Showing posts from July, 2015


That's the way the night
grew upon us with
meteor shower,
we stood side by side,You told me how you loved
nights of torrential rains
Flooding the town,
how water wrote rivulets
all over you
Till they reached your feet,I told you how nights
made sleeping morns
And morns woke blossomsThe meteorites fell
like little sparks
And flinty we became.

There's something about you

There's something about you
I forgot to tell you
Something...Nascent like that faint smell
Of lavender
Of jasmine
And roses too...A garden of Paradise
In short,
That I meant.
the sculpted face
and with it
Our pride
Our demonsWe made love after that
By the sides of our past.(For 'Magpie Tales', photo-prompt courtesy :Magpie tales)

Simon's harmonica

At the porch
overlooking the valley
often whence got the chance
To get the glimpse
Of glowworms
Winging in and out
of hedges and bushes
Of flowering myrtlesI would think of Simon,
And how he blew and bent the air
Through his harmonica,The pleasant silence
seemed to be a perfect accompaniment
To the tune that he gave birth to,
It came wafting across everything
that were around us-
The wagonload of wood at the mill
The shepherd's hut
The barn...Simon had been a bumpkin,
As some would say,
But then when he had
his harmonica
He became
the stream , forever flowing,
He became
the earth ,moist and fertile,
He became
The air, light and unburdened,
He became
The music, noiseless and serene,Oft
Standing at the porch
I would hear Simon.


You are like an Arcadia for me
And I go wandering into you till
there left no more wanderings
And pastoral beauty of your soul
charms me with its innocent being,I then become a valley
And streams of music
Dance down me.

Three and double o and more...

I have learnt this city
In my own ways-
It all started with climbing onto the bus
going to another city
crossing over the river;It had been a delightful ride
At the terminus colored cookies came in jars at a ridiculous price-
Fifty paise for a handful;Then there had been serpentine traffic
All through the Strand
it seemed one would take a good day's nap and wake up to another dimension
Still one would be there the same;The florists at the bazaar appeared pretty busy
early in the morning as the baskets came from faraway places,
Their hues and cries got mingled with the thin air,Then the big mammoth looking architecture
And the salty breeze from the river
sweeping through the hair
Of the face peering out of the window,'How long still?'
'Not much ...only forty minutes more...'
That was the standard answer,
And creeping through the mob
We used to move,
One by one landmarks passed by us,
Some Anglican,
Some Gothic,
Some Armenian,
Some Greco-roman,And a few hours later…


When you write about your city
selling white tin stars
assorted chocolate chips,
Pomegranate among other things
And sumac,
I think I know how language of yours
build your own homeland,
A small strip of peace
And yet
I find similar connotations of home
here -
In my city ,
Here also our footpaths are full of them,
Only some objects are our own
The rest is very much