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.

A lighted blue sky and a painter's dream

Her skirt had botches of colors,
Red, pink, purple, green,
Her hands had colors too,
Her fingernails,
They had colorful sails,
And her cheeks,
They had pinkish hue,
And her canvas
Was like a lighted sky
Spread all over his eyes.

A short story.

The phone rang.
He picked up.
A known voice from far
Without being formal
Only informed:
"Wrote a story short...
See this month's Space",

"Okay, I will..."

He stated.
Before him was Space,
Latest edition.
He looked at the illustration -
a door, two people,
And red bold alphabets.

He heard rustle of leaves.
He felt the sky touching him.

Diwali night...

Starry starry night
Is enveloped by smoke,
Stars I find walk, tumble, run
On streets,
In eyes,
In smiles,

Starry starry night
Runs thousand miles,
Accompanied suitably
By lighted trees.

Flamingos,

Like Flamingos,
I do not know
If we are in a vacant place
Or in crowded avenue,
Like Flamingos,
I only know
Here you are
And so am I,
And ahead us
There is only a sky.

If You, had been a poem,

If you,
Had been a poem
Of a morn,
A poem never torn from continuum,
I would have kept my rhyme
In your flowing lines,
If you,
Had been a myth,
In your deep
I would have kept a legend,
If you,
Had been that color of a day
Termed 'haas' in aviary format,
I would have been the bird caught
Flying in the sky,
Like a picture,
A photograph.

Some morns are so inexpressible,

Some morns,
Dear,
Are so inexpressible,
So beauteous,
That one fails to decipher
How to paint them up,
Like a morn arriving with dew drops
Hanging like little beads of diamonds on railings,
And a foggy light overwhelming,
And songs heard floating,

Some morns are so divine,
So full of happiness,
That one wonders
What can not words do?
What not a moment can hold?

Some morns
Are so filled with misty gold
That feeling them one turns emerald,
Pure.

Grow young, with me,

Grow young, with me,
Grow with me like a song,
Hey, my songy heart,
Grow young like a lighted spark,

Grow young and blissful,
Grow like that colored pool,
Hey, my heart's song,
Grow young like an adoration,

Grow young with me,
Like a never ending festivity.

Just this moment, just this dusk,

Just this moment,
Just this dusk,
With smell of burning candles,
And lighted diyas,
When I get fully blessed,
When houses of the neighbourhood
in LED lamp chains get decked,

You sometimes come
Dressed in orange red petals,

Just this moment,
Just this dusk...

You come
With diyas
And colored
Flares.

Got a song,

Got a song,
This morn,
Watching pigeons hopping along
The graveled path,
Leading to the garden,
With flowers waking up young,
Got a song,
This morn,
Watching swallows dancing
And picking grains,
Just beside that fence
Where like a painting,
Sunrays fell
Slanted ,
With shadowy trees.