Visage of a twilight

Floating across the horizon
The visage of the twilight
Brought silhouettes ephemeral,
Wrought in hues emblematic,
As far as the eyes could behold
There was an expanse of a country
Getting slowly merged with the mist,
Apparently blurry the sight had the evocation
Of an evening unmistakably benign,
Adding to the tenderness of the air,
There was a descent of silence
Befitting gothic semblance.

Pictorial...

Just like a scene bound by frame
The tramline crisscossing the lane
Had gone away till it had bent
Near the single file seemingly of an apartment,

People of the town could be discovered
In shawls, sweatshirts, pullovers,
Some were walking to the bazaar,
Some had the resting indolence,

The roadside benches had their fill
Old age had come there to kill
All the time that had been left spare,
With wrinkled faces and webbed brows,

A row of trees dotting the pavement
Company to the electric posts lent,
Just where a tibetan shop newly opened
Had queue of connoisseurs for exotic items,

The park nearby seemed like a fair,
Panipuri stalls having business brisk,
And candyfloss were held by little hands
Like cotton balls at the end of sticks,

Just like a picture, bound by frame...

At the day's end...

'Corns brought home for poppin'
And the cold outside is just not stoppin'
Ain't it good to be at home this night?'
The father asked his kid, smiling still alright,

The kid had just from a sweet short nap awakened,
His smile had lit the night that broadened,
'But the cold is what made us cozy here,
Can't you get the mild wintry flow in the air?'

The kid made a revert, his eyes full of innocence fair,
'Yes,' the father put his hands on the little one's head,
And then he put the bridge's pin on the disc's lead,
To make an unwinding return for both of them,

To find a meaning at the day's end
Much like a prayer they a song gained.

Night train

Like a long sentence slipping off sluggish
The train whistled through the mist,
And smell of coca piping warmth
Came and sat on lips,

The window glass had gathered
Dewy existence lucid,
And songs and verses
Played through ribs,

The swinging motion
Had caught a rhythm
By then, the rattling
Sound made a poem,

And the world it seemed
Had gone to sleep.

Till then,

Soon there would be fabulous
nip in the air and mist would soon
Envelope empty spaces betwixt us,
Till then come we commemorate
The Fall with our songs and masquerades.

a spell of rain and twilight

after a spell of rain
twilight came,

surfeiting so
that a poem
thought I
made a surge,

across the indefinite
October sky,

knowing the moment
would soon away fly,

dipped the self and the eye
into the grandeur of life,

it was no doubt a deliberate act
to getaway from all oft beaten tracks,

it was no doubt a formidable task
to catch the colors of a sobered dusk,

the same colors that had made several
to sing with ease for the long lost grail,

the same feeling that had made one too many
to find in prosaic things forgotten epiphanies,

after a spell of rain
the twilight came
surfeiting so.

Who can more blessed be?

Who can more blessed be than us, mate?
The morn hath broken free in us, of late,
Through the mist of the city that sleeps embowered
Into timeless elegance of Love that took over
Us all the time, this season of wonderous spectacle,
Who can more blessed be than us, tell?
We can rise to the morrow of our own wanderings
We can with throatful ease cause the spring's second coming,
We can sing as sings the nightingale within us,
We can hold the fabulous time and let it not pass,
Who can more blessed be than us?
Whence we can pour inkful hearts by music thus?

Colloque

Can't give away anything
Other than those simple colloquial things,

A tranquil presence of unstirred hope,
A garden green, a mountain slope,
A bunch of nameless wild flowers,
A flight of birds through lighted showers,
A stream murmuring its way through a forest
A spectacle serene by calm of heart blessed,

Can't give away anything
Other than those simple colloquial things.

On leaves and dews

To that hues of leaves
Take me once,
Just for once
Let me there ruminate
For every leaf I wish to see
Turned flowery,
For on every leaf
I wish to see
Drops of dew
Emerald.

Sing the song of mirth*

Sing the song of mirth, heart
For the autumn has brought home the guest;
The silent words of sky azure
The dewy longing which lures
Today in strings thine sing so pure;

Come take part in songs
Of fields filled with corns,
Be afloat in the rivery flow
Of tuneful water so;

Take a look at autumn's face
And let that keep you blessed
And then keeping the door open
Go out and life embrace.

(* transliteration of song number 38, Gitanjali,)

Come away to the wish of Aedh

Come away
To the wish of Aedh*
Where the breeze of autumn
Would cares of the world
Like leaves drop and sway,

Come away
To the wish of the reeds
Where words take away
All the ills of the world
Like music of a day,

Come away.

(*a mythical persona, commonly associated with Irish poetry )

Sillary

Left there a piece of me
Near somewhere Sillary,
Where the green slope of hill
Met a flowering valley,

Left there a piece of me
Near somewhere Sillary,
Where the trail disappeared
Into the woods foggy.

For that pilgrim soul

For the pilgrim soul
Once took a travel
To that road trodden
By men taking the flint
Of a burn,
The road was winding,
Long and to glowing heart it turned,

The visage of mossy trees
And smell of rhododendron
Filled the misty breeze
And the stave helped the climb,

The dustless air and the oxygen
I took within through the veins,
And the faint sound of copper bells
Remained suspended onto the soul,
Much like a verse auspicious,

It perhaps was a freed state
Filled with a vigour to get near
The cliff where rested in the most tranquil shape
Godly sense of a merger with the benign Self,

And what strange occupancy
Took hold
Could never in any words written or told
Only a glimpse of finding presence
Of serenity overwhelming
Took refuge in me.

