When those rain bearing clouds hover

When those rain bearing clouds hover
All over the sky and drizzle soft drench me
From head to toe, how oft I think of you,
Your hair black I found in those clouds
They carry scent of earth moist and your
Perfume too come flowing in the cool breeze,

Your eyes I see in my mind, curious and gay,
They take to you, love and I feel your words
Drawing pictures melodious in sing song fashion,

The city seems so beautiful then,
Every part of me go about finding Beauty Thine
In simmering images coming and then going away
Being so Borne by the rain drenched air,

When the rain bearing clouds hover over head
How oft I think of you, monsoon
Your incomparable presence how
Makes me sit quiet and to ruminate,

How oft I see you then in my mind
Ages have must gone down
Days must have gone traveling to unknown shores,
Still those dark rain bearing clouds
How bring me closer to you.

A few feet away as they wandered *

Every day they would go cycling
To the River and the hills
Just a few feet away from where
They stayed ,

There they wandered as two
People trying to make out
What makes it good to savour life,

And he being someone always in his mind
The dream of spices and other little things
To do something for culinary Delight
Would ask her about fruits and vegetables,
Herbs and nuts and seeds,

She, would keep on telling him
What were the four necessary sauces
To master the art of cuisine, French,

How much salt and pepper
Were to be sprinkled
On which dressing,

What could make even the trivial into
Exotic something,

They would just wander
Into the hills and near the stream
They would sit ,
He would try to catch a fish or two
Putting bread into hooks
And she would just giggle
Telling him the ways fish move there,
'Try worms instead of bread'
She would say,

He would look at her face,
Amazed ,
'You know so many things ...'
He would retort,

She would just smile
And give out secrets more
Of the art of cooking
Of that province not known to him,

They would wander thus
Into hills and a River flowing,

They would wander thus
Into talking more of wonderous things.

(*Note: loosely based on a scene from  a flick titled 'The hundred foot journey'. )

The morning at the ville*

The morning at the ville
Like a picture still
Oft I think I see
Where just after Autumn
Came the winter with glee,

The arterial road running through
The village always had a view
To find milkmen cycling to
The nearby town and men who
Took to the road, waited like statues
Beside the road, beneath the tree,

The morning at the ville
Like a painting still
Oft I think I see
Waking up after an Autumn
To the winter's glee.

(*Note: loosely based on a painting as attached done by John Fernandes, titled 'Winter morning' .)

Morning near Velleron *

You are like morning to me,
Blooming poppies and the meadows
You all bring to me,
And the more I look at you,
I wonder more, how beauty is there
Spread for us only to admire and
Behold, how I get swayed by the breeze
Of summer as it blows,

You are like a new day to me,
Arriving with scent of flowers
And a wonderous scene ,
The more I feel you
The more I make out what makes life
And see, how I think of you and me
As joined by Love Divine.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached, taken from 'Postcard from Provence' series)

Twilight snapshot

It had been that time of day
With twilight we had our say,
And looking at the expanse of life
Into thoughts of Love , took a dive,

The sun was then coming to bathe,
The River kept flowing taking us towards Lethe,
The breeze after a spell of rain caressed hair
Sitting and watching life how flowing fair.

Overlooking the sea

Once sitting quiet, overlooking the sea,
How we thought of life, passing by,

It had been a morn, the fisherman's shack nearby had been busy ,
the boats were made ready for a trip,
the birds had then woken up-their sweet chirpings filled the air,

And we thought to just sit,
Both of us were so made drenched
By the light of the day that we talked
Nothing,
We were only letting the feel sink deep
Into our mind and soul,
We felt the breeze caressing us,
We heard the waves lapping incessant,

We fell all the more for life,
We fell all the more in love.

I won't say it today*

Dusk. I won't paint you another sunset,
another beautiful striped sea; no, not today.
~ Mia Barrat

I won't say that you should sit beside me
Looking at the dusk falling before us
No, not today, for today I have found myself
Right there in your eyes, as you looked at me,
And I at the overwhelming sky,

The railroad had sung beside us
Taking us away from us to the far
Where twilight sings not of separation
But of the communion of our souls,

I won't say that you should sit beside me
Looking at the dusk falling before us,
No, not today, for today I have found myself
Right there upon your face, as you shone
And I as that found in reflection.

