Bejeweled *

A drive down the Road,
Whence You took Charles,
What had made Thou
To get over,
Thou hath been the most Obscene-
France had Decreed and Declared,

Thou Art the Most Evil,
As evil a Lover of flesh could possibly be,

O You, Baudelaire!

Who could have written,
Dared, daring
Like You(?)

O You Baudelaire!

("... and the lamp resigned to its death
left only the fireplace to light the room
where now and then a flame’s fluttering breath
would fill her amber skin with blood";)

O You Art
Hath been a conflagration,
Submerging France,
A Whole Nation!

O You Baudelaire!
Thou art a call given to a Flood.

(*Note: the painting attached is Taken by me, from an archive, done by Franz Von Stuck, 

#bejeweled: based upon a poem by Charles Baudelaire; the particular poem was banned in France at one point of time.

Courtesy: picture: Don Yorty's Blog.)

At the hills , growing a Farm*

At the hills, where Thou
Hath grown a Farm,
(George Orwell had done that, firm)
Once there how i ran,
Through the blasted , surface,
Reddened shape,
Got the whiff of cold air
(O how that always, me, missed);

At the hill top, right there,
Could see the cottage fair,
(George Orwell must've been, there)
Once got settled True,
As me reached, singing blues,
Sanguine asserted,
Found thy love never parted,
(O how that always, to Thou, me glued);

At the hill top,
Could see thy wonders,
Through thy Divine Eyes,
Me, how always wander.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting done with much artistry, by Sally Loughbridge Busch, titled "Hill Farm", courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei)

Thinking About Thou*

Thinking about Thou*

Whence the heat of waves 
Makes a sweep all over me,
whence over surf and foam,
Me , vagrant ,(by Wandern Lust)
Keeps a going, singing Thou, 
Always moving away, on roam,

How i think of Zeus, and His Muse,
Uranus and Dione, both being True,
How I think of how myths with legends
Take me further to the Deep, Cavern,
As if , (not fully measureless, to Man), How by thy bless, Aphrodite, 
Love seeped soul mine, tries to outweigh
All that comes momentary, to pass
To another Space, another times,

There, at a gate, of a Museum, 
Muse, by thy providence perhaps
Forgetting small ticking of clocks, 
How in the big ocean of Time, elapse,
Stand before Thee, Luminous,

And as if, Thou ask me then, to pray,
To Dione, thy Mother, to send me rains
On my parched lips, so hankering 
To get the moist, of Thy redness,

Dione, then how i find, like a mermaid, 
Almost coming out of waves of the Sea, 
Watered begets my Soul then, salty teary,
Waters turquoise then i slip into,
Loving Thee, Aphrodite , and Dione too,

Worshipping all, Divas, the Eternal,

Kneeling before you, love,

How i find meanings of everything
How coming back to me, (so watery,)
Quenching as if my thirst, (vagrant me,
Bitten so by Wandern Lust), as if a Sea
Thou hath thought of bringing to me. 

(*Note:
#Dione: GODDESS Roman, of Water, Sea, Ocean, wife of Zeus, 
#Aphrodite: GODDESS of Love, Daughter of Zeus and Dione.)

Ain't it Beautiful*

Ain't it beautiful
Whence thinking of Thou,
Zeus, one goes out,
And life whence
Goes deeper into lighted a day
somehow i, like a child,
Above my little head,
Find such a blinding sight,

and i,how like a child,
Swept by thy light,
Kneels almost
On the Road,
Journeying
This little,
Mortal life.

 (*Note: based on a photography of the Sun, as done by Me, today , as attached as proper Testimony)

My love is not a Red Red Rose*

My love is not a Red Red Rose
Which is Etherised,
For in Your heart me lies,
Getting oxygen through you, love,
Through thy bless, which descends with
only Peace, and not Violence,
That cares not even a fig
About human race,

My Love is Not a Red Red Rose
Which is Etherised,
For in thy eyes my life lies,
Getting forever your lovely glare,
Through thy vision, me lives forever
Propagating Love and life of water,
That cares for those who need them
The most.

(*Note: the photograph of a red rose is taken by me, for poesy.
#myloveislikearedredrose: title is inspired by a poem popular, written by Robert Burns, )

Let's go, to that country*

Oneday told my beloved,
Come , as we have got
Time aplenty to wander
So bitten by the lust for Wonders,
Come,to that country side, let's go
Where wildseeds of dandelion flow,

There,( made me, a plan for her to dream,)
We would catch nascent forms of our figures
And facts we would send just to ferry over
The stream, that had been flowing there,
For ages we have no mind to gather,

There,(made me, a dream for her to keep)
We would be like those trees, murmuring
In the coolest Loveliest soothing breeze,
And we would make love to each of those
Flowers which would wake for our Love deep.

(*Note : the painting attached, done by Nancy Medina, inspired me to scribble this poem. Courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover , Iulia Gherghei)

Under the noon day haze, sleeping*

Under the noon day haze,
Whence i ruminate, about us,
Our ways of hatred, that rips our World,
Essentially which had been made by Mother
The most profound, the Vast, the most Beauteous,

I strive real hard to go away, to You, love,
I try hard, desperate, in search of finding You,
Diva of my Heart, my eyes, my veins, my Soul,
Alas, i find you not, nowhere,
Not even near thy River,
Where go i oft,looking for You,
To that source, where me thought
You could with unhurried steps arrive,

Alas, i find you not love,

Then, how, loitering , around,
Catching the breeze blowing
With Thy providence, as a faith almost,
Knowing, how i keep rowing
Boat little mine,

Till, i am made to turn up
Somewhere near those ghats,
Where i can safely anchor me
And out of water whence i out,
I come, near a Big Tree, spreading her shade ,
Near those rocks and boulders where
I could laze a bit, from the noon day heat,

How, i suddenly envision You,
Love, there, right there, asleep,
Completely ignorant of anything,

O how i see, oil on canvas,
You, motherly, sleeping quite,
Your head slightly bent,
Zeus as if guarding You,
Forever on vigil,
And you there, perhaps in your dream,
Think of our small lives, our timeless Origin,

How i try to grasp, the meaning of You,
Asleep, as in view, for all,
No one, daring to wake You Up,
No one, kneeling perhaps to pray,

Or is it ,
As Simon thought,
You art so full of Bliss
And So serene perhaps
Thou hath made the Air,
That You , Yourself, Slept,
Noiseless as the World became,
By Thy Providence,
O You, the Eternal Dame.

