Toy shop*

Just where the bus us had dropped
By the road, on the sidewalk, there would be
A lot of shops, of garments, books, stationeries, invariably,
But the best one of the lot, surely would
That beautiful Toy Shop where we stopped and stood,
We, the siblings had that passion the most
To buy little trinkets, ones and twos, of which we did boast,
And there had always been on our visits
To the town, on weekends, just on the street,
A Toy Shop, with a big window glass to show
Different toys, dolls, soldiers, tanks, submarines, guns, arrows,
Bows, drums, packs of cards, board games,
Various items glitzy with various names,

And we there always stopped and stood
Where by the window of the Toy Shop we would brood,

Mother would be trying to take care of us all,
The smallest in her arms, and me, the biggest of all, 
We would look at those toys with open wide eyes
There where they were placed , where in our dreams they lied,

No visit to the town would be of any worth
Had we not to home any Toy from town brought.

(*Note: the painting attached is used to decorate the idea of the poem/scribbling. Courtesy : Thisy Tran, Artist : Benjamin Kennington.)

My City*

My City *

You have been with me for ages,
Since I learnt to walk, almost,
You have walked with me,
Processions of people whence first gathered
Near that towering Ochterlony,
(Standing still, like a picture three dimensional,
Since eighteen twenty eight),

You had given me first call to my love,
My first beard grew and got trimmed,
At a barber shop, at that street, near Lindsay,
You were there when I took to words to be left unsaid,

You were there with full fledged form,
At football scores and mounted police hunts,
At cricketing calendar you were there too,
Catching live how the World Cup went away,
Away from us, a toss to lose,

At the garden of Eden you gave me rest
To sit at your green, your fragrant air
How I sipped heartful, blessed,
You have been there when
I thought of Youth
Going to that theatre ,
Watching A Friday night making moves
Down the pavement , music whence poured,

Then oneday at Esplanade,
When it started to rain sudden,
Held your hands moist,
Your face how then glistened kissed by the spray
Of water, first time after a sultry month of June,

Found You in my veins,
Writing oblique prose and rising poems,
Then another day came,
When saw you dressed like a bride,
Riding with me all through Chowringhee,
Hoofs of horses making curious noise,

Christmas eves you sent to me with blow pipes
And simmering numbers slipping from glass doors,
Air when carried scent of grilled fish, smoked,

Another day, early in the morn,
Pigeons when came outdoors
To hop under the canopy big
Of the terminus,
We went to you,
To catch a cab to go touring,
To the outskirts ,
Friends and family all singing,

You have been with me all through
From night till morning.

(*Note: the photograph attached of wall graffiti, is clicked by me, while whiling away somewhere near a theatre, at the city of Kolkata)

On warm Sandy beach*

On warm Sandy beach
Where the breeze flows
All day long,
How beautiful is it
To there belong
Watching the waves
Rolling perpetual,

Surf and foam
Where with phosphorus glow,
How lovely is it
There to get a go,
Swept by the salty taste
Of waters , by sunny day blessed,
Catching crabs , running to and fro,
Building castles with sand,
Grains of time where fall slow ,

On the Sandy beach
Where the warm breeze blows,
How beautiful is it
To there go.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached; courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Alex Artista)

Through the vine laden path*

Through that vine laden path,
Once how we holding each other, walked,
That had been perhaps a day of spring
The air had perhaps a beautiful swing
That came and played with us,
Through that shady oasis as we passed,
Fragrance of flowers, buds and leaves us caught
To a dream like state how they us brought,
As if we were treading a never ending path
Where winged Love had brought only mirth.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached; courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Alex Artista)

In the country side *

In the countryside we would play,
Spending our sweet summer's day,
Getting dirt on our body and feet
With songs we would us treat,
Near that silent cottage small
Where a tree stands near tall,
There we would wear no shoes
We would go by Nature's hues
Catching the morning as it would come
Country people we would surely become,
Running barefeet on the green grass
Years will come and by us haply pass,
We would go singing all the way,
Finding cool shade in the scorching May,
Listening to chirping birds and parakeets,
We would go running through dirt with happy feet,
In the country there would be no end of play
As we would merrily spend our sweet summer day.

(*Note : upon a painting loosely based as attached; courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

An Ode to The Three *

If Thou be the most favored Three
Erato, Thalia and Calliope,
If Thou hath risen above all the nine,
Who hath made all poets and writers to shine,
Keeping them all Bemused by thy charms,
If Thou hath made all find the Calm
Of writing long ones and the short,
If Thou hath provideth all the lot
To make out what holds true,
In literature, paintings and few
Other forms of art, which had made man
To understand the Eternal, take me to thy Land,
Into that forest where perhaps You three rest,
Into that idyllic setting, where one can only be blessed
By thy Beauty of Poesy never ending,
To that archaic road, take me , sending
Me more of Thy love , thy potence,
Make me feel that Godly Sense,
That had caused deluge in many,

If Thou three art the cause behind song and litany,
Prithee, make me to work more for thy presence,
Take me to that poetic form abstract yet dense,

So that, not by only invoking You three,
I keep myself lied down, doing nothing, at the Lea,
But do I keep on working more to find thy source
Where from wilt i, being bestowed by Thee,
Poetry upon me, wilt row forever in search of Thy shores,

Unwearied, wilt i by thy grace
Wilt only Beauty of music Thine wilt trace,
In every word, every form of Art,
Pray You help me find that wonderous spurt,
Making me lines lyrically sublime,
Only left for You three, more of lines,

As found many before me, famous and not so famed,
As found by poets known and not known by names,
As found by painters and sculptors too,
Pray You three, as Simon found proper You,
In his paintings with sometimes together
Sometimes separate,
prithee, make me find that stupendous, mesmerized State,

So that I can put myself fully at thy mercy inspiring
So that more of Poetry can me to the world bring,
So that, can I sing more, being so moved by thy sight,
So that, can I take a plunge sure into thy heavenly Light,

And not end up feeling famished or decadent,
Prithee, to that Arcadia , me be by thy bless sent,
Where only can I be left to worship Thee,
O You sisters of Creation artful and Divine Poesy!