Today, I will just look at you
And the passionate sky
Turned so beautiful,

Today , I will go beyond mere exchanges of words
Between you and me,
Today I will transcend our so called love,
Today,
I will be your sky,
And you the Calm of a dusk
Enveloping me.

(*Note: the painting attached is titled 'Nighthawks, 1942,'by Edward Hopper.)

Morning at the farm*

Morning at the farm
Of Tilly Foster, is laid
With green grass
And the rooster there
Calls one and all
To make the day
With leisure pass,
The breeze there
Carries pollens yellow
And seeds of dandelions,
Songs of peasants
There ring true from dawn
To dusk, morning at the farm
Is laid with green grass,
At Tilly Foster, it is such a beautiful
Scene, in warm sun only to bask.

(*Note: upon a painting based as attached, done by Jamie Williams Grossman, titled 'Morning at Tilly Foster farm'.)

At the day's end, like The Angelus *

At the day's end, with the dusk
Settling in , upon the land,
Hearing the gongs of bells
Perhaps coming to them
From the faraway town,
How they stood still
with clasped hands,
In the midst of the vast
field kissing the horizon,
How they stood there
The Angelus, as the day
Came to bid adieu to
Their toils and sweat
At least for a night
To brace with rest,
How they stood like
Statues against the perspective
Of a dusk , descending quiet,

The wheelbarrow near
Had the fruit of their hardships
That they had borne
For days many, yet
Every day when came to pass
Like that, they would perhaps
Stop their works, and say
Words few, softly , muttering
Their little hope, love and wishes,

How with the passage of the day
They came to stand there
And to say their own words
To the world.

(*Note : loosely based on a painting as attached, done by Jean-Francois Millet, titled 'The Angelus'.)

Just that country *

It had been just that country green
Where the hay cart crossed the river
It had been just that famous scene
With that cottage of Will Lott near,

Where perhaps for hours sat he,
To see and watch the passage of a day
Where perhaps he sat with glee
To find a country perhaps of May,

There he had made the river
To sing and to make a setting vast
There he had made a choice
Of painting that could for centuries last.

(*Note: upon a  famous painting based, as attached, done by John Constable, titled 'The Hay Wain', 1821.)

That cottage at Boucherons*

That cottage at Boucherons
Just beside those woods
Could have been for us perfect
To make out our love, watching birds
Taking flight to the Sky from their nests
Loving the beauty of their life,
That cottage at Boucherons
Would have been one way
For us to feel the serene and
The  blessed one, who is present
In every form of Nature's unfolding,
In fields, meadows, wastelands,
In flowers, trees, forests of pine and birch,
In streams and rivers and oceans,
And in human and other creatures;

That cottage at Boucherons
Would surely bring us closer, home.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached by  Jean Baptiste Camille Corot, titled 'le cottage de boucherons'.)

Starry night over for us *

Starry night over and above us
We then our night , with songs pass,
You singing spinning away of Cale
Will never us from our Love fail,

We will be like that two men
Struck by the song filled vein,
Starry night over and above us
We will just with our talks pass,

I will think of River Rhone
That once so beautifully shone
In painting , a sky so ravenous,
You will with songs of Love the night pass,

The little ripples on water blue
Will fill us with beauteous hue,
And the songs will truly hold
Our tales of love never told,

It will be a night so different
Above us a sky illumined
And water close and very near us
As with songs and talks will we the night pass.

(*Note: loosely based on a famous painting by Vincent Van Gogh, as attached.
This particular painting once made John Cale to write a song.)

