If I canst,

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

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

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

If my words take a form of a prayer,

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

Keep Your Bless,

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

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

I am going to make you dream,

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

Get swayed,

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

When thou hast put gladness, in my heart,

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

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

My lips shall utter forever thy praise,

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

A few lines on the boy by the river,

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

like a woman with a peaceful grace,

And that few men I could see,

Pulling and rowing through sands their little boat,

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

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

With a heart as one takes,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me tell you something,

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

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

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

A hymn to an Inspiration of a write,

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

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

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

Is it not good to see people happy?

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

Have you heard those angels?

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

No?

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

Lets invade the world with Love,

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

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

Marionette,

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

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

Come lets consume the joys of a twilight,

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

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

What is there in this world left?

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

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

How could thou color the sky thus?

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

Because my soul followeth hard after thee,

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

Upon an instrument of strings,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I asked him,
Almost pleading
To know,

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

I just followed him,
That evening.

I sing aloud thee,

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

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

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

Its raining awesome times...

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

When the morn blooms and grows,

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

What more can I want from you?

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

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

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

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

Under a luminous sky,

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

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

O mind mine,

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

I am just a mortal,

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

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

Unto thee,

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

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

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

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

O Poetry!

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

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

Wish could I sing, a song never ending,

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

Thou art Divine,

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

Like a sky painted by His warmth,

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

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

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

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

'Who plays the flute?'

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

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

From clouds to flowers,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When You pass anon,I walk a cornfield,

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

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

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

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

'Which tune turns my soul...'

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

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

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

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

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

Every poem one can make,

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

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

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

A verse I laid,

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

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

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

A wintry morn, a song of Love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who writes you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the kid played his violin,

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

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

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

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

enflamed...

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

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

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

enflamed...

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Time ago...

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

Eos,

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

Eos,

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

Hey Mother!

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

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

Fourth December,

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

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

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

Poet

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

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

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

Love is like a pie, with layers,

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

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

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

Some afternoons are like a ride down the road just.

Set against the cool breeze,

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

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

Set against the cool breeze,

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

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

'Lover'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Lover'

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

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

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

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

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

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

A walk in the clouds,

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

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

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

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

'Just anything...'

'Like what?'

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

'I know not any such thing...'

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

' I donno...'

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

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

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

And I her heard,
Repeating the truth,

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

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

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

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

Conversation, no.13,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Today, Zoya...'

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

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

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

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

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

(* Zoya: meaning ,alive and beautiful)