(*Note : the painting attached is used to decorate this poem , written as an Ode to the Three Muses who are considered the most sacred out of the Nine Muses.)

Three little birdlings*

Three little birdlings*

Three little birdlings
Hopping by the surf
Go how finding
Little tiny fish and crabs,

Three little birdlings
Hopping by the foam
Go how finding
Little tiny insects and worms.

(*Note: loosely based upon the painting as attached, done by Krista Eaton, Courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei)

By the stream, beside those hills*

By the stream, beside those hills,
Prehistoric silence where resides ,
How oft there i go, following trails,
Long forgotten by the civilised,
There how oft I find the chirpings sweet
Of birds singing in melodious tune,
Rapt in attention, how oft there I turn,
Gazing at Thy Beauty, Boundless and awesome,

There how oft I find Nature's prime,
Interfused with living sage like ,
Roads where end, and yet where new beginnings always welcome
One to ponder deep, to make out thy chasms,
So measureless, so unlimited, that one just
Ruminates till poesy comes out,
Flowing through the gate,
Breaking open all bars,
Iron clad warriors where even find sleep,
In dens filled with all encompassing Peace,

There, right there, how I oft see,
Life as tiny as a pebble, rolling in the stream,
Bearing nothing but the shine,
Of waters soothing caressing its life,

There, right there, how oft i go
Only to find ways to find poesy more,
Growing , blossoming in the quiet,
Merged with Thy ethereal Delight.

(*Note: the painting attached is used to decorate the poem/scribbling ; courtesy : Michael Godfrey, Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Alex Artista)

Slowly another day coming to say*

Slowly another day
Coming to say
With love whispering
Into my ears,
Through the leaves
Murmuring,
How beautiful is it
To live just thinking
We are here to see
With wonders
How life just flows by,
As little drops of moments
Keep adding up
To ocean,
As we go on traveling,
One place today,
Tomorrow perhaps to another station,
Another poem,
Another prose,

Another dream to live for,
Another blooming of a bud,
Another rose ,
Another dahlia,

Another day we are here
To live
For another Paradise.

(*Note: the photograph attached is Taken by me and attached here, for decorating the poem/prose/prosaicpoem/scribbling)

The Girl with the pigeon*

The girl with a pigeon*

The girl had no other means to know
The World outside,
Without her father,
Who had gone away long before she was born,
And an ailing mother, stuck to her bed, most of the days,
She had to do all the works at home,
Her brothers were stout and tall,
They worked at granaries,
Brought they home, once dolls,
For her,
Now that she had grown a bit old,
Age attaining that what they call,
Marriageable,
They wanted her to settle,

But the girl,
She would by and large stay silent,
Working all day long,
Only in the afternoons of summer and winters and springs,
She would keep herself attached
To the world outside
And how, through a pigeon,
The white silent calm looking one,
The bird would come
And sit without any hesitation,
Upon her one shoulder,
And they would just sit together
Lime a statue for hours,
The bird, would then,
Tell her stories of the world,
How , in a faraway town,
There came a circus,

How in Madagascar,
There appeared a strange Man
Who could sleep forty winks,
All winter,
How in Honduras,
People go bathing at the sea
All the summer months,

How in Mississippi,
A woman had made it
To the annals of history
By making a big scarf enough
To cover the necks of thirty three elephants,

Many more curious news thus,
Came to the girl ,
Via that beautiful talking pigeon,

And the girl would with the bird's tales,
Go to distant lands,
Meet people,
Talk to them in her dreams,

Another world ,
They had made for them it seemed,
The Girl and her pigeon.

(*Note: the painting attached is used to decorate the poem prosaic/ short scribbling/ poem in prose/ tale , done by Christian Schloe; courtesy : Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

At a little street*

At a little street, *

At a little street, somewhere at Venice,
Two sailors there once did meet,
They talked about their voyages,
To places exotic,
At a little street at Venice,

It was perhaps a beautiful morn,
They have arrived again to the town,
Their home for Poetry,
Their home for telling stories,
Meeting people, singing songs,
Their going away for nights long,
Into the seas, oceans and rivers,
Rivulets running through them,
Their journeys to forms of art, forever,

Two sailors, there once did meet,
At a little street, perhaps, at Venice.

They said to one another as they did greet,
They could live only for meeting at their little street,
La calle di Venezia,
Where little boats do haply ply,
Where gondolas for them with songs fly,
Where little princes meet their princesses true,
Where love in the air, all summers blew,
Two sailors , right there at the street
Sang songs for each other, as they did meet.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached; courtesy : Loredana Lombardo)

Bowled

"They had sent me home"
Was all Chandrachur Singh told his wife Rai.
Chandrachur had come home suddenly, almost abruptly, from his posting at Bikaner.
Rai, new to the home of Chandrachur, did not ask anything to her husband, only that she felt suspicious after a month or so, when Chandrachur, instead of making preparations to go back to the battalion, stayed back, whiling away his time in doing errands at home, like tending the cattle, the goats and sometimes going out to till the few acres of land behind their hut.

Only on August, Rai, understood, a great big change had happened. The British had given away the land to someone at Delhi.
Radio messages called for celebration.
Azadi seemed to be a great occasion for some celebration.

But neither to Chandrachur, nor to Rai, it meant anything new.
The only new thing that Rai got was a copper bowl, that her husband had brought.
A simple copper bowl, usually found in army mess, with a number inscribed.

While the country went to a mode of celebration, Rai and Chandrachur, in their isolation at their small hut, in the remote village of Rajasthan, had nothing to celebrate.

One night, after a month and half of his abrupt return from the barrack, Rai garnered courage to ask her husband, "achcha, how will we survive? There's not a morsel left at home, crops are dwindling"

"Hain.."
Chandrachur said just.

The next morn, Chandrachur rose early and went straight to the land.
It had not rained much in August or September.
The soil had hardened like stone.
Yet Chandrachur started tilling, using his old bullocks and a long hard rusty plough.