When you are in my arms*

When you are in my arms
It seems so beautiful
That I find flowers blooming
By the river Seine perhaps,
It might be a wonderous day
The breeze might surely be flowing
And when we would stand there
At the street, in early hours,
We would be having the feeling
Of being into a heavenly lair,

When you are in my arms,
Any day will be a day of spring
Or it will be a day to cherish
All the more for us to sing.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached done by Anwesha Chowdhury Mitra. )

Walking through the meadows*

Going walking down that track
Through the meadows has no lack
Of sweet smell of flowers wild
Tossing their heads in the breeze of summer mild,

It is such a lovely sojourn
Walking down the field one morn
Watching the day upon the green quite
Drenching a soul with beauteous light,

Just then probably one feels life
Whispering tunes gay, beyond strife
That brings one closer to earth
Where nature creates images of Holy mirth.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached, done by Bonnie Morgan Hyde; courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei.)

Woods and the country road passing by it

Oft when I chance to see
Woods and the country road
Going by it, how I think of idyllic setting,
A road to take not to go into the woods
But just going by it , reaching a lake
Perhaps where in our childhood of tales
Told by grannies, we had oft met princes
And princesses and their curious journeys, there we had met with seven dwarfs perhaps and snow white,

Oft when I chance to see
How I am taken to that age
When there were evenings to gather
At a hall, after the day's plays
And to listen with wide eyed wonders
Stories from granny, who would chew
Betel leaves and fan  us with her
handheld implement  made of palm leaves and would take us to a different world, altogether,
We would think of all the characters
She would have told us about,
They would come alive in our dreams
We would hear horse's hoofs ploughing through the road, owl's hoots too would
Come to us and we would go places
With granny,

Oft when I see woods and the country road
I think of tales that come unhindered
To my mind and with broken bits of them,
Like filling a drawing board with zigzaw puzzles , with those fragments of tales
How I make a picture complete,
Of our childhood, our grannies, their stories, their memories,

They all come together how making me understand life as a mere passage
Of ages, of generations,

How a painted scene become strongly evocative, carrying so many things,
Of wonder and excitement,
As I look at woods and the country road
Passing by it, reaching perhaps a lake of our childhood.

It was a lovely morn to walk down the beach*

It was a lovely morn
To walk down the beach
Waves came and away they went
Touching our sand filled feet,
Not far away those trees
Sang songs whispering in the salty breeze,
We took the walk as our ritual then,
Finding oyester shells , crabs and little snails,
Spread like little marvels,
We them picked and those pebbles too,
Sand castles we made,
And spent the day
Thus till we got weary of our plays,
And our bodies glowed
By the soft mellowed sun,
Floating over Aphros.

(*Note: upon a painting partially based, as attached done by Alexander Kudin, courtesy : Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Mirror mirror tell me*

Mirror mirror tell me
Am I not young still,
Are not my lips carry
Luscious feel,
Aren't my hips
ready for a turn
Doesn't my hair
Holds dreams auburn,
Doesn't my Bosom keep
Love red and deep,
Aren't my eyes blue
Made for a Beau,

Mirror mirror tell me,
I am the beauty
that the world seeks,

Mirror mirror tell me
I hold youthful blush

Mirror mirror tell me
For me the world does the rush.

(*Note: loosely based on a painting as attached, done by Pino Deani, courtesy : Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Found *

It was early morn,
The drover was just
going out of town,

In his cart he had the calf,
The drover had made his way out,

Just then her he saw,

'I think I know you, maid,'
He had her said,
Jumping off from his cart,

The girl looked at him for awhile,
Soon her face got pale,
She turned her head against the wall,
While the drover her requested
To get up and not to be,
So filled with pity,

But the girl turned her head,
And muttered,
Something choking her voice,
'I remember Thee,
The Kindness of Thy youth,
But Thy pity,
I can never that take'

The day was just then blooming
The light at the bridge was still there burning,

And the drover holding the girl's hand
Pleaded and implored more,
But the girl had turned her head,
And against the wall she put to rest,
All her shame and grief.