(*Note: loosely based, upon a painting titled "Sleeping Venus" as done by Simon Vouet, between 1630-1640, oil on canvas.)

Thy Face*

Thy face*

Thy face
As one drew
A pencil sketch,

Reminds me
Oft our days,

You studying hard
Relentless,
Me doing nothing
Taking rest,

You drawing curtains
Sun peeping
Me watching the lace
Of Thy silken dress,

You giving me a mock test
Me singing "Donovan O Rosa"
Fully Blessed,

You asking me Pythagoras
Me dipping blotting paper
Into inkpot just,

You asking me not to run fast,
Me running to kick from the corner just,

You drawing a landscape stretched on the floor,
Me looking at you, smiling at the door,

You laughing out loud , chipping in poems,
Me thinking an engaging theorem,

You doing at lot of hyphens, overload,
Me cycling down the empty road,

You thinking where me had gone,
Me climbing a tree to bring a cat down,

Thy face,
As one drew
A pencil sketch,

Reminds me
Oft, our days. (*Note: the pencil sketch attached is given to me as a gift by a bud mine)

If music be the Food of Our Love, *

If Music be The Food of Our Love,
Play on , la amore, play on the piano,
Your fingers soft, just slip on the reeds ,
And play till thy Music plant in me seeds
Of our births, our Love so passionate,
Play on Mon amour, play forever, as Fate
Plays upon us to make us out, play Mon dio,
Run thy fingers on the reeds, play assured,

Soon the rains of our Love wilt cause a bloom
Soon thy music wilt fill my Heart's small room,

Soon the streets and roads will be in Joys erupting
Soon we will embrace a tranquil blessed setting,

Play on, love mine, your fingers so lucid on reeds,
Play, love pure, till with Thy music me meet,

Play on, Love mine, whence it has drizzled so oft,
Play on, la amore, your piano to hold me aloft,

Play on, tuneful, mesmerised if be come motionless,
Play on, la amore, taking me to thy Golden gate,
Where roses bloom forever, eternal, perpetual,
Play on Mon amore, forever, prithee, till the waters swell,

Play on,
Love on the reeds, slipping by,
Play on,
Love mine, taking us to Eterni~tie.

(*Note: the painting attached is Gifted to me by a bud mine. 

#ifmusicbethefoodofLoveplayon: title is adaptation of a popular line from a William Shakespeare Play.)

Ode To Anthony*

You must have been
A son, of a River,
Like that River, which Peter
Once drew , Maranon,
You must have been
A River of a God,

Otherwise,
How could have
You had drawn
With so much of care,
The Babe , not in the manger,
But amidst Nature,
(Like that Peruvian River
Perhaps flowing beside You,
Maranon)

You must have been
A son of a River,

Other wise,
Who could have drawn
Such awesome,
Maria and Her UNBORN,

With Catherine
Looking after
The Child, as He played
Lying, so beautiful,
And perhaps
A tree of Apple
Giving the trio,
A shelter,

You must have been
A Son of a River,
(Like that Peruvian One,
As Peter Paul once drew,
Declaring the entry
Of Ferdinand)

You must have followed
Him,
The Lord,

Otherwise,
Who could have drawn
Such a Beauty and Bless
Such halo, such Kindness.

{*Note: upon a painting titled "Virgin and Child" by Anthony Van Dyck(Flemish Antwerp 1599-1641london).
#PeterPaul: Peter Paul Rubens, (Siegen1573-Antwerp1640),
Peter Paul Rubens drew the River God Maranon titled "Allegory of The River God", in Antwerp 1635, to commemorate the entry of Archduke Ferdinand of Austria.
#Maranon: is a Peruvian River, upto one point of time, which was in possession of Spain.}

At Home*

Being in thy lap
Of wonderous calm,
Mother, is such a bless,
That i go on and on
Finding Thou everywhere,
In every moves i make,
You, to Thy Home,
How sanctified doth take,

I wonder, where is the end
Of this journey of finding You

(Like a child, how in you, me loses the cue,)

Then , as if Thou knowing me altogether,
Before me, my blinded eyes, You gather
Your Holy State, You holding The Child,
As if after the Holy Bath, wiping Babe's hair,
And fruits , grapes, apples, peach,
There how, Jan , by eyes and hands,
For You Two doth keep,

i look at your works,
Gossaert,

How beautiful must You have been
To bring Home, the Mother and The Child Unseen,

How masterly might You have been
Gossaert, that You to home, The Mother and The Babe did bring.

{* Note : based on a painting by Jan M. Gossaert, (about 1530-about 1560), painted in all probability in Southern Netherlands, in 1530s, titled "Virgin and The Child".
The tradition of depicting the Mother in an interior looking out onto a landscape was strong in Netherlands, in the fifteenth century)

How they bloom*

How they bloom fragrant
In fingers Thine,
Like two beauties
Of fragrant lives,

How they bloom,
In fingers Thine,
Like two poems
Of the Divine,

How they shine
In fingers Thine,
Like two flowers
Of Thou,
The Aurora ,

on Shine.

(*Note: the flowers as in the photo are Jasmine, which are associated with love and purity of the blessed Love and Holy Communion)

O how i wish to run to those Trees,*

O how wish i to run to those Trees
As if they  art becoming me,

Far away, not so farther I think The Trees stand,
Far away , no further than a Holy land,
So beautifully painted as if a scene,
Waking up, with deepest love, much like a Dream,

O how wish i to make a travel to,
There so colored whence doth stand You,
O how I wish to go running those meadow through
As if a dream, coming Home like, only for You.

(*Note: loosely based on the painting as attached, done by Jenny Rayneke,
Courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei,)

When i was younger*

When I was younger, *

When i was younger
So much younger than today,
I had a dream, a dream to sail away,
To the far, to the wide, to the long
Road , where mails can't be delivered all alone,

Now that i am right here in front of You,
Now that you are singing for me and you,
How I wish to have a winged flight
To reach you there where your morn
Kiss the budding blossoming tree alone,
As every day after soothing nights
Come the dawn with beauteous light.

