the hills
Rainy...
With
Pine and deodar trees sending out mist
Of their own
Sweet...
And
A meandering path through the woods
Reaching a cottage-
Made of teak
Pure...seasoned by hurricanes...storms...heat...rains...
Faded green kind
But holding good...
Older
But just like a refuge
One,
Like the protagonist, would seek
Traveling miles...
(enjoying the beauty of the slopes...
Cultivation done on steps...
Shaded different...
And then at evening just
Reaching the path...
Before that cottage...)

A few cottages also placed...
Some adjacent...
Some distant...
Yellow bulbs low watt
Hanging from wooden long poles
Put by some people
Reaching there
Earlier...

And the traveler...
Dropping his bagpack
On the verandah,
His body slackened...
His mind soulful...
Would perhaps take a long yawn first...

Then he would preferably his arms folded place
On the woody rail
Resting his upper body a bit...
On it...
Acting like a support...

He would see the beauty of the place...
Taking in the hilly evening fullest
Into his heart...
The rainy cool breeze like a balm
Would surely come
To him then...

He almost dozing...
Would then be
Trying hard
To remain alive...
Keeping his self from dying happy death-
Caused by the silent faith
On the hills...the trees and the smell incense like...

He would search into his pocket of jeans
To bring out a packet of cigarette...
He would light it up...
The light would make the surrounding illumed a bit...
And also his face-
Tired...sleepy but
Happy bitten by Agape...

He would listen to the song
Of the evening
Standing there long...

As if the place
Always had his self
Hidden in those trees...
The hills
And the misty evening...
As if the place
Had summers turning
Into rainy tears...
And rains turning to be
Autumns...
And autumns becoming winters...
As if his being
And several years
Got merged there...

As if he had been part of the place such
That he never arrived
And never had a departure...

Such an evening
Has dropped
Here...
Another
Beautiful kind-
Blessed...
Peaceful...
Godly!

Searching her...And hearing her...

'are you there?'
he asked...
As if he asked her
And also his mind...

The blue of Grasse
Of the vast
Ocean
Took him
There...
And also
That sky...
And
That line...
Where the sky
On ocean lied
Restive...
In peace...
In Love...

he
Looked at the towers...
The pots brick colored
Hanging from them...

he
Looked at the musical morn...
Which only city of Grasse
(Named after an admiral
Francois Joseph Paul kind-
Who fought against all...)
For any human could only turn...

And
Asked
'Are you there?'

The slope of the hill
Upon which
Those houses were built
Was silent...
Largely silent...
As if
The slope waited for long
For a query so heartful
Like that...

That museum seen...
From the cliff
Standing like a glorious past
And hope of future too...
Of art and craft...
It was silent too...

And he thought
he was such a fool...
To find answer
Of a question
Never to be asked...

And then
he closed his eyes...
Taking the whole of Grasse...
A beautiful town...
Near Nice...
One thousand metres from the sea level...
Within him...
The feel...
Of the hills...
Those flower pots hanging in the breeze...
That stony street
Where Paul Rubens set His studio hut...
That house where once Fragonard lived...
That Saracen tower...
That fete du jasmin...
A festival of perfume and flowers...
That entry gate magnificient
Of Hotel de ville...
he...
Prayed to all of them...
Closing his eyes...

By Love so entwined...

And

he heard her...
her softest murmur...
Like a morning serenade...

'Oui...'
She murmured...
'I am here...
Open your eyes...
Dear...
Open your eyes...'

Finding Samson and Delilah...as Rubens...

And He
Samson fell asleep
Tired as He was
On Delilah's lap...
His arms fell off
Hanging...
His head rested in peace
He was in Love...
Was not He?
so ...
Upon His love...
Delilah's soft sweet lap...
He slept off...
Happy...

A few minutes before that
Perhaps He had told Her
Where had He so far
Kept His strength...
His hair...
The long uncut one...
The Hair...

And Delilah...
Was not She softened too?
Was not in Her hall
Placed right
Beautiful
At a niche...
There was Venus?
And Her little son...
Cupid?

But those soldiers...
They were also waiting...
They were also waiting...
At the gate...

No one knew them...
Delilah?
She got no wind of them too...

Only in the town of Grasse...
Rubens
At His studio
In oil on wood
Found them revealed...
He found the story true...
And He took pity so much on both
That spending His whole of heart
And double
Of soul...
He carved the wood...
He mixed oil with His tears and blood and color...
And placed it perfect...
On the canvas...

The same Rubens...
Being given
Love of God...
Did that...

He
Did that spending His eyes
Almost to several nights
And days...

The same Rubens...
Who did
Massacre of the Innocents...

He
Did that
Finding them
As
Oil on wood...

[note: On Peter Paul Rubens' (1577-1640) work 'Samson & Delilah'
..an oil on wood work]

Saying 'touche...' while bowing to Her...

How can one be really ignorant?
How can one take away one's both eyes...
Mind's and the mortal one...
If She comes thus?
If She all Her beauty pours?
As if She had given a call
And one just had to respond...
As if She had worn Her another deified form...
Mesmerising...
Eye opening...
Transcending
And sending
Waves after waves of Her visual glory
For mortal heart
And invisibly bright feel that could last...
For centuries perhaps...

And one can only acknowledge that...
Bowing...
Kneeling...
'touche...'
Saying...

As if hit bad
And yet happy to be hit good...

Bringing down a castle...stone by stone...

'have i built a fortress?
With a lot of grandeur...
Heartless thing?
have i been so ?'
he asked himself...
he made that self query...

Once
Coming out of a beautiful dawn
That still smelt cool and fresh
As if an essence...
Mixed with essential oils...
Extracted from flowers...
Lavender...
Rose...
Jasmine...
Marigold...
Tuberose...
A pot pourri...

'well...
If that is the thing
Why not i dismantle that poor thing?
And to earth...
To dust down it bring?
Why not i stone by stone
Tumble it down?'

he thought...

And took an axe...

he bled...
The axe bled too...