By Catullus

Could not go to Libyan sands,
In search of time's hands,

But in nightly dews
I find you, Catullus,

In countless stars,too,
Sacred as they are,

Twinkling from far,
several light years,

And in ancient words,
Which tend to crawl, inwards.

revasseries, autumnal

Thou art such a wonder
that thou can claim
all by thy name,

and I continue
to gather dews on palms,
mist on eyelids,
fleecy clouds on heart,
and kites soaring in mind,

and they all tell me
thou art here, deified.

be not at rest,

be not at rest, heart
for there is more
that you can possibly unearth,

there is more
always like everytime
and staggering lines
are more there in you,

be not at rest, heart
for there is more
than you can mend,

there is more
always like everytime
and pentup lines
are more there in you,

be not at rest, heart
for there is more
till the road to horizon bends.

remembering Nanceylla

remembering Nanceylla
is like going to that place
where the morn sings peaceful chants
and the breeze tolls the bells,

and I remember catching the girl
standing on the staircase looking at me,
"Going out?" she would ask
Her eyes filled with curiosity,
"yes" I would have nodded,
And she would just yell
"I want to go out too!"

remembering Nanceylla
is like walking up a slope,
and the morning mist and fog
draping the hills, and life taking a sprint,

"yepee!" She would burst, exclaiming
finding a cone of pine amongst
fallen twines and twigs,
a wood nut tree dressed in algae and a sudden sighting of a monastery,
and smell of incensed leaves,

remembering Nanceylla
is like living another life,
free from cares and meeting
the children of a paradise.

The song of the world *

Across the world in tune generous
            Song of mirth soars
When will that song in
            Depth of heart ring ,
Only the Lord knows,

The air, water, sky and the light
When will love them the best,
They will take seat on heart allright,
Wearing varied colored dress;

When will open eyes
To fill the mind glad
Will take path thine,
Leaving none sad,

That You art there
When in life that will sing,
Thy name will in every work
Only happiness bring.

(* a transliteration of song number fifteen, Gitanjali, by me, a tribute to R.Tagore)
                  

upon grains of sand

'con amore...'
nimble fingers wrote
on white sands,
knowing the ocean would upon them land
and take'em away
in the name of transience.

Such a humbling morn

And there are some morns,
So humbling,
That one has nothing to say,
Only wordless one stays ,

And watches how
Grace hath blessed
The awakening,

And one just prays.

Painting an autumn morn

That painting of an autumn morn
Where we were blown away borne
By the breeze of a day, I think we outdid,

You meditated upon the swirling waves
And I looked quiet sun grazing a street,
You told upon the season, by your truth,
I humbled by the silent song colored
All our times with ballads of country love,

You opened your palm to catch the nascent dreams
I enveloped my heart into the folds of clouds
And together we made the day panoramic,

That painting of an autumn morn
Where we were blown away borne
By the breeze of a day, I think we outdid.

Lucid morn

The breeze of the morn
When swept through me,
I opened my sleepy eyes
And the rustling leaves I heard
And the sky I met only to see
How the Lord hath never failed
With us and our eternity.

A few words written on missing a station...

I still miss that station stop,
The station where I had perhaps dropped
A few peals of laughter strong
And crystal watery forms,

That reddened streak on the clouds
Visible ,so heartwarming a thing,
Right from the platform vacated by the train
Puffing away, I still that miss, an enchanting scene,

And many more, countless moments, unworded,
Never to be put into any series of numerical expressions,
Nor into any language profaned by running of alphabets,
I miss them in blood, in veins,

I miss that station stop
Where  I  had perhaps dropped
My holdall on the dust of a few hundred years,
And sat quiet only to gather on heart the crimson light.

Never losing thou,

'Never losing thou'
Was the thought that i took
As a vow,
But it is a grinding time,
My words have taken the plough
And they do nothing to me,
They keep silent shape,
They are stilled,

'Where are they?
Those little children
Who with supreme innocence
Spent the day
Playing under the sky
With no cares of life?
Where are they?
Had they gone away
To another land?
Had they forgotten their jovial selves?'

Asked myself,

And answers i thought i had,
Long before the time arrived,

And then i did not look far,
I looked at the greenery around,
The godly presence of our ancestors,
Their works, their harvest,

And i at once put things at rest,
The unsettling thoughts,
I took plunge
Into  silence,

For there resides
Thy providence.

Hope springs eternal

Hope springs eternal
And so does everything
That's why we are here
To ring in us a meaning,

Otherwise it would've been
A blasted heath, a wasted course,
Hope springs eternal
And that is life's sole discourse.

We will forever sailors be,

We will forever sailors be
Till in us we will find the sea,
And the voyages will be our ways
From the sleepy nights to the wakeful days,

Storms will call us to rise
Gales will buttress our lives,
And we will forever sailors be
Till in us we will find the sea.

In absentia,

In absentia, by those molecules of water in the air
I think I get the smell of thy spatial frame,

The way you cross all borders, corridors, lanes,
The way you travel through all lands and seas,
The way you move, trespassing the fences ,
And those lands which had supernatural corns,

In absentia, I think I own thy presence.

(Based on 'simanta' , a bengali poem by Sankha Ghosh)

The homecoming

Stood he infront of the facade
Yellow was it with a pinch of green and red,

Got the old view of some trees,
They are there still after so many years,

And
      Ah!
          the sweeping breeze,
And
     Ah!
         the sweeping breeze...

Have a walkaway

Have a walkaway

                                     To the rains, the cloud, the mist,

For the world is there as it is

                                     The way it was formed, unperished,

Have a walkaway

                                      To the saintly  hills and salty seas,

For the world is out there as it is,

                                       The way it was formed, unblemished,

Have a walkaway
          
                                      To the sunshine glittering on leaves,

For the world is out there as it is,

                                       The way it was made, like a bliss,

Road to Pedong,

I remember distinct
The road to Pedong,

It had slopes of green
On one side and little huts
On the other, with glass windows
And flowerpots,

A basketball court,
A slanted ground,
A sculpted figure,

A fenced yard,
Olive four by fours
Motionless, part of the scape,

And then a bazaar
With smell of spices
And incense,
And little trinkets
Hanging loose in the air,
Copper armlets, ethnic wear,

A bend where stood a tree
Nameless with blossoms,
A manifestation of tranquil pleasure,

And soothing solitude
Unscrolled all over the dome of sky,

A visible top
Of a stupa glistening quiet,

I remember distinct
The road to Pedong.