{*Note: the photo attached is one of my childhood acts , in a cultural function, as an Indian mail/postman;
also could be seen in the picture, some good old friends mine, one who acted as soldier,(Sayanta) another as a milkman, another as a Policeman(Amartya ) etc;

#wheniwasyounger: the title is taken from a very popular Song by The Beatles,}

Ode To Frans*

What hath made thy brush
Tell me, Frans,
That you doth create
Such a marvellous canvas, Great,

Which imagining had brought You
To think of Joseph, (as i view,
Ignorant of Thy awesome hands,)
Holding the long tong, as if Goldsmith,
Taking a loving look, as He doth took,
Little Babe, to Mother Of His,
O, How the child finds Bliss,
Going to Mary, the Blessed forever kind,
What, made You, Frans, to hold in thy mind
Such a picture, so Holy , of A Family, Divine,

What worked in thy eyes, to see the Child
With His mother, as Lapped up, never defiled,
What inspired You, Floris, tell upon us,
Through thy paintings how You centuries passed,
What eulogy can be left to say to praise
Thy eternal , thy nights of toils, thy happy days,

Should i then, break out, recalling,
What Dominucus
Said , erupting, spontaneous,
Seeing thy work of art,
"Then I would call out: Yield
Painters from whichever country you hail,
Whether you were born in olden
Days or present days..."

Should i sing for You, Floris,
A song, if my little heart allow me,
Singing thy praise for eternity.

{* Note : a humble tribute from me, to the Great Painter Frans Floris, (1517-1570), in Antwerp, who had painted the painting attached, titled "Holy Family".
#Dominicus: Dominucus Lampsonius(1532-1599), who praised the painting of Frans Floris (Frans de Vriendt)
Saying " Had You Painter Floris, been as fully devoted to Art...present days" As quoted in the poem itself, in fragment, as an extract.}

With the glass jar of blooming roses*

With the glass jar of Roses on bloom,
Like all my poems written for You,
Whence you take them and the jar glass round,
In thy arms, on your lap, so by hands Thine bound,
Love, how i get more of your bless,
As on a painted scene you my love do trace,

I see you , pray, why so by LOVE deep,
I see you, pray, why so by kindness seeped,

Tell me, la amore, my morning of a sun lit day,
Why is it so tranquil, serene feel,
Whence you take roses and keep them
In Thy arms so lovingly, like all of my poems.

(*Note: the painting attached is part of a series of Paintings , done by V.Volegov, upon which this poem is loosely based.
The painting is gifted to me, by a bud mine.)

Dahlia*

Finding you on bloom
Just outside the room
Filled with dew,
Gathered on your petals, few,
Is a bless by itself,
As the morning keep me awake,
To see more of You
Heavenly, a Beauty,
Filled so with shiny dew.

(*Note: the photograph attached is Taken by me)

Once more , plead i*

Once more, la amore,
At our garden,
As i find You,
Diva, angel of my eyes,
Once more, hereby
Plead i, come, la amore,
Once more, to my heart,
Where by thy awesome halo,
Have i dived deep, beyond what even
I once did seek, once more,
Love mine, stand Thou,
At that glass jar,
Where our Love has bloomed
In pinkish white rosy flowers,
Where i have left, eve,
For Thou, apple one,
Once more, come Mon dio,
Me You entwine,
By your limbs,
Your arms which leave,
Beauteous glossy aura,
Come, love mine,
Be with me, having to please
None, but only US,
Haven't we in sufferings passed
All our days, and all our nights
Have not we, made illusive,
Come , maid mine,
Don't be elusive,

For Thou, Canst you see,
La amore, set I,
That table,
Where my Self,
have I , left for eyes,
Thine,
Come, Rose,
Don't be elusive,
Like a morn
Come to my
Dreams, to my sleep.

(*Note: upon a painting, loosely based, done by V.Volegov.The painting is received as A Gift from a friend mine.)

The story of love as usual kind*

Our Love story was like the usual
Unusual kind,
(Can't recall now, who did make the proposal first, it could be Me,
Or it could be She,)

Like those we oft in reels do find,
A man risking all , guided by Fortitude
A babe finding him to be the one, who stood
Against all the things that came their way,
(Can't recall who made the move first,
Was it i, or she,
Can't recall now, but one there moved first, Definitely!)

And then times they had all to run away
By passion of rhymes and roses and songs,
By LOVE , drenched full, they ran along,

Through Meadows, hills, plains, sands,
They ran, along, they just ran,
(Who ran the fastest, not me for that to find,
In love , so deep, we two as keep,
Joined, probably the soft in me
And the hard in her,
Both ran really Together)
Like they were like two joined feathers
Afloat in the cool breeze of the evening
Of a beauteous Spring filled Summer.

(*Note: the picture attached is a photooped representation of two lines taken from a book, grammarly, owned by me.)

Finding limerick*

Finding the dumbness is nothing new
If one can, will and say,
Can find dumbness in many ways,
Like one once found it said
Printed published in one book made,
Grammarly, they have declared it cool
Scripted words in decrepit tool,
And then all went to the woods
To find where can or forever could
Find Beauty little in trees those stood
For years many and for many to come,
Through books we compose, compositions,
Paragraphs, bios, narratives light,
Scorched streets and halogens bright,
All happen in form of words,
Spread across some million yards.

(*Note: the photo of printed words is taken by me, out of a Grammar Book, later it is turned into a multimedia presentation, for the sake of Poesy, a different kind, popularly known as limerick)

Finding limerick*

Finding the dumbness is nothing new
If one can, will and say,
Can find dumbness in many ways,
Like one once found it said
Printed published in one book made,
Grammarly, they have declared it cool
Scripted words in decrepit tool,
And then all went to the woods
To find where can or forever could
Find Beauty little in trees those stood
For years many and for many to come,
Through books we compose, compositions,
Paragraphs, bios, narratives light,
Scorched streets and halogens bright,
All happen in form of words,
Spread across some million yards.

(*Note: the photo of printed words is taken by me, out of a Grammar Book, later it is turned into a multimedia presentation, for the sake of Poesy, a different kind, popularly known as limerick)

Sitting on the railing*

Sitting on the railing
And doing a strumming,
With the breeze cool blowin'
From those hills touching the clouds,
Sun peepin' out,
Is such a music ,
That i just think,
i will go nowhere,
I will, just do there a sittin'
And do a jammin'
Not thinkin'
Anything. (*Note: the sketch done by pencil is gifted to me by a friend mine.)