The sun must have been beating down upon him.
He tilled still.

For next few days, from Dawn till afternoon he did the same.
Rai remained busy taking care of her only son, a new born, at home.

The rain did not come.
It seemed a famine was going to arrive with its ugly shape.

A few grains of wheat, borrowed from a neighbour, served them for a few days.
With a lot of hard work, vegetables grown at the backyard, by Rai, also came to certain help.

But without rains, was it not difficult to live?

Then one night the rain came with thunder and lightning.
How pleased was Chandrachur!

The next morn, he went straight to the field.
Now it was time for him to do irrigation.
With spade and axe he dug a channel, to let the water flow into the field.
Seeds were thrown.

Rai also became happy. At least  they would not have to starve, once the grains would yield.

Chandrachur worked harder.
But he spoke not a single word about his coming home from the barrack.
"Had he been sacked from Army, by the British? But the British have long gone...now he can rejoin the army...can't he?" Thought Rai, though she never asked anything to her husband.

Days passed.
Crops started growing.
Rai was happy.
Chandrachur, it seemed, also had forgotten about the army.

The copper bowl with his army service number inscribed, came to be used as a necessary utensil by Rai.

That year, late November, when the winter was slowly making a foray into their village, Chandrachur fell ill.
He had fever.
Rai brought some medicine from a local Ayurveda potion seller.
That cost her two annas. Not a small amount, considering the declination of Indian currency, post independence.

The potion was duly given to Chandrachur. But the fever continued.
Then oneday, Chandrachur breathed his last. He just passed away, without showing any forewarning, barring that fever which never diminished till he went to the Eternal Abode, leaving behind Rai with a son and a few acres of land and a copper bowl.

God only knows , how Rai survived with her son after that.
She worked at lands, fed her son, sold the grains to a local wheat merchant.
Years passed.
Her son was admitted to a local school.
Then oneday Rai heard from someone in the village that the new government is giving pension to the widows of armymen.
Rai went to the Sainik Kalyan Board.

"Show us your late husband's service number"
The officer asked Rai.
"What Service number?"
Rai asked.
"A document which will prove that your husband was in the Army"

Rai returned home empty handed.
She rummaged Chandrachur's steel trunk.
Found a money order slip, old and yellowish.
The money order receipt of an amount of Rupees Ten, she received first and last from Chandrachur, from Bikaner, where he had been posted.

Rai went the next day to the Sainik Kalyan Board.
The receipt was shown.
"But it did not have any service number of your late husband!"
The Officer said.
Rai was in tears.
"How can I establish that, Sir, an illiterate woman as I am..."
The officer looked at Rai's face.
She got wrinkles all over her face, not because of her age, but because of the hardships she had gone through perhaps.

"Okay. I will see to it"
The Officer said.

Next few months, almost once every week, Rai would go to the Sainik Kalyan Board.

"we are trying to find out in which battalion your husband had worked, you see, it is very difficult to find that out without any document showing his service number..."
The Officer would say.

Then one evening, when Rai was cleaning the utensils, the copper bowl of Chandrachur was what she got to do scrubbing with tamarind, to make it look glossy.

Then, almost like a providence, she found something inscribed on the lid and on the body of the bowl.
They looked identical.
Rai scrubbed harder.
Yes! Something looked like a number there inscribed, on the lid of the bowl.
The body of the bowl also had the same numbering, as it seemed.
Though Rai coud not read the number, being an illiterate, she at least understood that the inscription had some meaning.

The next day, Rai went straight to the Sainik Kalyan Board.
The Officer was not there.
"You wait, he would come after one hour".

She was informed.

Rai waited there at the lobby with a small girdle in her hand which contained the copper bowl.

That one hour seemed like one month.
Rao waited.
She  was feeling hungry.
She had to go back before three when her son would come home from school.

The Officer came.
Rai showed him the copper bowl.
The Officer looked at the bowl.
He was silent.
" how long you have been using it?"
He asked after a long pause, staring at the bowl, held in his hand.
"For ages..."
Rai said.
"Will you mind if I keep it for a few days?"
"Why?"
"Because it might earn you your pension!"
The Officer gushed, smiling.
Rai was amazed.
"Thik hain...bahut khub...Shukriya..."
Was all she could somehow mutter.
Her voice was choking up.
Her eyes were glistening, they were becoming teary.
The Officer stood up, took her shaking hands and said, "Don't you worry, something,will surely happen, now that you have given me a solid proof..."

"What is that? A solid proof?"
Rai asked, ignorant as she was about ways of officers and offices.
"This copper bowl of your late husband...it will earn you the pension."
The Officer reiterated.
Rai felt like crying.
Tears were rolling down her eyes.
"Shukriya Sahib..."
She said, before leaving the Sainik Kalyan Board, happily, thinking more of her husband, Chandrachur Singh.

Sunset by the beach*

Have you noted ever,
How at the beach
The sun every day set
Down turning the sky
And waters , a splash
Of colors as if painted
By a huge brush,
Songs of crickets
How there assemble,
On the benches , vacant
When the salty breeze
Us beckons, to take there
Our seats, only to meet
The sky and waters colored
By awesome dusky Hues,

Have you ever got the cue
Who hath so fared, everyday
To bring colored layers
All over Us, as we so ignorantly
Our times pass,
Have you thought about love
Have you drunk the potion, that ambrosaic liquid, that drips
Drop by drop to quench our pining
Of more splendour,
Have you got ever beyond the loop,
And with sleepy trance, have you
Before That Invincible , ever, drooped,
Quiet when turned the beach,

Have you found me, there, ever,
Translucent , spread across your eyes, bare.

(*Note: upon a photograph loosely based, as attached; courtesy: Musica e Poesia.)