That freedom, lord, let there be,

That freedom lord,
Let there be,
Where we all will be free
From those ills
That bleed adversity,

That freedom, lord,
Let there be,
Where we can rise to see
Each other as mere dots
Compared to Eternity.

Mortal and the immortal

Once,standing at the fringe
Of a hill, touching the sky
Mortal frame discovered I,
Then dawned on me
Immortality thine.

Euterpein

Blow thy aulos Euterpe
And make me sing all the way
songs which eternalise
bow of rain which fills the sky,

Make me part of your grandest art
That takes in all in one cart,
The songs, the music, the paints,
The lyricism of monsoon rains,

Blow thy aulos Euterpe
And make me travel all the way
Like You hath made Strymon once
To flow unhindered from Olympe,

Make me wonder and gape
How from throat songs escape
which can never one replicate
Teach me thy songs of Heaven's gate.

Cinzas

'Play the Cinzas!
One more time for us!'
The mob shouted in chorus
To the man sitting on stool,
He had his guitar hanging cool
And the fretboard glistened under the spot,

'Hey! Play the Cinzas
One more time for us!'

Their cry reached his ears
And he lumbered back to those years
Kept in chambers of his heart
Under the thick layer of dust,

He picked up the tune
Washed it under the drops of rain
And blew a whiff of air to clean
Little ribs till they gleamed,

Cinzas , he did begin
like little waves slow
That one another follow,
Under the glittering sky,

Cinzas, he made to fly
From the copper strings
To make the whole bunch
Sobered and filled to the brim,

How many minutes it did last
He had no idea just-
It seemed the parlour had turned
Into a pool of water that drowned
All the cries of the outside world,

Cinzas , he unfurled
One time more
Cinzas, he spread
Till it poured.

Song for an obadiah

If am i to sing a song
As good as the night calm and long,
If am i to hold the shore
Of sands that come so near the door,

I can turn to you, O Obadiah,
For You hath made me to spare
All those little things i lost on my way,
The flowers blooming plentiful and gay,
In valleys green,charming and bright,
In mountain forests, mildly embracing light,

If am i to put words in rhyme,
As good as the dawn pure and quiet,
If am i to find the essence of clime
In the gentle ripples of water at my side,

I can turn to you, O Obadiah,
For You hath made me to spare,
All those little things i gained on my way,
The stretched full up flamingo wings  of a day,
In the midst of an ocean vast, blue and wide
In the waves mirthful, dancing in tune of a tide,

If am i to sing a song
As good as life to which one can belong,

I can turn only to you,
O Obadiah.

Sky full of leaves

Stand still under the sky

Full of leaves

And gather how

 from foliage drips

Colors of rain.

(The still attached is titled 'foliage', a work by Koentjero)

Before I set on...

Before I set on
To another journey long,
Wish I could have made a piece
With reeds of notes at fingertips,
Wish could have strummed the string
And hummed a few last lines
That could have burst waterlilies
with hues of extraordinary shine,

Before I embark on
Another journey might be long,
Wish could have blown the air
Through the pipe like a piper true
Wish could have taken a few
Grains of moments as honeydew,
Wish could have rested legs on the bow
and made the wind to take the oars,
Wish could have consecrated a tune
To the leftaway golden shore,
Wish could have gazed at ease
How through space life flows by,
Wish could have sung a song
To the earth, the sea and the sky.

Lilacs in the sun

Get me where lilacs bloom
Aplenty like a deluge,
in the sun where they turn
The world a canvas huge,

Get me where lilacs bloom.

that street,

that street
Where we some lightyears hence
Caught up and did meet
Had gone through
A transformation,

No longer is there
That old baker shop
Where you used to turn up
With your cane basket
loaves you used to buy
And listless I
Had my time of keeping you
In my eyes,

No longer is that old theatre
There,
We once had a chance
To savour the evening air
Standing at its stairs
Climbing up that derelict shape
We had an evening to reflect
Upon the glimmer of the town,
Passing cars and their glowing headlights,
And those distant chimneys
which stood like poles straight
almost holding little stars upon their tapered tips,
And the vast expanse of fields
Having shadows of our runs and plays,
Our games of hide and seek,

You had a fear of heights
You would clutch my shirt,
My arms, you had gripped tight,

No longer they are there,

But the street had remained
Somehow it had managed to stay
Despite bulldozers had plundered away
the days and the nights had been made glitzy,

The street had remained .

on such a cloudy day...

on such a cloudy day
if I canst sing for You
what am I supposed to do?

when the moist breeze
has swept the streets
and from heaven whence
it has drizzled like a love laden sense
on my soul,Your providence,
how can I sit like a stone?
how can I bear this sweetness all alone?

let me sing a song befitting your piety-
the song that could float miles and miles across
till it reaches Your shores,
let me sing that tune harmonious
filled with essence of rain drenched flowers,
let me put at Your doorstep
blooming words that from me escape
spontaneous,unhindered and unchained-
much like a song of shravana and tumultous rains,

on such a cloudy day
let me my poems lay
for You, with reverence.

come rain,

come rain, not as a mere teaser
come in full flow, like a breezer
lashing cool with impestous thrust
come rain, opening clouds like a burst,

come rain, wet me down
come like Menead fierce and tearing
come to give respite from Aestas's frown.

you took me to places

You took me to faraway lands
and to the greenish blue waves of the sea,
and to those alleys of unknown town
where pigeons play on roofs till sundown,
and to that corner of a square
people at evening where gather
to sit on benches and on fountain fringe,
talking and singing and having a binge,
and to that alehouse at an obscure port
where ambrosia wets sailors' throat
making them break into songs at night
of voyages to stormy seas and phosphorus light,

you took me to places sure,
to those lands where clouds
descend thick and pure,
a curtain like that of a mist,
moist like someone's sweet sweet lips,
at one moment a valley of flowers you made,
and at another, sketches of trees drenched in shower you laid,

you took me to the lands
where words my dreams keep
you made me to gape in wonder
the horizon's panoramic perspective-
golden blue and crimson light where shine
you took me to fill pages of my mind.