Whence You wear a sarong,*

Wearing a sarong,
Draping you like a song,
Whence You think of touching
Waters by feet Thine,
The after noon coming down
On your shoulders, arms,
Glittering like little specks
Of gold, Sandy how your soft legs be,
Our holidaying at the beach, by the sea,

Wearing a sarong,
Wrapping yourself, like a song,
Whence you put your feet,
Into waters cool, foaming around,
The after noon calming us,
At the resort, how we our idle times pass,
I looking at you, writing Feverish,
You by Beauty, on canvas painted figures
Whence by Venus, growing out of oyester shell,

Like a Diva true,
wonderous, 
spread,
like a bliss,
  catch my view,
My wandern lust,
So unleashed.

(*Note: based loosely on a painting as attached, done by V.Volegov.

The painting is gifted to me, by a friend mine.)

A Roman holidaying*

A Roman holidaying, *

Come love,
Let's go out
For a Roman holidaying,

What?

A Roman holidaying?

Yea, why not?

We have been there ,
Haven't we?

Flick?
Movies?

Nay,
The Greek and Roman gods,
Socrates talked about,

Are you Socrates?

Nah!
I am ,
Me,

And You Are,
You,

And we two
Make it,

Every day,
Don't we!

Yes, that we do,

Then?

Then what?

We create,
We talk Venus,
Artemis, Diana,
We talk Zeus,
Helen, Clytemnestra,
Don't we?

So?

So we are already in Rome,

Come,

Come love,
Let's do
Roman holidaying. 

{*Note : the painting attached was gifted to me by a friend,
This particular scribbling is akin to what many years ago, a Bengali poet did, in his most acclaimed work, Titled "Kothopokothon" ( The Conversation). The name of that poet is Shri.Purnendu Patri. I have earlier written quite a few on Purnendu Patri and his works, which amuse me. Translated some of his poems also.
This scribble should also be taken as a humble tribute to that great poet and artist.
Incidentally most of our epics and Epical writings, started with mere conversation.
Symposium of Socrates evolved through that.
Our Ramayana and Mahabharata, started with that. Our folk songs evovled out of conversations, kawali geets (songs) also Borne out of conversations.
This poem/scribble carries that conversational tone.
Incidentally, "Roman Holiday" is also one of my favourite romantic flicks. So it can be taken as a humble tribute to that classic as well.}

Ode to Socrates*

Ode to Socrates*

Thou hath left with us
Treasure such,
That we are still,
After few hundred years
Taking Thy copious notes,
And holding symposiums of our own,
Whilst, what a Pity,
It must have been
That Thou hath been made
To drink from the Cup
Hemlock, without any
Fault of Your Own.

(*Note : the picture attached is Taken/clicked by me from a book, depicting Socrates discussing with His Friends His ideas , perhaps, related to His findings concerning His quest for Truth)

At the shore, ashore*

At the shore, ashore*

Whence you go to the sea,
At the shore, whence you sit,
On the rocks, boulders, watching
How the waters come and go,
Guided by the sweeping wind
And the current beneath the flow,

i think, with you, my dreams come
Ashore, on the beach, also right there
Where the seaside hills stand aloof
Getting the breeze into their stone like hearts,
There, how my poems with colors burst,

There, diva, where Thou take a seat,
My love with Yours there, love,
How with Peace forever meet.

(*Note: loosely based on a painting attached as given to me, by a friend mine. Courtesy : V.Valegov, )

Yellow flower collage*

With the morning breaking out,
Collage , yellow,
How there like a golden flower sprouts. (*Note: the painting collage kind as attached,is done and archived by Sam Carlo, )

Billet doux*

What billet doux can one send,
To Thou, my neopoiltan maid,
whence You art become so,
Letters written, read and reread,

But as someone once said,
There can never be an end
To letters of Love, to be read,
And seeing You, reading one,

By the garden, sitting quite,
With the morning decorating
You, Isabel, so, glorious, so quiet,
By the morning's light, decked,

Is a blessing by itself, made,
And i, just read betwixt, lines
And alphabets, words deep, Unsaid,
To find what our Love can us take,

La amore, do i really write for you,
Or do you really paint and create,
Only for me, to live in Joys, to procreate,
Perhaps not, never it can be so,

For our Love is for the forever,
You buckets of colors, me a River,
You a pencil sketch, me coolest shiver,
You the shelter, a refuge, me an oak huge,

Still, how in our painted spread,
How we make a Holi Bed,
You read a billet doux, i in DNA
Get our poesy and Writings embedded.

{*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached, done by Vincent Romero Redondo, Courtesy: WAAF series, Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni.
#isabel : a fictional character created by me , (of a novella romantic about life, love and Origin of Species)}

As if edelweiss*

morning whence comes to my home,
Which is yours too,
Whence with hope we wake up from sleep
Which you do too,

I oft think of what song wilt thou bring,
For me, in the morning,

(What a fool am i,
To think of me ,my songs,)

But then, you being , what you are,
Love, You don't keep me on wait,
For at my garden gate,
how i find you,

As if to me greet,
Like edelweiss
Blooming, for me,
(And our sons and daughters,
Our sisters and brothers,)
Our family,

How i find you,
Now and then,
Time and again,

(Right there
At my garden gate,)

My dame,
My angel.

(*Note: the painting attached, upon which the poem/scribbling is loosely based,  was done by V.Volegov.)

Holding onto thy palms*

 Holding onto thy palms,
Hands , fingers Thine
Into mine, clasped,
Can make me go along
With you, to any place,
Any time, even if you
For some reason,
Away move fingers Thine,

I know, you wilt make a come
Back at me, for have not me
Told you that story of Our love
Taking not us, only, but all
For a Holy ride, across all lows
All blows, all ebbs and all tides.

(*Note: the painting attached is received from a friend mine as a Gift.)