All for Bob*

All for Bob*

As it is logwood still burning through the nights,
And as there would be hopefully Georgie too, to fire lights,
We are going sing all through, for Bob
And also for you,

All those who are still thinking there's the chance
For people to do merry and to do a dance,
Burning we would forever be, those logwood
For we got the knowing where with songs we stood,

Everything will not be the same,
All will go through the lane,
Till we will learn to see beyond and above
With love only we will call for the doves,

Those at the Trent  will take their time
To know how we mix with pictures of Hope our lines,

For Bob, we can go a few extra miles,
For you, I can write upon walls only smiles,

The logwood will be burning through the nights
And hopefully Georgie too, will ignite the lights,
We are going to sing from Dawn to dusk, all through,
For we will sing for Bob, for me and You.

(*Note: this poem/scribbling is a humble tribute to Bob Marley, from me.
The opening line of the poem/scribbling is adapted from a Bob Marley song.)

The three sisters, archaic *

How the three, sisters true,
Musically wrapped create a view,
How music had been so eternal,
How in songs, tides rise and fall,

Painted with craft, spread so like art,
How doth they create, songs alive and smart,

How they doth fill empty spaces with ease
Music as they doth make to be carried by the breeze,

A sweeping one, wonderous lyrical air,
How the three sisters, doth generate fair
Songs and poems mixed right in proportion,
How the three, doth create a flow of Poesy, in motion,

The more I chance to look at them,
The more I go into a musical poem,

A poem perhaps of spring , of summer,
Coming early, to bloom like a passionate flower,

On the bed of one's heart, a fertile ground,
How the three sisters, by songs, keep me bound,

Yet how the three look so painted archaic,
Yet how the sisters, with unheard music doth stick.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached; courtesy: Ocean's bridge.)

Home is where heart is*

When I do return, from voyaging
To distant lands, much like that mythical tour,
Traveling to unknown shores,
How do i  feel at Home, just outside thy door,

There I know round the year,
Fragrant blossoms create love
Being kissed by the light and air,

There I know after the travels,
I can only find rest, rejoicing at thy marvels,

There I know I can find quiet,
The Calm of a morning's light,

There I know I can truly feel
My self , by thy Boundless love,
For ever, for this life and beyond, sealed.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based, as attached, done by Gleb Goloubetski, Courtesy: Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

The window and the sparrow*

Every morn, when I leave the window
Opened to the World outside,
A little sparrow would there arrive,
She would come and sit quite
On the pane , with delight,
Twittering as she would make,
From there sitting as the World would awake,

She would give me the news of the world,
Which tree outside had bloomed right,
How wonderous had been the previous night
,
What flowers had grown where,
What daisy had been taken by the air,

Which birch, had grown an inch its wood,
Which house in the neighbourhood
Had put its people to merriment,
Where to the young ballad singer
Of the town had been sent,
Which couple had gone to the tour,
Where from the serenade out poured,
Which kid had cried for a toy,
Where from arrived an artist coy,
Which deodar had turned to a nest ,
From which land a pigeon came to the attic,
to take from her long flight, a desirous rest,

Every morn, when the day would break
And light when coming through
From the window as opened,
Would keep me  to the world, awake,

A little sparrow with delight
Would on the pane, arrive,
She would make me to mornings dive,
Singing for me songs of days,
To keep me really amazed,

I would look at her restless hops,
How from the edge of the window,
She would before me, for a moment stop,

And sing how would she
Before me, so beautifully.

(*Note: loosely based upon the painting as attached; done by Adolf Von Menzel, courtesy : Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni, )

the goatherd of Timbuktu*

As the sun finally went down behind the distant cliff,
He started to walk his weary ways,
He the goatherd...
And the flock of his favorite goats walked and ran
Before him, making shrill cries, homeward bound;

The dust from their feet rose,
Just like a maze,
Enveloping the tiny huts not far away,
Which looked like the refuge sought time and again by people like him... The goatherd and his goats of varied color patches on their coats,
White, grey, brown, black... The goatherd walked towards his hut,
At the end of just another day,
But he knows within,
The next day will be a new one;
He knows
The next day will bring him to another desert of Timbuktu.

(*Note: the painting attached, is used to decorate the poem and to embellish the theme of the poem/scribbling, done by Jean Baptiste Camille Corot,1843)

Donna della notte*

Often whence I look at the night sky
Sitting just by thy side, You the woman
Of my dream, like glowworms whence
The stars twinkling far away from us,
(Between our daily communion of souls,)
Come down descending in our poetic prose,

How then I find more words threading
Through the air,
How then,  oft do i, thou visualise, in forms shapeless,
How then,  I oft,   to reach Thee, in painted forms, do trace,
The ways of our journeys, voyages to the unknown,
How sitting by thy side, leave i seeds of poems sown,

Till all go catching the night's soothing breeze,
Till, we, by love of ours, with the silvery flakes, tease,
Our own words to evoke more imagery
Of life and love, fused,
Till, we , by our passion of wakeful dreams, find how dews
Form gently on blades of leaves, touched by the cool
Ether that stays betwixt us , thin, forming a space,
That only can the moment properly hold, like music timeless,

Till we together make a difference to the World
And to us , till we make again a commitment,
To keep still our paints, words, poems,

Till we together go making a Beauty
That could stay, long after the moment will go,
Long after we will there be not, no more.

(*Note: the title means "woman of the night",
The painting/mixed media attached herewith is for Beautification of the poem/scribbling, done by Deviantart, courtesy: Selenada, )

The trioka of Jazz*

Play on You pipers of music
Whence with You I turn to magic
Of Paintings and poesy so coming together,
Come You, Jazzy blue , come You, Trioka,
You come to make me soar,
Love of your music whence opens my door,

Come Neil, Come Jim, Come Ray,
Take me to your music, your verse, your lays,
There will i make a lyrical tune too,
Come ye, the Kings of Jazz and blue,
Help me make a colored scape , filled with words,
Make me take a plunge, into Your music, inwards,

Play on , you the Lords of tunes,
Take me to your music, your eves and nocturne,
Your piping simmering bursting tinge
Make me take Your potion of passion, a binge,
So that I come out more with lyrics sublime,
Make me, unmake me, take me to make more lines,

Some going slightly trembling, as goes the lead,
Some going grave, bassy, which you, me feed,
Some going sharp, reaching a height of a cliff,
Some going sombre, masculine and deep,

Play on, You pipers of Music ,
Whence with You, trioka, I turn to Magic.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached, done by Jason Gluskin, titled "The Jazz Trio". Courtesy : artpromotive)

Oft do I take*

Oft do I take*

Oft do I take
That lane
Wide awake,
Also in my dreams
Do there I go,
Where my love
Like poems grow.