come, take a seat under the sky

come, take a seat under the sky
little stars where twinkle bright,
and write an idyllic poem
singing glories to God and men,

wrap the evening with melody soft
which only from heaven could've dropped
full of poesy, much like an enchantress
come, like Thalia's wonderous grace,

Fill the mortal eyes with vision
sublime and sweet like  magical potion,
that can make the whole world sing
to rise to find newer meaning
in life which is  too shortlived,
come, under the sky take a seat,

And take onto heart the sprite
That makes the nebula ignite,
And with rhythm binds the space
Come, under the sky take a rest.

Rupsa...

You got to know her
Rupsa was her name,
She had eyes deep as pool of water
And mossy black was her mane,
She carried the scent of flowers
Her limbs were light as wings
She could catch the moisture of the air
And like a troubadeur she could sing,
You got to know her,
Rupsa was her name,
She could turn words into tunes
And rhymes she had in her throat,
She could make waves in rivers
And like a feather she could on lands float,
You got to know her
Rupsa was her name.

With sky on her

With sky on her
She stopped
Clear,daylight upon her
Wrapping her round
Like still water,
Shy, a bit embarassed,

The breeze had played like little ripples
And peals of laughter
Floated on her,
The sky made her reflect
Clouds, rainbows,
Hedges and bushes,
Flitting shadows,

With sky upon her
She got laid
On the bed of grass,
With sky on her
She became
A verse.

When you love someone...

When you love someone
You get merged with the One,
Your mind reaches the state of bless
You put the moving world at rest,

When you love someone
You hear the celestial song
Your heart blooms at every hour
Your face gets lighted by heavenly shower,

When you love someone...

Missing a kind of a summer

Miss those
Crazy hazy lazy days of summer,
And that neighbourhood-
A bicycle tied to a tree,
A vast green field,
Goal posts two at two ends
Like two guards,
That pond where anglers
Spent their summers
Looking at the still greenish water
For slightest movement of their strings,
The shaded slope of the river bank
Muddy soft and that wooden plank
Wide just enough for us to sit
And ruminate over the birds and the bees,
Queen of heart placed on grass
Little triumphs in a game of cards,
Floating leaves, whispering breeze,
Smell of green mangoes in the air, just a tease,
Wild violet flowers fresh and sun kissed,
Cotton seeds sent to the clouds by a whiff with a wish,
Rows of eucalyptus like standing saints,
a sleeping goatman by the barbed fence,
A sprinkler and a water jet,
A seesaw, a swing, and a garden gate.

The tree and the wall

That tree by the wall
Had grown and spread,
Her wings, her branches,

A riot of love-yellow, blue, green,purple, red...

She had gathered over the years
The light, the rains and the colors,

The glory of gods, the birth of dreams,

The graffiti of youthful hypnotic screams,

That tree by the wall

Had grown and spread.

Elysian...

Morn comes like elysian pleasure
Swept by the breeze,
Singing songs of deathless gods,
And life flowing without cease,

Morn takes the magical charm
Pure and smokeless,
Casting radhachura dreams
On lazy summer's face.

Where has that rainman gone?

Where has that rainman gone
Who could easily summon
Clouds full of sweet rain?
Where has he gone?
To which land he has shone
His lightning and sparks?
Which face of earth
He has turned shady, cool?
Where has he overbrimmed
Lakes, ponds and pools?

Where has that rainman gone?
To which land? Which shores?
Where has he made it to pour heartful?
Where has he buried heaps of his clouds?
Where has he made little blossoms to spring
Out of grass simply at the flutter of his wings?
Where has he caused the moisture to quench the thirst
Of trees, pavements, and the vapoury dust?
Where has he tamed the waves of heat?
Where has he rained it like dancing feet?

In memory of a very old man with enormous wings

He must have been that man himself
An angelic figure with wings
Long enough
To plod through generations
And magically implant
a city of mirrors
Macondo,
By the side of a river
and a forest
Deep and dark
Like our own solitude,

He must have been
That very old man with enormous wings
To turn events into chronicles
And to turn the mundane
into something extraordinary,
Where ghosts of our hunger and sufferings
Come out into the open
And dance in noonday dreams
Casting premonitions
Of destruction,

He must have been
That very old man with enormous wings
To divulge secrets
of
Our sins,
Our acts of violence,
Our own ways of overreaching us,
Our phobic indisposition
Of imagining the worst
Our resurrections at the cost
Of blood,
Our dreams and wishes as ripe as wheat,
Our triumphs, our feats,

He must have been
That very old man
With enormous wings.

(a tribute to Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

Jane Morris as Proserpine

With thought ridden eyes
And pomegranate in hand
Rossetti took Jane to another land
He made her Proserpine
And haply declared
'woe me for thee'

That silken light
Must have added colors
To his vision,his plight,
That climbing vine
Must have had clinging branches
Of memory,
And that incense burner
With smouldering attributes
Unsuspecting wings surely took,
Jane Morris how he turned immortal,
In walnut frame how he made her fatal,
Her furtive glance upwards
With poesy his colors of mind merged,
And he with detailed description of his sighs and pines,
Turned his Jane to a dire Proserpine.

(on a painting by D.G.Rossetti titled 'Proserpine')

When I become less

Is it easy to strike a note
With you, is it easy
To sing full throat?