(*Note: based upon a painting as attached done by preraphaelite poet and Painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti titled "Found". )

On the girl named Summer and her life and love*

As candle feeds the flame
There she had been, a Dame,
Summer was her name,

She would go down the town on bike
With breeze she do talking alright,
She would sing out holding a mike,

As days would roll out from one to three
She would go working like a busy bee
Making her friend, an architect, in eyes towers see,

One day she would go with him to bed
Another day she would keep him confused,
Another night they would at a garden get laid,

This Summer the girl carefree
Kept doing what pleases she
Wanted to do all her simple life,

Her boyfriend Tom counted one to five
Months just sailed away, smoothly flew by,
Summer kept arriving as warm sun behind clouds lies,

They drove through the city streets,
They  met each other as morning through casements peeps,
They went places strange where they with fashionistas did meet,

Then one day at a pub Tom got
Into a brawl that turned rancid and hot
And Summer being what she guided by thoughts

Told Tom it was seriously out of her way
To find her boyfriend getting so blown away
By things that never pleased her self,

Summer being such a carefree sylph,
She cared for Tom as her love
But she never wanted to see her world break apart,

Then oneday , while having a leisure time
Summer told Tom how men came and away went,
Marcus the quarterback, Charlie the rock song,
Summer told Tom where they in her mind belonged,

Tom got an idea out of Summer's tales,
He made songs which he sang at a pub as coins fell,
He went pursuing his own story riding a train,
There he met Summer after many years, again,

Thus Tom and Summer kept catching each other
At places unexpected with fair or inclement weather,

Summer had remained still the same,
As a candle she just kept feeding the flame.

(*Note: upon a character called Summer of a flick titled "500 days of Summer" based, loosely. The picture attached is that of Summer as portrayed by Zooey Deschanel, in the flick as mentioned.)

Dance dance *

With music she went into a flow
Steps her she with beats matched,
The fan in her hand she had held
And with that she when lunged
Forward or slightly moved back,
In her she held how a poem intact.

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

There might be ways to reach there, *

There might be ways countless
To reach there where serenity can be braced
But to be there with tranquil sense to get mixed
Is perhaps the only way to make out true
How nature comes with different hues,

There one can surely bid adieu
All things that keep one confined,
There one can always gather few
Images painted by colors of mind,

There , how the country road runs
Through the fields cutting across
There how thousand flowers bloom
Only for one to admire them with a pause,

There the sweeping breeze might turn
With smell of Jacaranda and Rhododendrons,
There might the nascent dew drops
Accumulate as heavenly returns,

On leaves and petals trembling with joys
There one might hear that sweet lovely voice
Of a ballad singer telling strange tales,
There might be upon cornfields cottony bales,

And with glory there might in bushes and hedges
Groups of dandelions in the air getting sprayed,
Through seeds and other forms of regenerative ways
The trees might be with happy trance getting swayed.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached, done by Marcelo Romani Borges; courtesy : Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei)

Way to vineyards at Flassan*

Way to the vineyards at Flassan
Might be so tempting
That one could go there simply
To gather the aroma of grapes
And berries,
There might be the hot and warm sun
To us guiding, paving a way to that beautiful visit,
A sojourn it might be for those who
After being long confined wish to break free
From shackles of daily drudgery of a city life,
There we could go always to find how nature
Has spread her splendour for all of us,

That way to Flassan would be filled with smell of Autumn ,
Leaves when cover the grapes ripe,
And berries when to sappy life fully gets blessed,

That way to Flassan would be such a wonderous escape
To the Boundless bounty of treasure,
We would go there without really making a measure
Of how far had we walked, how many miles we had traveled,
Only the hot and warm sun above our heads
Would show us with awesome pride
What treasure really lies hidden in that
Unbelievably beautiful countryside.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached, titled "Vineyards at Flassan".)