To isabel*

O love mine,
Isabel Divine,
Whence you come to me,
Crossing perhaps seven seas,
Continents apart,
As we are still making a living,

From far thus away,
If Thou come,
And like a painted damsel,
If you under the day's sun
So stretch legs Thine,
As if taking a rest,

As if waking up, 

From a slumber deep,

Tell me,
How Canst i not sing for you,
Damsel mine,
My life, sole cue,

Finding you, thus,
In our garden as if ,
I,how , only in indolence
small fragments of Time pass,

Knowing you are,
My only Refuge
My only tears,
My only Recluse,

My only excuse
For living this useless,
So useless, life.

(*Note: the painting attached is gifted to me by a childhood friend mine)

At the sea, *

With the sun getting swept,
To the western sky, turning red,
How i find Thee, standing with the shine
On your shoulders, holding your straw hat,
By one hand , and looking to the east,

(Were you looking at me)

How I find Thee, at the sea
Waves soft, genteel, as they come lapping up,
Your white long skirt,
With intricate needle works at the fringe,
How by the sea you stand,
Breezy day it must be,

(Were you looking at me)

How I find Thee, at the sea.

(*Note: the painting attached, upon which the poem/scribbling based,  is done by an artist and Painter. The painting is gifted to me, by a friend mine.)

Waves Thine *

Whence the waves Thine
Make a swirl,
Foamy surf
I see how
Turn
Golden by
Light Thine.

(*Note: the photo attached is a gift from a friend mine, to me)

On bouquets, rosy and dame mine*

Finding you looking at those bouquets of Roses,
Sitting up close to them,
Looking at them
A painted, colored scene
That i always do bear
Deep into my heart,
Is so warming ,

But then, i sometimes think,
Which is more of BEAUTY,.
You Isabel, or those bouquets,

Really wonder i,
Looking at you
Painted scene,
Right in heart mine,
Which is more fragrant
You, isabel, or those roses,

But then,
As we are here,
For an eterni~tie,
And as you have given me
Such much of writes, poesy,
Paintings, music, violins,
Gituar strumming,
summerly springs,

I think Thou Art
Surpass all,
Bouquets of flowers rosy
Would have carried
No meaning,
This life itself would not
Have brought any thing,

Had nor You been there,
O my dame, my Isabel fair. (*Note: the painting attached is received by me from a friend mine, as a Gift.
#isabel: a fictional character created by me,)

Arriving at thy door*

Arriving at thy door
Is itself a walk to a bower,
Where you have made a garden
Of flowers , blooming, eternal,

Every season i find there blossoms,
Be it spring, summer, monsoon, autumn,
And I just there turn up somehow,
Guided by fragrance, only to bow,

Arriving at thy door,
Is itself a journey such
That i oft lose my self there
Catching the aromatic air,

Oft there i go,
If hurt i go there more
If happy i go there utmost,
There how i always get lost,

Arriving at thy door
Is with pleasure me gets filled,
Your picturesque Beauty,
Keep me there frozen, stilled,

Arriving at your gate
Is a wonderous pilgrimage
There I oft find me,
And Your Innocence, as mirrory image.

(*Note: the painting attached is done by An awesome Painter and artist Mar Chelle Piery, courtesy : Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni.
The poem is just inspired by the painting, though it goes to another dimension,as can be made out, )

Ode to Leda*

How do i find Thou,
The Goddess of births,
Of Helena, Clytemnestra,
Polydeuces, Castor,
Four of Thy children ,
How Them i see,
Playing , near Thou feet,
And You, standing, angelic,
Taking kisses from
The Swan , Thy Love,
Whom Thou hath so playfully allowed,
To come near Thee,
To take You to His lighted scape,
Knowledge , so shiny,
That can invigorate all,
You and children Thine too,
As Leonard doth made You,
Before battles of Sparta , Athens,
Were waged, before Helen was abducted,
Before Battle of Troy, came,

O how, Leonard hath made You
To stand there, Deified,
Caressed by thy Love, Zeus like.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting done by Leonardo da Vinci as attached,  similar to one done by Correggio;)

By the Fountain*

By the fountain*

By the fountain
Where we oft do meet,
Now and also then,
Where we have always
Kept our Love, like seeds
Of our births, our years
Of growth, our tears
Of happiness, being so much
In love, with one another,

By the fountain,
where we once found Venus,
marble sculpted,
Where we thought to plant
Our rosy things, embedded,

There , how one finds
You, my love,
Isabel, playing with waters,
Your hand how you run,
Through waters,
Creating ripples
In the pool,
And also in me,
To forever be,
In love with you
And your poesy. (*Note: the painting attached is received as A Gift from a friend mine,
#isabel : a character fictional created by me ,)

Whence isabel like thou doth turn up*

With the flowerpot,
By strings attached
To be put there
At the porch,
One spring summer morn,
Whence isabel like,
Mon amore,
You come out
Of the door,

And i standing quite near,
Just look at you,
Flower girl mine,
My love , my life,
My writes, my Beau,

I just look how
Simply by your presence,
Spring comes to me
With a buzzing sense,

Your hair tied to a bun,
Your Bosom kissed
By the morning sun,
How keeps me dazed,
With poesy of Love Thine,
So perpetually emblazed,

And with the flowers
How you come out,
To light up a day,
Where with Thy aroma,
I fall, like a leaf,
Taking thy fragrance ,
In the air, a whiff.

(*Note: the painting attached is received as a gift from a friend mine, upon which the poem/scribbling is based.

#isabel: a fictional character created by me, )

Thou art such a Fine Girl *

You are such a fine Girl
Brandie, i wonder,
Seeing you sitting
On the Wooden plank, of a pier,
Reading as it seems a book
Which me once took,
To fill with my inked life
An ocean Mediterranean to take
A deep plunge, a joyous dive,

You are such a fine Girl,
Brandie, i wonder,
What a great maiden Thou Art,
Seeing you sitting
On the Wooden pier knitting
A story sure, in your mind,
Whilst reading a book
Which with dreams i once looked,
And turned it with my love a Sea,
Brandie, how i , you like a girl ,
Oft in painted canvas, really see.

(*Note: based loosely on a painting as attached, received as a Gift from a friend mine;
#Brandie: a name given to the girl in the painting, by me;

The title is inspired by a song of sailors and boatmen.)