Everytime I think I could
Sing with you a few lines
Or pick up with you those buds
That had fallen off untimely shrugged
From trees by the tempest strong,
A few hundred eyes singe me,
And I cease to be
What I could have become-
The cool breeze, the prescient one
Which had sent your smell from the painted horizon
So crimson red, so rhyme like inclined,
Everytime I think I could
Think of You, the Timeless,
And worship You, robed in white,
The Heavenly trance grips a hold on me,
And a thousand lightyears I travel
To meet my past, my living sense
Evades me, I embark upon the passage of numbness,
And I become less.

I owe to them,

The songs of mountain-springs,
And those trees that breathe life
Amidst dust,
I owe to them,
Those roads
Which take mind to flutter
And add wings to heart,
That landscape
Where little lines
And rows of blossoms
With blessings
Of woodnymph
Unfurl life
In its pure
And natural symmetry,
I owe to them,
That corporeal frame
Which had made
World ,the finest place,
For generations
To live, to sing,
To put meaning
Into everything,
And that sylvan wanderer of a river,
That had made hundreds
To paint, to ruminate,
To muse words
From depth of a transcendence,
And to feel the tranquil presence
Of the living soul,
Filled with gleams
Of thoughts,
I owe to them,
That sensation
Of equating rhythm
With the passage of seasons,
That idea ancient and omnipresent,
To be united with that kindred spirit
That binds each and every particle
Animate , inanimate to follow the grandest design,
And make the universe
To move with poetic task,
I owe to them.

Radioactive,

We are into the Great Collider,
And protons would make a burst,
We are nearing to our end of days,
We are going to make it to the last,

We are into a channel of a tube
And soon we would tear us apart,
We are heading to meet the particle of God
We are going to glow horrific and smart,

We are radioactive now
That our skins have fallen off,
We are up for a great show
We are going to challenge the full stop.

The portico,

It had been our favourite place,
The portico,
The pebbled way
Leading to the door,

Those earthern tubs,
Those saplings,
Marigolds and jasmines of Aunt's,

It had been our place
To play the entire day,
Running around,
Yelling heart out,

That magnolia tree
Had seen us all, frolicking
And puffing smoke
Our ways of becoming
Finally men
Unguarded,

And those railings
Were our bars,
We had the habit of hanging
From them,
Swinging our legs,

How time passed and flowed
We didn't have the scope to think,
We were thoughtless,
We were young,
And we had the portico
And summer afternoons.

Just let it be,

If the evening sings
Songs of love,
And sweet scent of rain
If the breeze carries
to your bylane,
Think not of me,

Just let it be,

If the clouds come down
On your floor,
If the wind knocks hard
At your door,
Think not of me,

Just let it be,

If few big dollops fall
On your window,
And if you hum a tune
Of a rock, tender and slow,
Think not of me,

Just let it be.

Spring summer collection

You would spend more time
To deck your self up for summer spring nights,
You would wear lemon peels
All over your face,
You would match up your cotton block prints
With songs of baul singers,
Your ear rings would become stars
Of lucid poetic evenings,
You would stretch your legs on grass
You would like a dryad the time pass,
By your feet would sprout little lilies,
And a chaplet would you probably wear,
Spring summer would come then here,
That I know,
That I know.

Acrylic

At the sunset,
Colorful buckets
Poured on the western part
Of the sky,
The yellow orb
Made a splash
Into the greenery,

I looked at the end
Of the day
How it turned
The brown clay red,
The colors how it sprayed
On the townfolk,

Balloons and various water cans
Hang in shops
And boxes of colors neatly kept
For buyers had mica dust
Silvery,
Long queues at sweet sellers'
Counters complete the rest
Of the emerging picture,

They all smell
Like festival,
They all smell acrylic.

Coverpage,

The scene
Had the elements
Of a coverpage
As if done with utmost care
By someone spending nights and days,

Reflection of twinkling stars on water
And bulbs of distant citylights
Simmering like straightlines
Gradually sinking, a sketch of pastel finish,

Long trees nearby
And a simple cottage
With a bamboo fence
Added to the spatial frame

A road having a braided pattern
Ran into the woods
Where angels come to play
Mandolins

A coverpage
It was .

Emancipation of poetry,

The passage of the afternoon
Of a spring, usually remains such,
Under feet the wizened leaves
And from above the screen of a light
Coming down on everything,
Slowing and stretching the day
To the hilt of softened rays,
That all around lucidity paint,
Only to be assimilated and sensed
And turned into something
Even more wonderous, sensory a thing,
Outworldly.

Today is a different day

'Today is a different day
What do you say?'
Asked her,
And she flashed the most beautiful smile
I ever got to see,

'Today I got no work
Nowhere to go,
Nothing to run for,
What do you say?'
Asked her,
And she flashed the most beautiful smile
I ever got to see,

'Today I would be
The King
And you my Queen be,
Today we would walk down the sea,
What do you say?'
Asked her,
And she flashed the most beautiful smile
I ever got to see,

For today is a different day.

Is there any other better way to hail thee?

Is there any other better way
To hail thee, Spring?
Looking down the clear sky of the morning,
With branches of trees
Spread up wide and far
Dreaming birth of newest leaves
To fill thy choir,
And songs heavenly as they are
Scattering pearls through the mild air,
Is there any better way
To hail thee, spring,
Looking down the birth of a day
Through the pavillions of a morning?

Windtalking to Spring

A mild hint of rain in the air
And the setting sun blazing from far
And silhouetted buildings hiding away
Dreams and songs of another day,
Is how I think One hath conjured a clime
Of spring making inroads to city mine,

The flowing wind whispering into my ears
'Way Back To Love 'softly declares,
And down the road I take a dip
Where wind promises of the season keeps.