(*Note: the photograph attached is photooped to go with the scribbling as attached)

The Flower Girl*

The Flower Girl*

Often in the Vast field of Flowers
Of mustard, yellow and green,
That Flower Girl can be seen
With her basket standing still
And gathering the little buds and blooms,
Oft in mustard fields , as huge as the sea
Covering ten thousand miles, there is to see,
The girl gathering little things , in her basket,
Like the morning gathers colors
Spread some hundred acres
Of land not to be measured
By man, huge as it runs across
Quite an earthly canvas.

(*Note : upon a painting loosely based as attached, done by Dima Dimitriev; )

Through a road, one beautiful night,*

Through a road,
One beautiful night
How went the traveler
Journeying alright,

The terrain had the deep
Foliage green, woods there
Faraway hovered, away from
The din, through a road, fast asleep,

How went a traveler,
One Beauty of a night,
Journeying he, through the field,
Journeying alright.

(*Note: upon a painting based as attached)

Bun*

Bun*

Sometimes when you turn
Aside your head
And your silken hair
When you wrap and fold
Like a muslin as if, when
You that hold,
Upon your head,
Pinning it perfect,
Simple yet stunning,
When it reflects
Light , so glossy a feel,
When you emanate,
How that has given
Themes for many
To paint, to scribble,
To turn it into something,
Even more a Beauty,

Without it,
You wouldn't have dressed,
Without it,
I wouldn't have been a poet,

Without it,
An evening
Can't be
Fascinating.

(*Note: upon a painting based as attached; courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Alex Artista)

The woman with her "Small Garden"*

There she lived , by and large
Alone, her husband , left her,
Gone he to the Abode, leaving her two sons, they had gone too,
To the towns, works took them,
She would tell everyone,
'They didn't want to go, but Works
Are so formidable , these days'

She lived in her cottage,
She had nothing more
Than that one small garden
Where she grew flowers of choice,
Roses, chrysanthemum,
She  had none,
Other than them,
That small garden,
Every morn, the first thing she would go,
To that few years of grass,
Fertility there she nourished by her hands,
Roses and Chrysanthemums,
Cabbages too,
A few yards to live by,
Her sons two,
Walked away to the town,
'Works took them there, they didn't want to go, but Works,
Aren't they formidable these days?'
She would just say,
Habitually,
And the small garden she had to dream,
There she at the twilight , for years,
Had been seen.

(*Note: the painting is attached to highlight and decorate the theme of the poem.
#smallgarden: title of the painting as attached, done by Fred Doloresco; courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei )

The musician and the General*

The musician and the General

When the General asked him
To pluck a note and pull the string-
It seemed a difficult proposition,
His fingers looking unfed for weeks
Had nothing in them to create a magic
And then all around stood derelict
Houses of his ravaged town...
Rubbles sat on minds and hearts
Of those who survived the Holocaust
And this General with stubble moustache
Wanted him to strike something...

What could be risen out of that sham?
The town ghettoed long ago had no Glam
Only furtive few notes written somewhere
Had faintly distinct a half forgotten repertoire;

Thinking all these he sat on the stool
And made an attempt to play no fool
With the board he knew like his fingers and palm...

Graded into three different steps
He put verse into the ruined build
And made a decoration with added taps
Gentle as they were till reaching the crescendo;

The General kept his eyes closed
All through the session silent as someone
Caught in between hell and heaven,

And when his fingers stopped plying
He just opened to another life
And smiled
And then gave the weary man his overcoat.

(*Note: loosely based upon a Roman Polanski flick "The Pianist". The poem is reposted here.It was originally written on June 30, 2015)

Dream of Icarus*

The Dream of Icarus*

How I wonder , seeing the birds freed
Into the blue firmament, a real treat
For eyes to behold and to dream
To fly to the distant lands, it seemed,

How that Phaeton like wings
Get attached with the back,
How lovely is it to think
Of a stupendous one, a flight,

Away away not from only Crete,
How I wonder, seeing the birds freed
Into the sky azure like a Dream
Getting winged poesy, as it seemed.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based, as attached; courtesy: Sam Carlo.
#Icarus : the Mythical man with wings
#Crete: a place Grecian, mythical,
#Phaeton : just like Icarus, a winged creature.)

The rain in the city

The rain in the city

When it starts to rain
Through the window glass panes
How is it, that truncated shapes
Before me
Of the city
Emerge,

Each glass has always
Something new to show,

One has the view
Of a building opposite
Getting a bath,

Another has a rain soaked bird,
A sparrow perhaps
By its beak
Making its feathers tidy,

A few yards away,
Through another glass,

A pedestrian tries to manage
Her umbrella, by the gust of wind, upturned,

A few more images
Appear,
When it showers
Down on the city,

A peddler trying to cover
His wares by tarpaulin,
Hurrying,
Not letting to go waste,
His earnings of the day,

A school boy
In his teens,
Lending his rain coat
To his friend,

A woman like a Dream
Leaning against the shutter of a closed shop,
Looking at the drops
Falling down upon her,
On the road, on cars honking away,
On buses coming to go,

A shower sudden in the city
How brings truncated slideshows
Through the windows.

