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Showing posts from February, 2014

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,…