An artist and his five canvases,

He called himself
An artist who is forever in love,
His bald head
And white beard
And moustache thick and drooping
Eyes had many things said,

'Look at my canvases...
They are my life...'
He told me
As I like a naive
Thought to find his works in his eyes,

The first canvas
Had a woman looking up
To the sky,
Her hands were red
Blessed with a flower placed
Right in the middle of her origin,

Next was a rustic scene,
A wasteland green
And a palm tree,
And a sun,
Red,

The third was almost a photograph,
A sylph like figure in curtain wrapped,
Black and white mystic and mature,

The fourth canvas had a definite lure
Of political decadence,
Corrupted hearts in bags tied by ropes,
And people falling down the slopes
To meet vernal fire,

The fifth one was like a pilgrimage
To the sand banks where Nissim
Once found his grace,

He called himself
An artist forever in love,

And I like a naive
Thought to find it all in his aged eyes.

(Based loosely on P. Karmakar's artworks. This prolific painter passed away on 24th feb, 2014. This scribble is a tribute to the artist extraordinary )

Is it not a celestial affair?

When for you I crave,
I make you Calliope,
And the sky is where
We meet, like little stars,
We greet each other
And smile twinkling,

Is it not a celestial affair?

When you for me long
You turn me a song,
And the air is where
We meet, like music,
We greet each other,
And with tunes we us cover,

Is it not a celestial affair?

a tryst with an afternoon of spring.

Had I not in such love been
Of thy beauty, Queen of Spring,
The afternoon would not have carried
Such corns and grains in sheaf,
Golden as left on the field
and lustrous like Proserpine,

I find You as Core
of Beauty everlasting
and also as a cause of poetic out pour,
as I hear thy indulgent swing
Making cuckoos to sing
Merrily with spontaneous ease,
Making the afternoon so sleepy,
Turning slow the movement of shadow
of trees on ponds so lively, green,

I find thy rustling wave conversing
with leaves of varied colors, mild and striking,
I smell pollens in the air,
those tiny floating particles yellow,
like adornment to Your flowing hair,
I succumb to thy lazy haze sweet
which has always made birds to chirp and tweet,

And from winter I tread towards
a season of generation and honeycombs.

You I knew then would have arrived...

Anticipating thy love extraordinary
stopped under that lemon tree,
little greenish white blossoms
where like dots of intoxicating smell
kept me standing every spring of my life, felled,

a few yards away the huts of the village folk
had shed light dim opening a sequence of a country scene,
somewhere a radio had a muffled broadcast
of songs of phalgun and mango buds,

You, I knew then
Would have arrived,
through my Circle of Life.

little beads

We took a seat, side by side,
you, me and a starry night,

and poetry came silent,unhurried,
with jingling bells tied loose to her feet,

and
      words
                 fell
                        upon
                                  us,
        like
             little
                  beads
                         luminous,

And we like children be-mused ran,
to catch them showering on our lands.

 

Hidden (Aral)

At this hour of night,
when the avenues had gone off to sleep, outright,
Those trees and birds, that yellow colored apartment,
outhouses-all when to the kingdom of sleep went,
from my writings were flowing away to you
waters forests mounds, railgates,courts,bazaars, school, verandah,
flowing away from me they all,
those talks of seas, bushes, shrubs,
flowing away to you they all,
those songs of roads, quiet sips from tea cups,
and that sadness which only grips one leaving the town;

now I am hiding away myself;
now I am breaking down on the last line;
now I can not simply stop and keep hidden
another breaking dawn,
now that morn is going to you,
to your sleepy window
with light in her hands.

(it is a transliteration of a poem titled " Aral", by Nibedita Acharya.)

I have been living...

I have been living
As lives a dream all through,
I have been singing
As sings a poem for You,
I have been writing
As writes a cloudy indolent day,
I have been painting
All that can a drizzle possibly say,

I have been walking
Down the known unknown streets,
I have been cycling up
Where songs my feelings meet,
I have been riding
Wonders of a tattooed mind,
I have been watching
Clouds sailing where they wings always find,

I have been hoping
To gather the moisture of air,
I have been smelling
Springfield's tuneful care,
I have been swinging
As swing and tremble freshened leaves,
I have been flowing
As flows the wet happy breeze.

When I love You...

When I love You
You become the creator
And I too,
And we stand up to stop
Bombs that on Syria drop,
And molotov cocktails
We drink them bellyful
To defuse them without fail,

When I love You
I become the annihilator
And You too,
And we stand up to erase
Fears and tears from aggrieved days
And hot lead of molten bullets
We put into our hearths
And by them our rooms we decorate.

Bookish

When the air is so filled with songs,
And the flowers with scent of spring
When knowledge of civilisation bring,
I turn to streets walked by my past,
Where in books old covered with dust,
Memories stay so beautifully written,
Memories of finding her, Eidyia of my heart,
How she took me to go hunting for words,
From Lotos eaters to Dubliners,
How in silence of library, like a church,
For the scripts and slokas,  I made a search,
How through pigeon holes on the wall,
Sun rays on hands and paper slanted, did fall,
And how the aroma of books, napthalene balls,
Filled the rooms of our hearts that Spring, a windfall...

I walk through those streets unscrolled,
Calligraphic letters where reveal stories untold,
The coffee shop at the corner, a century  old,
There still I find derelict, motheaten, cold,
There I remember by writings on the wall
Youths with fire in heart how added numbers to the toll,
There I recollect, surprised and dismayed
How the city had grown from her days bullet ridden, frayed,

From fratricide, I move on,
To the passages, alleys, where literature
Boldly propagation of humanity declares,
And Eidyia, there I discover, again,
From Oceanus and Tethys, risen.

How like Eos,

How like Eos,
Thou arrive riding Phaeton and Lampus,
Draped in fleecy clouds,
Hastening across the streams of Oceanus,
Blinding me to see
Amidst the bright, Horae,
Thy feminine hours
Climbing the arc of heaven,
And at that moment
I can only sing thee,
For thou hath made me,
Like a creator,
Like a damsel who brings light to the mortal,

A candle I turn then,
To worship thee,
As by thy glory
Thou light me,

How like Eos
Thou bring dews of the morn,
O, the daughter of Hyperion,
How by thy rise
Thou create words in me that fly.