At the outskirts of the town*

At the outskirts of the town
Where the meadows and paddy fields
Meet with the sky, seemingly,

Standing there, seeing the Vast expanse
Of the beauty of a morn,
How am I reminded of
Days of summer and spring,
Which the clouds do bring, oft,
How am I left enchanted
By the breeze smelling flowers on bloom, mild and soft,
How am I left to wonder
How in thy world there works only love ,
Drenched by a shower or two,
And on leaves and grassy lands
How am I to behold
Thy never ending tranquility
Forming sparkling little spheres
Of watery balls, drops of morning's dew,

How , at the outskirts of the town
Am I to fall in love again, with  thy all encompassing love,
By nothing( ordinary,  banal things) bound.

(*Note: loosely based on a painting, as attached, done by one of the greatest painters and artist, Vincent Van Gogh, courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei)

Bella musica*

Bella Musica*

The evening started thence
With tinkling sounds,
The mob at the pub was agog
Some were tapping feet,
Some stilletos clicked , sharp,

And then, suddenly taking the centre,
Under the halo of the spot light,
She appeared, the violinist,
In red her flowing gown,

People , men of the town, stood up,
As if ushering her,
I just waited at one corner,
Hushed up were my nerves,
Looking at her, her silken hair,
Had she put on extra gloss,
Me thought, after all I her knew,
From her childhood,
She had been always such,
Always smiling ready to perform,
But in front of such a crowd,
Boisterous, would they her value,

Bated breath
Kept me on wait,
few seconds looked like vast,
And there she stood under the spot light,
Just a Beauty , me thought,
Will she blossom right,
I was looking at her,
Light upon her head,

She cast a look,
The crowd, waiting too,
Me was waiting for a cue,
Didn't She cast a sly look,
At me?

Then she took the bow,
Her fingers held the strings,
As if she knew them like knowing
What me thought, my wait, my breath,

One smooth turn of the bow,
One slow tap on the Wooden deck,

The music just there started,
Next few minutes I saw nothing,
Next few moments had I breathed?
Next few moments the crowd stood speechless,
Mummified were they?

She played, she played slow and fast,
Bow her going playing with her,
Her body moved too,

I was stupified,
Again,
I sat petrified,

And she played
Fire with ice
Icy fire.

(*Note: the title of this poem/scribbling is based /inspired by the painting, attached.
#bello: meaning beautiful.)

Meeting, musical

Meeting musical

Meeting You
Is like meeting curious
Whence from pen
Come out spontaneous,
Poems for you,

Is it not love,
Whence by passions
Runs me, with rhymes,
Whence upon papers white
Go my writings following lines

And curves too,
Whence all words
Follow a cue,

Meeting You
Is surely a meeting curious
Going by alphabets and words
Filling pages true
Of me and you.

Following the trail*

Following the trail*

Following the trail
How one arrives quiet
To that lands, where a stream
Flows through the woods , bright,

Following the trail
How one finds quite
The serene blessed feel
In a marvellous, tranquil sight.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based, as attached; courtesy : Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Artist : G.Novitsky, )

Where the green and yellow leaves glow*

Where the green and yellow
Banners of leaves by the morn glow
How oft I to that painted scape go,
Finding songs of thrush, woodpecker's rhyme,
How there oft I find those blessed time
Whence you and I were like little kids,
How there oft the morning us greets,
The valleys filled with songs of birds,
Green which we find us more as we pass,
Through that undulating country road
How there we sang once with ease full throat,
There where flowers hang from trees welcoming us two
There where on leaves we caught volatile dew,
Glittering in light like drops of little spherical shapes,
How in the valley once we saw how love us draped
With light of melody claiming our souls,
How there we filled our thirsty hearts' bowls,

Where the green and yellow
Banners of leaves glow
How oft to that painted scape I go.

(  *Note: loosely based on a painting as attached, done by Karen Winters)

La prima donna *

" Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told
(The witch he loved before the gift of Eve,)
That, ere the snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive,
And her enchanted hair was the first gold.

And still she sits, young while the earth is old,
And, subtly of herself contemplative,
Draws men to watch the bright web she can weave,
Till heart and body and life are in its hold.

The rose and poppy are her flowers;
for where
Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent
And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare?
Lo! as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went
Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent
And round his heart one strangling golden hair."

If Thou be so Lilith, so decked with gold
How with mirror Thine , Thou do self
An idolatry, what is there to go into disbelief,
If Thou be that stupendous creature Lilith,
Why is there still people running after Thou
Whence Thou Art made so to worship Beauty Thine,
All by Thyself, needing none,
Why is there so much of chase and run,

Lilith , if Thou be so self sufficient,
Why Thou Art not cause men to appraise
Thy Beauty not by simple praise or hate,
But by loving thy eternal form , as painted prime,

If Thou be the holder of Truth,
Why is there still men so rude,
Why are we still so ignorant
Whence Thou Art so made
Upon canvas holding a world
At thy lap, mirroring all,

Why Canst we see thy LOVE
As turned Adam , the Man , before
He fell for fruit or for  that moment
Which held the human knowledge,

If Thou be that woman first
To save Adam from terrible lust,
Why then Eve was made,
Why then Thou Art kept
Away from the light.

(*Note: based upon a painting as attached of prima Donna;
#laprimadonna : also a poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti , from which the first few quoted lines are taken and inserted,)

Homeward bound*

Homeward bound*

At the end of the day
When the dusk settles down
By hoofs of horses and cows
Turning the sky beautiful
Orangy red , when that color gets spread wide across the western horizon, homeward plods how the shepherd, with his weary flock,
Amidst trees and mounds of earth,
All going to sleep, as if,
At the end of the day, when the dusk settles down, homeward bound
Birds do sing their ways, how the scene pastoral , has remained the same, after so many years,
So many centuries how passed
With the same routine being followed, in parts of lands
Where nature appears at its best,
How the scene has remained perpetual,
Carrying the essence of man
In his living harmonious
With his milieu.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached done by Dennis Sheehan, depicting pastoral landscape; courtesy : Keith Linwood Stover)

And there are some afternoons,

And there are some afternoons
When the window beckons me
And I just there sit with a cup warm
Of coffee and a few books of poems and tales,
Afternoon before me how slowly like a charmer
Goes down the road , veiled by the soft light
After a squall and a few showery spell
How she goes, like a belle, down the road
As if to meet her love, the beauteous twilight,

And there are some afternoons when I just sit
At the window , with a cup of coffee and a few books of poems and tales.