Morning near Bedoin (Postcard from Provence)*

Your painted postcard
Straight from Provence
Reached here , like a morning,
Shining in its own glory,

You wrote of asparagus,
That lined the way to that cottage
At the end of your daily walk,
And those trees which appeared
More green than ever, this spring,
And those birds with whom you have made
A kinship, they chirp and tweet,
As if to greet you, every morn, right there
At the Provence,
You wrote in nimble hands what kept you
To that country stuck, its lucid charms,
Its own way of dressing up to welcome you
Every spring, despite the cold still being there, barely retreating,
You wrote how you stopped and watched
The birth of flowers amidst the meadows,
Slow and joyous, spreading their beauty by their unfolding,
And the smell of haystack coming to you
Carried by the breeze of the morn,

Here, in my hands,
Another beautiful day I feel
How gets born,
Made even more succulent
By the postcard from Provence
As by you to me , so sent,

With it I go near Bedoin
And feel the hint of
A tranquil setting
Of a morning
Which had grown in you.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached, taken from a series titled "Postcard from Provence".)

The angel at the bar*

'Twas late in an evening,
The bar had few like me sitting
(Afterall a Halloween night,
People had gone out fooling
Around with masks, pumpkins were
There cut and with candles they had lit
Streets and lanes and roads too,)
And me thought me got a view
For the first time someone with wings
Sitting her back to me,
(Was I drooling I am not so sure,
Such a night it was, filled with red potion pure and laughter and fun, )

But I saw her there, a woman
With wings at her back,
(They weren't folded as they usually found in flicks, )
She appeared no superheroine kind,
Only in the simmering light,
She was there sitting quite,
As if she had come down within us,
The fallible ones, mere mortals,

(Was I tipsy, not I am sure
Such a night it was, filled with potion pure and laughter and fun)
That wonderous woman
With winged back
Sat still and quiet,
Amidst us, the mere mortals,

I grew curious to talk to her,
So I went near,
She turned
(These angels , have they got some extraterrestrial sense?)

'From where have you come?'
Asked I, not being able to stop
My constant rising surprise,

She perhaps looked at me,
Her blue eyes had oceans deep
And her face shone like moon,

'From Venus'
She whispered or said it loud,
I didn't care a fig for that,

'Venus!'

'Surely'
She said,
Straight as she was,

'But of course'
I thought,
'How come here you then?'

'Got weary of flying, so...'
She murmured,

People few , who were there,
Took little notice of her,
I noted,

'You are here then
For mere replenishment'
I wondered loud,

'Yes, and it is funny ain't so?'
She asked,
(Was she quizzing me, I thought, )

'Its kind of very very amusing'
I almost giggled,

She then hinged back to me,
(Her eyes had deep blue sea and her face,
O how it shone!)
As if she was about to reveal
The greatest secret on earth,

'You are nice , but boy,
It's already half past one,
The night might be outside , very young, why spoil that sitting here?'
She asked, polite,

I thought, at that point,
I got sobered,

I looked at her face,
Resplendent,
Her wings , they seemed to flap a bit,

'You are amazing!'
I gushed,

'You too,
And so is this night,
And this pub,
And this town,
Go out,
Enjoy...'
She said,
I heard that distinct,

After that,
I recall it right,

I found myself on the street,
(Was I walking or merely staggering I can't say that yet)

And few minutes after,
I heard the latchkey opened,
I heard footsteps going straight upstairs,
I heard myself falling on the bed,

Outside, people were yelling ,
Halloween was definitely on.

(*Note: loosely based on a painting as attached , done by Rikki R Nelson. The attached painting was done by Rikki R Nelson on a Halloween night, at a pub.)

Perfectly Elysian *

Sometimes the morning becomes
Elysian so that one just opens  one's window,
And the sweep of cool air gushes in from outdoor
Carrying the smell of flowers blooming
And leaves orange and red, so turning,

Perhaps somewhere in Aspen, the fall,
One thinks, has thought of beginning its season, a rejuvenating call,
Binding life with painted landscape and rhythm,

Trees there as appear turned like elves ,
In pied beauty so wonderous, draped,
And songs of the country lad, floating in,
Some mornings becomes an elysian scene,
Filled with all the colors one wishes to see
And by them made happy, full of simple glee,
Perhaps nearby one then hears the song of a stream
Flowing by in its own sweet will, so lighted by beam
Of the sun's blessed waking, so full of longing, 
That there one thinks of breaking impromptu into a song, belonging
To the Bower of blessedness that
Elysian a morning can give a rise,
To a Prayer perhaps,  so made,  for life.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached by Jonathan Harris.)