Would leave a few poems as buds,

Would leave a few poems mine
As buds in your sky to shine,
And with your flower basket
You would there arrive, sacred,
To pick them up, one by one,
And you would then put them there,
Singing a song perhaps to fill the air,
Which song would you then sing,
I have that sense preordained, I think,

Your song would be full of Love,
Which could only be borne by wings of dove,

And hearing your songs so blissful,
My poems from buds would bloom colorful.

Come, winter's heather,

Come winter's heather,
Like Erica,
And by thy feather
Let me be blown...

With thy breeze in my sail,

With thy breeze, freed, onto my sail,
Broken, felled, the string,
Ready am I,
Sinking I wail,as I sing,

The morn has gone futile,
The afternoon trails by a few miles,
Tie me not there
Whence the shore is so near,

For thou the boatman,
Woken, I spend the time of sands,
Waves of the sea,
Whence play with me;

I will befriend the storm,
Will not be by frowns torn,
Leave me there,
In the face of the gale,

For thou the boatman,
For thou, I sail.

(It is a transliteration of a song by Rabindranath Tagore, done by me. My humble tribute to the greatest poet and writer of our land. The original bengali song can be found at pg 404, no. 24, Collected works,  Birth centenary edition, )

S1

'I think I am just like her...'
That way she started to jabber,
I knew whom did she refer...
In S1, we both had seen her,
Her hair which flew in the wind,
Her face happy and sad,
Her talks going round and round
Reaching nowhere yet right there,
Where,Stanislavski  recast Shakespeare,

'My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite'
She did heave a sigh, seeped in, heartful a tone,
With the play opening lines by the passing light,
Stanislavski as would have wished,

And I had traveled thousand acres of green,
And few hundred miles
To find the smile
Of a blossom,
That bloomed  true,
Raised by the time's hue,

'I think I am just like her...'
She repeated with assertion,
And a theatre broke,

The streets looked like taken out
From the setting,
Lighted dim,
A bit in a haze,
With purple feet
Hurrying to meet
Big roads.

Just before dusk,

Just before dusk,
The sky tells upon a bay,
With te deum laudamus
Singing the passage of a day...

An ode to Lofn,

To what shall I liken thee Lofn?
Thy cold breeze lighted and softened
That sends the air to run
Cooling hearths, an unusual turn
Of thy way to spread winter's song
To what shall I liken thee, Lofn,
As thou take and pull me along
To the land of Edda, albeit norse
As thou cause a winter to hold up, stilled, a pause,
Like a Fiore, overwhelming the canvas wide
With colors of his beateous mind  laid up alright,
Like a mariner upon arrival at a place
Hearing the murmur of Lethe, a bless,
Like a man yet to make out
What can cause lotos petals to sprout
Lines in a heart like offshoots
Of too much poetic a root,
To what shall I liken thee, Lofn,
Thy cold breeze lighted and softened
Whence sings winter's song warm.

On 'the corn field' *

The corn field
Flooded by yellowish gold
Had the whispering breeze to play with,
And a lad, a ploughman's son,
There how with his plough homeward did tread,
His strawhat, slanted down,
Could not stop the sun to greet-
Him, swayed by the picturesque treat
Of the cornfield, bearing the dreams of his toils,
By  the light of fading day so beautifully lit.

(Note: * a painting by Berthe Morisot, the american impressionist painter,)

And like smoke of incense, a misty morn,

And like smoke of incense
With cold breeze's breath
The morn arrives misty dense,
Filling the heart's field with poetic sense,

And imagery of life,
Like a landscape draped in fog,
Curtained by a screen translucent,white,
Drops from angel's hands,
To sing the songs of soul,
Iike a holy rite.

Upon receipt of a painting,

A painting have I received
From someone who had the time passed by sleeves,
Who had spent a large part of days under the open sky, and the Sun,
Who had made a tryst with Nature all through,
Who had lived life, in farms and barns,
And in meadows, in lands of plateaus and hills,
In places where the days, the songs of heaven seal-
With mellifluous grace and wonderous accompaniment
Of rivers and brooks that to a heart can only melody send,

The  painting done at a location undisclosed
Filled my soul with a dreamy float,
The brushstrokes nimble and crafted with care,
brought alive a bower with sublimity layered,
And colors of country which the painter had caught
Left me struck, dumbed, and with poesy wrought.

A scene idyllic,

I think I have been to that place
So peaceful, pastoral,
Where by chirpings of birds
The afternoon to a twilight falls,

I think I have been to that place
Where Artemis the earth hath blessed,
And the flavour of roses and myrtles
Fill the air of the space...

I think I have been to that place
Where Erato descends sacred,
With a turtle dove at Her feet,
Sleeping quiet , noiseless.

Early wintry morn, a drizzle,

By hoofs making marks
On moist a bit benign an earth,
The mythical horse, known as Pegasus,
Caused fountains of poesy to erupt, once,

And fumigation from frankincense,
Much like Orphic hymns ancient
There on pages of heart happened, ageless,

Early wintry morn thus
With a cold mild drizzle made me fall,
And wet streets became a playground
For leaves of mine to run around.

Ajay...

Getting down from the car,
When first looked around, near and far,
The blue hills, the clouds,
The vegetation, the grassy mound,
I could not believe
I had been once around,
To the same place...
'It got so much changed!'
I exclaimed,

'Have you come here?
Earlier?'
Someone asked,
From that little hut,
The door was open,
At the verandah there were pots of flowers,
And there the owner
Of the voice stood, apparent,

'Yes...long time ago...'

'How many?'

'Hmm...twelve years, perhaps...
And then, there were no such huts,
No sights of habitation,
Only there were greenery around,
And a few tents...'
I reminiscenced,

'And?'

'And...there was someone...
A lad, who used to play guitar,
Late in the evening,
He would sing,
Bob Marley...
Where had he gone?'

Asked her,
Feeling alone
Not lonely though,
For blue hills and white clouds
Were still there,
Shining by the light of the day,
And not faraway,
Just behind the mound of grass,
The Memorial Rock,
Stood, silent,

'Ajay?
Are you talking of him?'