The Guitar Girl mine*

Whence You sit quiet,

Putting your face on the fretboard top,
Just near those tuning knobs,
Looking up, thinking something,
As if you would soon
Come up with a tune,
A music, a boon,
For me, always looking at You,
The Guitar Girl mine,

With Thy aura getting mixed
With the sunshine falling upon Thou
From behind, like a halo,
As your face turn up wards a bit,
Upon the fretboard head, near the knobs,
As you keep your face, Beauty of Peace, so soft,

i, just look at you,
Forgetting if it was that Guitarist who
I called Johnny old,
Who strummed for mere pennies,
And her daughter, ill,
Art Thou His offspring
For nobody ever can
Have such a Beauty of a face
And that peace of Innocence,
With a halo over head ,
Other than Johnny's genes,
You canst be so supple and bright,
You canst be so not so, 

Ever you the wonderous ,

So i, look at you,
As oft, a song writer looks,
Searching for a perfect tune,
To adjust and place, his words,
Not oft delivered and said,

O how The Guitar Girl,
With you, how , see, a poem i make. (*Note: loosely based on the painting attached, done jointly by Michael and Inessa Garmash, courtesy : Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni.

#Johnnynhissicklydaughter : a poem/scribble written by me, many months ago.
Johnny is the character of a Guitarist as created by me , in that particular poem/scribbling as mentioned.)

Ode to Zeus*

If Thou be the carrier of Knowledge,
Of the Goddess, Saraswati,
If Thou be Lord the Omnipotent,
Zeus True,
Prithee,
Take me to that Paradise
Where, Swan like Thou Art stay,
In different forms,
On the lap of the Diva of Thy Love,
Thy Partner Divine,
From whom Thou
Hath seeded birth
Of Both Helen and Clytemnestra,
And Polydeuces and Castor too,
As found, discovered , revealed
By several immortal greats
In their works so prolific,
Which even after few hundred years stick,

Correggio , how hath founded Thee,
Truth of Thy Divinity,
And Peter Paul too,
Leonardo also,

How they all tried to find Thou
O The Lord,
Swan like,
Flying in thy Paradiso,
Covered by Trees,
By music Thine
In Art so freezed,
Undying, eternalised,

Never ever to be
Tarnished,
Knowledge of Thy Supreme
Thy flying free,
Thy sitting down, flapping wings,
Thy act of caressing Leda,
Only to make Her Rise,

O how You, Zeus,
Can turn a Swan So,
To make no arrow
To shoot down, hurt,
But to make all to glow,
Not to shock any,
By Your shapes fluid many,
But to make believe
That wonderous Bless
Which can only make all
Love and light of knowledge trace. (*Note: loosely based on Correggio work titled "Leda and The Swan"; #HelennPolydeuces : Offsprings of Zeus
#ClytemnestranCastor : offsprings of Tyndareus(The King of Sparta)
#Saraswati : The GODDESS of Art, Knowledge and Wisdom in Hindu Myth/Legend
#Swan: the carrier of Knowledge and Wisdom and Art, a pet of Devi Saraswati, according to Hindu Myth/Legend)

Through the waters undulating with vegetation at the bottom *

How i wish to be, at least if not two,
One of the duo, sisters art they were,
Suzanne, i could've easily be come,
And with Blanche, (if I turned femme fatale, )
And rowed through , The River Epte,
It could have been, such an impossible wish,
To be so grandiose, to be fully filled,

Rowing through waters, as a boatman,
Tell me, love, haven't i that all through done,
Knowing Thou, the Ever lasting form of Art,
Missing no thing, Your eyes,
O Claude, where from Thou got those paints and dyes,

Which immortal grace came unto thee
How come Thou hath found vegetation so grassy
In the River so,

Is it be cause Thou loved to row,
All through waters, choppy or still,
How You, the Eternal rivers ,in your skin doth feel,

Alice, must have been very kind,
To Thou, Claude, that you rowed through tides,

And i, the child, how only ride,
Through streets, roads, hurricanes, storms,
Gales, how i embrace , only for a long,

Got no la barque rose too,
Got no such acumen to View
You , Claude , You the bright,
How You light Alice bright,

How you make me young too,
Such a Gift, how comes to me, from You.

(*Note: on Claude Monet's work titled "Boating on River Epte", also known as " Canoe on Epte".
The two women who acted as models for Monet were Suzanne and Blanche Hoschede. The painting can be found at Sao Paulo Museum of Art.
#labarquerose : private collection.
#waterwithvegetationatthebottom : is actually a comment made on the painting.
#RiverEpte : a River with vegetation at the bottom
#Alice : Monet's wife.)

The Palm Tree*

There the Palm Tree stands on leg one,
Surpassing every tree,
Peeping to the Sky of Thee,
Having the wish, piercing the clouds dark, up there,
Thinking where from wilt she get the free air,

So She just over her head
Her wishes hath She bred,
Thinking all those Dreams of her, near the sky,
Can,at least away,from Home,someway, fly;

Her leaves how tremble all day long,
How her dreams, fly, to where(the Sky) they belong,
As if, evading those Stars, wilt they go, lone,
Catching the air, to where Her dreams the Palm hath sown,

But whence, the breeze ceases, true,
And the murmur stops too,
Those Dreams of Her, doth return,
To the Motherly Earth of her,
Loving more her deep, loving more , the Mother.

(*Note: based on a poem written for children by Rabindranath Tagore, as presented by the picture attached)

Ode to The Bird, Uncaged, *

O Thou, love mine,
How i sometimes cry
Seeing thy uncaged state,
Letting Open, once how,
(I by mistake, or not , may be)
Set Thou free, so Thou
Go flying to the Sky,
Touching those beauteous cloudlets,
Which roam as free as Thou,
Cottony feathery floating dreams,

O how, once set Thou free,
The bird of my heart, sweet,
(I by mistake did, not sure, it might not be)

O how setting you against the sky,
I set Thou free,
And see,
How i have kept still the cage open,
For Thee to return,
(Like that September's song)

O how, love, mine,
How for Thou i long.