On pages

On pages how have i left
Once roses and petals red
On pages of life, love,
How have I left my poems.

To whom Thou should i compare*

To whom, Love, should i compare
Whence you come so, with youthful air
That turns me young, fruitful in thy eyes,
Tell me, love, where you should reside?
Whence in every form of my Living
In my wakeful days and sleeping
You I find pouring as if ambrosia,

To whom should you, do compare
Whence you thus come with Thy smiles
Whence for you can I go walking
Miles after miles,

Art thou Hebe then, the Goddess of youth
Who for all brought once songs of Truth
Intoxicating even Gods with Her Beauty awesome,

Tell me, love, art not You for me,
That wholesome,

Whence you quench my thirst by thy Beauty and Grace,
Whence You make Nature wear newest dress,

Art not that GODDESS of Spring too,
Like Proserpine, singing a soft cuddly tune,

Tell me, love, with whom You should I compare
Whence you come with such soothing air.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached, depicting Hebe, The Goddess of Spring and Youth helping The Eagle of Jupiter with a bowl of Water, courtesy : Artist G.Hamilton)

When the Spring will come*

When the Spring will come
Will you stay at home,
And see how the day
Passes through to night
Without sensing it,

If you ask me,
I will take you down
Far away, love, far away
From the town
Where the colors erupt
In joyous laughter
In every tree , every leaf
Every bud, every flower
Where comes dyed
In varied Hues,
I will there take you,
And make you feel
How spring comes
In me to fill
All spaces vacant
With wonderous calm
Its setting how makes
Every little thing full of love,
If you ask me,
I will just take you there,
Unconfined, unchained,
We will catch the road
Treading soft on petals
Under our feet,
I will take you there,
To make you feel misty ether
Drawing sketches upon your skin
Upon my face where the air
Caresses love, I will take you
There, to the unlimited choice
Of finding in country , how Joys
Of our living come in proper shapes
I will , when the spring comes, drape
You with magnificence, splendour,

When the spring will come
Will you just stay at home.

(*Note : upon a painting, loosely based, as attached, courtesy : Bob Ross )

Just down the road , near that flower shop*

Just down that flower shop
Oft would I go,( sometimes do
Also I stop, )
There where the road went straight
To the terminus,
Oft I would go,

The city had all its treasure there
Somewhat stored up,
A big post Oriental
There hangs round the year
Cinematic poster,

With seasons
New arrivals come
Posters also not
Remain the same,

In my childhood
Seen there
From that post
Hanging muted shows
Of Charles Chaplin,
The City light,

There also a few paces away
The vendors throng,

In my boyhood
Bought so many paper backs
From them,
Enid Blytons,

In my adolescence
From that post fluttering
Just round that corner
Had seen Demi Moore
First time
Doing a tease,

All there on the road,

Just round that corner
By the flower shop,

In my college days
We perhaps used to hang out there,
Catching pollens in spring
And flowers more in late winter,
Dahlia, Roses,

We had pocketful
Of them,
In exchange of coins
Bought once
The first compact disc
Red hot chili peppers,
Metal hard,

would I go there, oft,
If chances permit,

Just near that flower shop
Would I go oft
To see the city
In new avatar,

Old post there
Made of gunmetal
Polished like silver
Still stands there,
With poster
Alluring,
Hanging
From it.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based, as attached, done by Pavel Mitkov; courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Alex Artista, Art without Limits series)

Walking down the Park*

Walking down the park*

Lets go walking down the park
As we walked to songs
Of strawberry Fields in summer
And cherries when ripened
Let's go walking
Down that path filled with fragrant
Dreams of our Love and likings
Flowers we get to bloom alright
In us only by walking to dreams
Real is like that strawberry field
Which sang once John , quite philosophically,

Let's go walking down the park,
Where our cherry blossoms
We have cared to grow
Where our apple trees
Oft get covered by snow

Let's go walking ,

By walking there we go.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached, done by L.Mechkarov; courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Alex Artista, Art without Limits series,
#John : John Lennon,
#strawberryfields: a song by the Beatles, )

Ode To Chloris*

Ode To Chloris*

Whence the awakening of Flora
Do i see, or Purcell's Nymphs
Whence come down to us,
As through days of Poetry and paintings
Do i with indolence pass,
How i think of You , as Chloris,
And your festival eternal
Of Spring forming in Hearts do I sing,
Like a painted form of Flora,
How you Beauty of a morning bring,
And songs do how create more
Of songs to outpour,
O You The Creature angelic
How i see at the Door,
As Flowers do wake up
With the wakings of Spring and Iove,
How You I see, standing there
Carried to me, out of canvas,
By thy lover, The Winged form, Zephyr,

With flowers so decked,
How You days lighted You make,
By the hint of light,
As if Thy existence gets fused
With the birth of a day , bright.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached; courtesy : Alex Artista, Art without Limits series, Musica Pittura e Dintorni.
#Zephyr: the God of Wind/breeze
#Floralia: festival of spring
#Purcell: Henry Purcell,
#AwakeningofFlora : a ballet
#Chloris: GODDESS of Flowers, Spring and Fertility, Flora, )

" Boating seems so easy from the outside But everyone is floating on their own tide"*

" Boating seems so easy from the outside
But everyone is floating on their own tide"
You , I remember , told me oneday,
As we rowed down and up, that lake
Where water lilies bloomed, swans where came
To bathe and float on the waters cool,

It had been a day of spring of our touring
To the countryside,
Boating seemed really so easy, outside
There were flowers all over, at the bank
There were bushes and hedges for us
To hide our feelings , deep deep inside
And how we floated the whole day
Just happily riding our tides,

You asked me to row it close and near
Those swans who were white and silvery
You fed them by your own hands, beckoning
Them by your simple cooing, a lovely day
There for us , to keep us to boating confined,
Pictures how beautifully in the storehouse stay,

And you said smiling soft, knowing
What that rowing to us brought,
What pleasure, what pains, what acts
Of Love, what rainy evenings,
Which songs , what breeze fluttering
Your skirt, in the waves simmering,

" Boating seems so easy from the outside
But everyone is floating on their own tide"

I nodded at you, always there , at the other end,
Rowing , only for you, down and up that lake
Where swans came to bathe in the waters cool,
And where trees fell by their shadows on the pool,

Such a day to get wasted, spoilt, yet renewed
To more of life, sprouting, as Flowers,
To get drenched in love, heavenly showers.