That lake isle *

That lake isle oft I see
In my mind's sweet memory,
Where (like that poet who once claimed
To have gone there and there made
A hut , a settlement, to be in humming glade,)
I would have gone and made
A cabin made of wood and would wake
Seeing the sun rising over water so calm,
There surely a longish poem I would've become,
Watching swans and cranes flying there in
Catching fish and upon branches of trees sitting,
There (like that poet who lived almost in words all through),
I would take a life long view
Of the lake and the isle not so distant,
There would've fallen in love sure, with the instant
Whence the night sky would come painting picture vast,
There would have lived till the evening in my lips last,

That lake isle would have been such a place
To find Love more in passionate alphabets,
Purple Hues when would with violet match
There would have lived to see how beauty such
Made impressions long upon mind,
There surely by the water of the lake, with tapers made a line,
Like little glowing dots right there at the bay,
There would have lived a life of entire day,
Till be consumed by the feel awesome of the spot ,
Till would've seen Your smile on the sky as a glittering dot.

(*Note: the poet referred to in this poem/scribbling is W.B.Yeats, whose "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" inspired me to write the poem.

Though the poem begins with reference to the poem mentioned , it shifts to a different and subjective plane gradually, which is quite discernable.)

At an inn, one rainy evening

One rainy evening
Took refuge in an inn,
Drenched from head to toe,
There I took a shelter so,

It had been raining quite
Upon the wet moist street
Played cool simmering light,

And I thought of rainy days
How they came oft, and before me
With sweetness verses laid,

I thought of going to a town
Another once, one rainy evening
Took shelter like that, in another inn,

I thought of lights and sounds
That rainy evening gave me
Time and again , without bounds,

That woman with a musical voice,
With whom once I read Dubliners of Joyce,
Her face somehow before me appeared,

Was I having a dream or did it really so,
Drenched from head to toe,
Once I took refuge in an inn so,

Then thought of that man, at the piano,
Who simply by his fingers did erupt
A fiery poem, deep deep into my heart,
That also had been a rainy evening,
And with him perhaps I broke out singing,

Then thought of that friend with boyish charms
Who told me his story of finding a girl
His love, on way to his journey to a city,
As we sat face to face, over a cup of coffee warm,

All these images came and went
At an inn as I took a refuge so,
Drenched from head to toe,

I thought of people I met,
People with whom I shared,
Songs and poems of life,
As it rained so, outside,
I , sitting by the window
Into memories of evenings dived,

Found there in that mind's eye, too,
My girl, the love of my tiny life,
To whom from different parts of the land
Sent scraps of papers, curious writes and billet doux,

Found her face , on the window ,
Sketched gently by water drops so,
One evening as I took refuge in an inn,
Drenched full from head to toe.

At the hours of sunset*

At the hours of sunset
When the sky with colors red
Upon a village slowly spread
How in that beauteous sight
In that wonderous fading light
I think of you oft as a country belle
Singing  melodious, half covered by veil,
Of life so in solitude and Peace felt,
Homebound birds perhaps join your voice
They also perhaps break into songs, finding joys
In that calm blissful setting, carrying
The essence of life, aiding and abetting
Me to sing for you and the hours of sunset
Upon a village quiet as the colors slowly spread.

(*Note: upon a painting based as attached, done by Cuban Painter and artist Cecilio Rodriguez)

Late in the evening *

Late in the evening
When on the street
In black bonnet she
Came like singing,

Her couture and verve
The evening late absorbed,

Like verisimilitude of the sky
Her love held only in her eyes,

It had been such a Parisian night.