(*Note: the photograph attached is Really, Actually, matter-of-fact-ly, done by me, many years ago. This particular piece of photograph was actually part of the "Click Photography Exhibition" which was held at The Calcutta Information Centre. )

If You Are Goliath*

If You art Goliath*

If You, Pride,
Mine, be so Ruthless,
i, little child Thine,
Italian ,
(il suo Caravaggino kind)
Would stop and gaze,
Before paintings,
Which will take
Me to the sense
Of utmost wonder, Dense,

O how i see, in Your Vast
Oil on Canvas Spread
Little David,
Holding Goliath's Head,

The sword, how the child David,
Keeps down , low,

Out of hate,

Nay,

But out of Sheer Love,

For Goliath
Hath created
Little Caravaggio
And how Thou,
Caravaggio,
The artist immortal,
Hath Thou gone,
To the space,

Leaving us with
Your Words, Unsaid,

Through painted scape thine,

How the little David,
i find, rising like A Son,

And his sword,
Kept forever Down,

Having the inscription,
Only in Your paintings,
Caravaggio,
Can be
Found, 'Humilitas Occidit Superbiam'

(*Note: the painting attached was done with a lot of pains and patience by Italian Painter Caravaggio. The painting Depicts the fight between the Good and the Evil, as symbolized by David and Goliath respectively. Caravaggio had been a follower of Giorgione, another immortal Painter.

#HumilitasOcciditSuperbiam : meaning in Italian 'Humility Kills Pride'

The epic battle between the Good and the Evil can be found everywhere, in every country, in every time, in every possible spaces Small.
In our literature and myths and legends we also find that fight.
In our Mahabharata and Ramayana , this is there. David and Goliath will forever fight and forever David will, by The Will of The Supreme, will Win, which Is,Needless, to say.)

If You Are Goliath*

If You art Goliath*

If You, Pride,
Mine, be so Ruthless,
i, little child Thine,
Italian ,
(il suo Caravaggino kind)
Would stop and gaze,
Before paintings,
Which will take
Me to the sense
Of utmost wonder, Dense,

O how i see, in Your Vast
Oil on Canvas Spread
Little David,
Holding Goliath's Head,

The sword, how the child David,
Keeps down , low,

Out of hate,

Nay,

But out of Sheer Love,

For Goliath
Hath created
Little Caravaggio
And how Thou,
Caravaggio,
The artist immortal,
Hath Thou gone,
To the space,

Leaving us with
Your Words, Unsaid,

Through painted scape thine,

How the little David,
i find, rising like A Son,

And his sword,
Kept forever Down,

Having the inscription,
Only in Your paintings,
Caravaggio,
Can be
Found, 'Humilitas Occidit Superbiam'

(*Note: the painting attached was done with a lot of pains and patience by Italian Painter Caravaggio. The painting Depicts the fight between the Good and the Evil, as symbolized by David and Goliath respectively. Caravaggio had been a follower of Giorgione, another immortal Painter.

#HumilitasOcciditSuperbiam : meaning in Italian 'Humility Kills Pride'

The epic battle between the Good and the Evil can be found everywhere, in every country, in every time, in every possible spaces Small.
In our literature and myths and legends we also find that fight.
In our Mahabharata and Ramayana , this is there. David and Goliath will forever fight and forever David will, by The Will of The Supreme, will Win, which Is,Needless, to say.)

For You, Love Mine *

As Thou hath sent me
Greetings from thy Lotus pond,
And as a mere boatman is me,

How Canst i not sing
For Thee, La amore,
My poesy, my writes,
My dying colored self,
My calm, my light,
Lighted feathery bright,

How Canst i not sing for Thee,
You who hath , by thy kindness
Bestowed upon me,
Thy depth, thy pleasure, thy inkpot,
Thy never ending love
Which gradually envelopes me,

O how i , into thy love true,
Sink , e~merge,
How into your stilled waters
How i  find my birth,

Those leaves, those Lotus,

Ain't they decorate us,
Aint they tell upon
The song Divine of Love
So, devotional, eternal,

So come, diva mine,
With your pool of waters,
Thy womb Uni~versal
How i wish to get back,

How to thy belly of Heart
Galactic, me finds truest me,

And you too,
La amore ,
Mine,

Where ,
Mon amore,
You me
To fortitude and
Calm bring,
So softly,
Like those petals of
Lotus,

As Thou send me
Only,
For us,

Our Peace
Of BEAUTY.

(*Note: the picture attached is A Gift Of Love)

On the other side of Seine river*

Catching the Bus, Seine i passed,
Keys of our hearts, after throwing,
Locked such with everlasting love,
(Like those sparrows, pigeons and doves)
Whence guided by , thy kindness, I turn up,
At the other side, of Seine estuary,
Trouville and Honfleur, where I think
We could sit down, under the shades of trees,
Embracing thy soft, thy deepest love,

I think of you, so , as if dame,
I have your unworded serene, married,
You Art such a Diva, Such a maid,
How Canst i leave Thee, life(?) 

So i sit back, relax, replenish,
Our hearts with fresh Air, unblemished,

Eugene, perhaps , found that too,
Looking at his painted View,
The other Side of Seine,
The River of Live, Parisian,
There at Trouville and Honfleur, entwined,
I find, Thou, GODDESS , Divine.

 {*Note: the poem is loosely based on a painting done by Eugene Boudin ( Honfleur 1824- Deauville 1898), as attached.
This poem is also a continuation of an earlier poem by me where the River Seine is mentioned and few other scribblings where the idea of 'Catching a bus' is referred to.

Boudin visited the Other Side of Seine Estuary and visited Honfleur.
Interestingly E. Boudin met Claude Monet , in 1858, which made him a believer in the impressionistic artforms and paintings.)

Standing quiet, just looking at You*

Oft journeying through, You,
Thy hills, trees, rocks, streams,
Foliage,  dense, mist and dew,
I stop, taking a deep breathe,
Only to feel within, a River, Lethe,

Away, away from banal things,
Who had won, who had lost,
Who had triumphed, at what cost,
Away I make a travel, to You,
The treasure trove, that You bring, like a cue,

Seeing that country road, going , just moving by,
Like a ribbon, with which the hills, you tie,
meandering like a figure going up, catching the air,
Is a wonderous feel, much like, Love, You and your music, fair,
As the tune emanates from thy lyre,
Whence I stop, only to see You, morn like, pure, unpolluted, bare,
And then, always  i make out why,
i sing for you, our Love, like an eight and a π. (*Note: the photo attached is taken by me, while touring to hills.)