(*Note: upon a painting, loosely based, as attached; courtesy: Art without Limits series, Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

An evening to remember*

Often we would go to that place
Where the evening's air blow
By that river, that cafe` open air,
There we would sit face to face,
You perhaps in a simple evening dress,
Me also on a simple jacket,
The air there blew soft, the lanterns flickered too
Not many people were there perhaps
Only the River for us to see and view
With Heart's content, never to miss
Your red and slightly pinkish pair
Of supple moist lovely lips,

The tea would there arrive
Coupled with other things ,
A roasted flavour brewing
And the mild noise of cups tinkling,

A few more couples would
Also turn up , in pairs like us,
By the river of ours, flowing
All those enchanting years,

You would take off your gloves,
Tell me by your eyes, sparkling
Like those little stars , above
I would look at you, say a few words
About our days living so quiet
By that river of ours,

The evening would go by smooth
As go the lows and the highs,
You would ask me about the works
Left by me unresolved, like that autumnal
Morning which I had left on a canvas at
Your drawing room some five years back,
Like that little piece of a sculpture
That I had brought from a fair and gave
It away once, a day of spring, in the name
Of our existence , like a poem that I wrote
On your handkerchief, as a token, some
Twenty years ago, which you have still kept,

I would not be amazed by your
Such a devotion to forms of art,
Only I would look at you, your hair
Lips, eyebrows, chin, how they spoke for you
Your mind, your soul, your heart Unseen,

You would also look at me, when the evening
Will get a bit ripe, you will also look at my hands
As by the paper napkin you would , them, softly swipe,

The evening and river then, must be quite
With us mixed, the couples who have arrived late,
Will also be us following,
Soon the place will be agog
With activities varied to say the least,
But you and I will still be there
To let the moon come down
And to let us be, by her music, kissed.

(*Note : the painting as attached , helps the decoration of this poem/scribbling; courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Alex Artista)

In the valley of Flowers*

In the valley of flowers*

With the morning singing a song
Of Love as emancipated in varied forms
In flowers , buds, butterflies and bees,
When love comes to us in natural colors such
Without stopping, without cease,
In the valley of flowers when blows
The breeze so gentle like a soothing
Caressing flow upon us,
Why can't we our days pass
Going there , to that Valley,
Where beautiful flowers
Toss their heads in the wind,
Why can there we ourselves leave
Unwound and gay, when such a company we get, the sky so when turns blue
When the leaves and petals catch such wonderous hue,
Why we live confined to
Useless works which lead to nothing
Other than going away from the most beautiful.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based, as attached, done by L.Eugene; courtesy: Alex Artista, Art without Limits series, )

At the flower market(opera of Guido Borelli)*

Perhaps I had been there , gone
Time ago , since we are born, long
How again to go there,
To get the whiff of fragrant air,
Beside the River, beneath that arch,
How I go there only in search
Of a root of a Tree, my origin,
Yours too, as it always do seem,
Beside that river, beneath that arch,
How I go there, oft to search,
Our ways to find so many things,
Which carry newer meanings,
Each passing day how i evolve,
Though always around Thou I tend to revolve,
In search of our Origin,
You ,me and a lovey scene,
Painted or sculpted by awesome trust,
How I go there, go there I must,
Only to find my love, Isabel,
Whom have I left a story with, a tale,
Having such a romantic chasm,
That I find there my Soul, my Bosom
As it thrives, throbs as it,
How I go there, as if Thou, I wish to meet.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based, as an extension of an idea of a novella, I am working on.paintingcourtesy : musicalita ed expressioni dell' anima)

With the silent night singing a tune nocturne*

 With the silent night

Singing a tune nocturne

How I go to the Garden
Of our Love ,
Our made and created
Paradiso
Never to be lost
In all dins and bustle
Disquiet where
We never harboured,

There how the blue bird
Arrives
And the trunk of my tree
Which I planted for Thee
How appeared handsome,
Lovely , as the night slowly
Came onto my eyes, lids
Whence came dropping
Drowsy, drinking thy Beauty
Making way into my heart,
Only to make way to mind,

How the night and the tune
I try to bind
As words come flowing
Like a lullaby from
My mother's lips.

(*Note: upon a painting, as attached, loosely based. Courtesy : Lois Neal-Johnston, Marya Berry)

Whence like birds*

Whence like birds*

Whence like birds
We will sit on the branch
Of that Peepul Tree of Our
Childhood dreams
Evenly spaced out
Before us, those nights
Of our watching
Meteor showers
Down the skin of our Love
Blossoming quiet
How we would be
Drenched, Luminous,
How we would be
Staying on the branch
Of our staying amazed,

Whence like birds
We would take seats
Side by side
And the sky before us
Spread across
Evenly spaced
How would we be
Staring at our Love
Glowing like one big
Ball of light, blinding
All, except us.

(*Note: upon an amazing Painting, loosely based, as attached; courtesy: Sam Carlo)

For You, wrote a tequila Sunset*

For You wrote a tequila Sunset*

For You, sweetest maid,
Whence You make the sky
So orangy red,
On the page of my
Blue blue torqouise sky,
Wrote a tequila Sunset,

For You, sweetest maid,
Whence You in my heart love
So by kindness bred,
On the page of my
Blue blue torqouise sky
Wrote a billet doux all set,

To make you that read,
Whence fire dyed
Like molten lead
Slowly me feels
How is it
To make a tequila
A Sunset
Orangy red.