A town , an autumn evening *

The evening mist was slowly coming down
When he dropped from the cab, at a far away town,
He thought he knew the place, its little street,
Where once perhaps he came to meet,
His love, was it this life or another,
He couldn't that from his memory gather,
Only that dying light, the fading sense,
He thought he had been there, that town, that night dense,

He had then also come to that place,
Eve had surely then,worn autumnal dress,
Mild orange with a lot of red and blackish shades,
She there in front of a hut stood motionless,
A veil hung loose upon her head,
And in that wonderous light her he met,
She spake in soft musical tone,
And he had been there, listening to her, all alone,

Her eyes , he had noted, how shone bright,
Her face had a lingering feel of twilight,
Still there, upon her lips, an enchanting smile,

How he had traveled only for her, a few hundred miles,

O that far away town and its autumnal sight
How from a distance came there slight
A song perhaps, someone singing , quite,

He stopped again to find that song
That tune which made him long
For another tryst, again, at that very place,
Where the evening descended in beautiful autumnal dress,

He stood only to get again that feel of words
And unworded Beauty of a Dame,
For which to that far away town, he came,

It made him nostalgic definite
He thought of that evening by Starry sky lit,
And that part of his heart,in which he harboured true,
His love , a far away town and that distinct autumnal hue.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based, as attached, done by Eugene Galien Laloue)

That lake by the hills

That lake by the hills

How with calm of morning fills
As if Gods have there made a descent
To make heaven upon earth by their essence,
That lake by the hills
How with loveliness fills
As if one is transported to Paradise
Before one's eyes as Beauty Justly lies.

For You, forever those flowers i take in hands*

Days had been passed so
Putting flowers from hands
Into a garland as if sewed
Thinking all the time of you,

Nights had been passed in between
Flowery garland thus holding
With dreams of you slowly upon me
Fully my self so embracing

As embraces the sky above
With light and shade of Love
As comes your fragrance from far
So carried by winged Aether,

If this lovely sense only you for me keep,
with this tranquil feel if  you take me to the deep,
I can go on praising thy love forever,
I can be your eternal lover.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached, done by Sir Edward J.Poynter, 1836-1919; courtesy : Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

On Pieter Breugel's celebration of life*

The ploughman let on doing
What he was supposed to do,
Through the land, fertile ground ploughing,
And the angler was too not observing
He was busy too fish in his hook finding,
Only that the birds and the bees were amazed
How can a man from sky to them so dazed,
The ship there on the Calm sea sailed
Her oars on the water so by hands of sailors held,
The sea looked green and blue as it should
The birds few in the sky there flew,
Carried so by Pieter's colors and hue,

Old masters are they so called,
Who thus on painted works found no fault
In Icarus neither, nor in Dedalus' worries,
How the breeze,  him,  over the hills carried,

Human is such a life to be owned and put
Forward forever by poems so written and understood,
Human , is such a life to be painted against the wide
Spectrum of the oceans and the seas and the magnanimous skies.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached, done by Pieter Bruegel, and also inspired by W.H.Auden's poem on the said painting titled "Musee des beaux arts".)

Through the forest, down that bridge*

Just near where I lived when I was a boy
There had been a forest nearby
Just behind the cottage , the forest spread
To deeper serene meanings it led,
One morn that beautiful path I took
Down that small wooden bridge over a Brook,
The murmur soft of the stream underneath
And the rustle of leaves yellow and green did breathe
Together perhaps a poem for the day,
Far from the cottage, really far away,
Took that bridge where it took,
saw how therein  tranquility set
In colors ripened by the noon day blaze
A sleepy trance the path there bred,
Grasshoppers and butterflies and bees
There hummed and made noises without cease,
And the woodpeckers found one or two
Playing with me peekaboo,
There was also a squirrel real restless
Who ran from branches to branches,
A rabbit white with its soft furry skin
There also could be for an instant seen,

That path through the woods down that bridge
Just behind that cottage where I lived
Led to a different world altogether,
Where one morning went out for a breather,

The forest how thoughts of Poesy brought
As I walked down that Wooden bridge and thought
What was it that nature for us always wrote
What made always the birds to sing full throat,
What Beauty does the earth for us unfold
Which Truth does nature leave for us untold,

So thinking more I walked into the woods,
Just behind our cottage where it so wonderous stood,
That Wooden bridge how me one morn took
Underneath which flowed murmuring the Brook.