A walk, spelt by Rains*

Whence Love, you go walking past
Holding umbrella Thine,
Post a squall and rains, drizzling,
Seeping through our Hearts,
Drenched as we remain,
And the road , too,
for our late eve's walks,
As becomes colored,
Leaves whence fall,
All over Us,
And You, Iove mine, whence
Just go walking past,

I, watch Thee,
Like that Tree,
Silenus like,
Dreamy,
Like the way,
Our short stay,
At Naopli brought
Before us,
Love deep,
Never sought,

Those trident lights,
They glimmer,

Only to light
Our calmed summer,
By the squall,
That followed the rains,

Drizzle,
That with love , oft I
For you, Isabel, do paint,

Will you then me compare
With that painted scape
Of A Paradise, a lair,
That once Gaspard did,
With an wooded landscape,
By our Love, so finding a Seed; "Apollo amoureux de Daphne"
They call it in Rome, i know,
Which once you told me,
After a painting show,

Yes, you might always argue,
How can I in Dughet view,

And i will, like an amateur
Bring, strange, curious, similes,

Like you turning into a Tree,
Being my  GODDESS of Love,
A Daphne,

Had i been real,
As mighty as Apollo ,
For thou, so sealed,
I would've still sought you,
Isabel, putting
The forests dark and deep
To a Re~ view,

Ovid , then, must have been very amused,
Finding a Lover, like me,
So foolishly Bemused.

(*Note : this poem began with the painting as attached, done by Leonid Afremov, courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni;

But, it took a different shape and tune altogether, as it moved, as can easily be understood by any discernable reader.

#Gaspard Dughet , a Roman Painter and artist (Rome1615-1675), did a painting titled "Apollon amoureux de Daphne", based on Ovid's 'Metamorphoses'. According to the legend/myth, Daphne, being chased by Apollo, turned herself to a Tree.

#Silenus , is considered to be a companion of Bacchus, thoughtful and thought provoking one, having Visions or Foresights, who usually remained Silent. Unlike Bacchus, Silenus, though appeared Drunk, had never been a great patron of Wine or any intoxicant.)

Sending A letter of Love, To You*

Sending A letter of Love, to You*

Now that the day's works had eclipsed
And at Dusk sweet we have arrived,
Like all those dusks
We made love at terrace,
Unseen by any body,
But by only us,

Now that the dipping sun
Has come to bathing,
To the waters cool,

And golden chips
As I can clearly see
Upon your cheeks,
Tempestuous neckline,
So sensuous,
Coloring me,
By orangy red,

And as you have gone out ,
Your daily errands,
And as I would go out too,
To a Place,

To meet our children
Left uncared,
On the streets,

Feeding as they needed utmost,

Thought of sending a post,
To Thou,
Mon amore,

Kept things ready
For our bed,

Rosy petals there I have spread,

A bottle of wine red
You will also find,
Right on the glass table,

And that bouquet red
That with ribbon pink tied,

That too, for Thou,

Hope,
You would get the fragrance right

Whence I will be
There at Night,

Your knight. ~frances

Like Colleda*

Isabel, as haven't written to you,
For long,
And as we have turned us into a story, like a Song,
For all to come to our home, and to sing,
Thought why not gift you a scene,
Painted true, by one great,
Ierene, should we call Her
A wonderous Painter,
Much like you,

Yes, a painted scene
See, how before us come,
As if you there going
To the garden of us,
Like a Colleda,
Sweet maid mine,

There I You doth see,
As drawn, so artistically,

You bending down,
Wearing a long gown,
Your hair, brown,
Tied , shining silky soft,

And the day , breaking out,
For us, la amore,
For us,
Real,

Canst You see,
How i ,by thy love, ceaseless, be,

How by thy wonderous glaze,
See, Canst you, Mon dio,
How i can even find,
Larila, quiet, coming to the town,
Napoli, our home,
Right at that porch,
Where we have kept
The torch
By Larila's bless,
Burning Bright.

(*Note: upon a painting, loosely based, done by Irina Vitalievna Karkabi, Courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni.

Colleda: the Goddess of Love, Slavic,
Larila : the Goddess of the Energy, Sun GODDESS, )

By the garden, seeing You, waiting*

Seeing You waiting,
By the garden
Of our love,
Where we have grown saplings,
From seeds, seeded we,
Is such sense of joy,

But then,
In Your posture of sitting,
Head slightly bent,
Dropped, held ,
On your upper arm, left,

Thought You art sad,

But sad can't we never be,
For we have promised to us,
To go all the way,
From earth to Mars,
And Jupiter too,

Being so much turned
Love birds, into,

Seeing Thou,
GODDESS of my Heart,
Painted by our Joined state,
Of being two, rolled into One,

(Much like that once John Donne Sang
Singing an Aubade, )

I think of You,
And the garden
That we have grown within,
By seeded Love, so embedded.

(*Note: upon a painting done conjoined , by Michael and Inessa Garmash, courtesy : Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Prayer to Mother*

If Thou hath provideth us all
With waters , air, fire and ice,
If Thou hath been the Origin of all lives,
Mother like, if Thou hath taken all the cares,
Of us, me and my members of family,

Sometimes, looking at You,
So revolving and rotating true,
Around the Sun, gaseous, Supreme,
So beautifully balanced , harmonious,
Taking a path Thine elliptical

How i just a mortal, try to find
Where we had faltered, where we did shine,

Ravages Thou hath faced many,
They only made You , perhaps Gloomy,
Thy Air, we the fools, how have made smoky,
Thy soil, how we have made filled with radioactive things,
Lead, cadmium, uranium, chemicals unhygienic,
How thy waters we treated with disregard,

O mother, how we, the cowards, only dug graves for us,

As i, like a child, oft, prayed for Health true,
As , like a believer, in Wordsworth, made poesy for you, mother,

Make us believe,
We, the cowards,
We, the meek,

We can restore every hurts,
To a come around,
No wounds upon You,
We would leave not healed,

O, GODDESS Artemis,
If Thou reflect symbolically,
Our greens, streams, rivers,
Oceans, deserts, icecaps,

Prithee,
You make a calm
To descend on us,
Children Thine,
so filled with ignorance.

(*Note: the graphical representation of one small portion of our Planet , is Taken by me , with the object to Poesy.
The Carl Jung quote holds true for all, nonetheless)