'Yes! Yes!
Ajay was his name...'
I nodded, excited,
'Where is he nowadays?'

'He had gone...'
She said,
And went indoors...

'Hey! Wait!
Where is Ajay?'

I asked again,
She did not answer immediate,
She stopped,
And turned her head,
Towards the memorial...

Behind the mound of grass,
It was there, venerable,

'You will find him there,
Inscribed...
Five years back,
He was shot at,
At the border,
Friendly fires...
That did him...'

She said,
Before she turned to the door,
Again,

'Who are you by the way?'
Asked her,

'Me?'
She smiled, vague,

'No one...
But,
I have his name,
Right here...'
She placed her left hand on her bosom,
Candid, bold,
Her nosetip,
It appeared reddened, cold,

The blue hills
Were getting covered
by clouds,
Or were they? Really?

By thy side, finding Rhadine,

By thy side,
On the white sands,
Once I got the chance
To understand
How by Your sheer clean cool flow
You could someone with happiness bestow,
How You could cover up a soul
And fill the heart's tiny bowl
With your eternal life, forever flowing,
How could you make one to see the Lord's ways of undoing
Everything, and yet giving everything to one,
How could Thou make one to be merged in the profundity and abundance
Of trees, hills, forest, rocks, all gathering mother earth's most blessed sense,
How could You make one to become a saint, a poet, a wanderer,
How could You evoke picturesque Beauty, in heart and mind, fair,
How could You by Your ripples sing the song, of waters of life, an Aoide,
How could You send music to be broken from choked, pent up, a throat,
How could You help one to write a few lines, possessed and illumined,
How could You help one to seek the poem wrapped in kithara, Your lyre
~ a Rhadine.

It had been a morn...

It had been a morn
To climb that road
Circling the hill,
It had been a morn
For me to walk to feel
The cold breeze that sent
Those flags aflutter
Whispering their spirituality,
It had been a morn
To walk and be bathed by piety,
To get into an unhindered flow of silence,
To feel how chants and gongs usually lend
Beauty to a heart and Peace to a mind to ascend
Tireless, calmed and young,
It had been a morn
To grow by verses of uphill
a journey, long.

Sometimes wonder, how are you?

Some times I wonder,
How are you?

Do you still listen to Chris Rea?
Do you still find time to have a walk by the evening-sea?
Do you still tie up your hair in form of a high bun?
Do you still stand up on a table, and strike a pose, just for fun?
Do you still do doodles on the backpage of your desktop calender?
Do you still put your eye into that telescope to catch a shooting star?
Do you still sing holding on to the comb , looking at the mirror?
Do you still scream at cockroaches, out of childish horror?
Do you still draw a moustache and make faces only to imitate a scene of a play?
Do you still find time to make little pots and pans of clay?
Do you still collect different earrings and hair clips?
Do you still in your closet, somewhere, keep that yellow leaf?

Sometimes...
I just wonder,
How are you...

Nemu Lima,

'Where do you want to go?'
Nemu Lima
Asked me,
Her tiny eyes had curiosity,
Perhaps she had not seen someone
Like me, so wayward, vagrant,
Perhaps she got the smell
Of trees, those which
Spell dreams, a bit vagabondish,
On clothes and eyelids,
Of people who had traveled
Through woods, clouded and thick,

'Don't know...
You tell me...'
I smiled and answered,
Looking at those pebbles, stones, rocks,
That had slid down the slope of the hills,
And the misty shape that
One's soul with liberation from business filled,

Perhaps Nemu Lima saw something,
Some kind of adventurous spirit,
In me, a bit vagabondish,
'How long are you pent up there?
How long have you not taken the mystic air?
How long have you not sung your heart?
How long have you been living from your self set apart?'
Nemu Lima asked,
Her tiny eyes
Curious,

'Many years...
I do not care to count...'
Answered I,
By silence of the woods bound,

'Take this...'
Nemu Lima
Handed me a scroll,
Rolled into a cylindrical container, made of steel,
Shiny, cold,

I took that into my hands,
A thin red ribbon it had,
At one end,

'Tie it around your neck...
And tread...
Across that zone
Which had witnessed an earthquake
And landslide...
Tread silent,
And pray...
Till you reach
Where you want to go...'
Nemu Lima,
Said, her face with a smile set aglow,

'I will...'

I said,
And bowed,

The hills looked like friends
Calling me.

Letters and alphabets,

'We don't live,
We write letters all through our life...'
Once she told me,
Walked as we
Through the lanes of our hearts and veins,
Walked as we close and dense,

'We don't live,
We write letters all through...'
She told me
Once, walked as we,
A few kilometres of our poems,

Up ahead,
We had only alphabets.

Flowers of winter how bloom

Flowers of winter how bloom
And how they set everything colorful,
How they catch the light of the day,
How they toss their heads, spriteful and gay,
How they sing the season's song,
How they bloom like cronies young...

Meeting Reshi,

Heard her murmur,
Two hundred metres
From above,
Heard her, sombre,
As if she was chanting a prayer,
Soft, yet grave enough
To make one stop,
And breathe in the cold air,
And feel the ascetic silence
Enveloping one,
Filled with smell of fragrant incense leaves,
And also of wild red and dark blue berries,

The path made by people gone long ago,
Was visibly enchanting
And a bit perilous too,
Steep,

But I heard her murmur,
Reshi,
The river,
Colored silver
And a bit silk thread like, as I her from distance could see,
She had been flowing there for ages not known to me,

So I started to follow
The path,
Towards her,
And once I reached
And saw her glistening,
And heard her feet sounding jingles on rocks,
I thought that was all I wanted,
And wished,
That was all I had to understand,

I sat down breathless,
I sat down filled with youthful haze,
I sat down silent,
While Reshi ran her length,
Through rocks and white sands.