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

Greenland*

Once to that Greenland 

Where the afternoon sings a song

We spent our times, long,

In that beautiful setting there

Amidst pastoral care,

We thought to live 

Like shepherds do,

Being drenched in Nature's hues

Singing country songs

Of finding a home,

In the Greenland 

Filled with mist and dews.

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

When a cowgirl met a poet*

when a cowgirl met a poet...

The country club was depeopled
For it rained hard with the breeze
He, the poet, somehow got into it...
And sat by the window sealed...

The time was evening though
And the poet's beer mug had all the glow
Of the setting sun in the west,
Just then arrived in cow-boy dress
The woman of the wild with holstered waist!

He looked at her drenched shirt
And the water dripping from her hat
She came banging the door smart!
And ordered a pitcher before she sat...

She took off her hat and placed
It on the wood brown
Then she untied her hair from the lace
And let it flow her shoulder down...

He looked at her side profile
A woman who had crossed all gale
She smelt of strong gunpowder
Was she a rodeo...or a wrangler?

He thought all these 
As the strong wind crossed the knot-speed
She looked at the shaking hut
And looked towards the window shut
And invariably to the poet,
with a beer mug, half emptied...

'How de?'
She asked in a voice gruff
He just nodded in reluctance
Not meeting her eyes tough...

'Got fag?'
She asked him,
Flashing a smile benign
For the first time showing her charms feminine...

She came and drooped down
To light the fag from his hand...
Her wet hair touched his head 
And he noticed on her cleavage...
The sprinkle of tiny grains of  golden sand...

She must have been to men and places
For right that moment her eyes his met
And she realised at once his gaze so misplaced...

 But she had more to show
For she loosened the first button on the row
And took a long puff from the fag
And pulled him from the table with a simple drag
And placed her pistol on his head...
And with sufficient menace said,
'Wanna get my boobs, poet?'
He just fumbled and wanted air
For his voice was choked sure...
And she, the cowgirl felt that fair
For she laughed heartily
And dropped him down on his knee...

Then she went back gulping beer
And the poet got up to pen down something there
And just when he finished the scribble somehow
She came to him again and down bowed-
To see his shaking hand
How wrote on a paper...
A kind of  eulogy on her-
Mixed with golden grains of sand-
A few drops of  evening beer!

She took the slip of paper at once
And gave it a careless glance
And read haltingly what was on it...
Written in shaking hand by a poet...

Then she broke out in laughs wild
As if she found something silly...
She tapped the poet, mild
And without any dilly-dally
Planted a kiss on his lips...

But the kiss was so momentary-
For there dashed into the bar
Two horsemen with guns in a hurry,
And they together saw the woman
With a man feeble thus taken...
'Hey you bitch!'
One of them cried
And the poet trembling got shied
Behind the woman mighty...

The cowgirl stood straight
From her holster out parried
The pistol so shiny, bright;
Then followed an ugly skirmish
As pistols fired from both sides...
The poet was losing senses
Though behind the woman he, the coward, did hide;

Bang! bang! deafening sounds
Went over the sound of breeze
The poet clutched the woman's sleeve
And almost stood there... freeze...

After few minutes later
The fires died sudden
And the poet saw
The cowgirl how blood-laden
Fallen on the floor
And the two horsemen fleeing through the door...

He, the poet, the pistol from the cowgirl took 
Though his hands terribly shook
And with full force pressed the trigger
That sent a bullet into the shadowy figure
Of one of the horsemen, who fell at once...
And buoyed by the chance
The poet pressed the trigger again
This time the fire was in vain...
But the poet was so enraged
That he was about to follow the other in haste  

But then he heard a voice faint
That put him all restrained;

He turned back to watch the woman
Breathing still and with a face so pained
Waving the poem in her hand...
Asking him for a hand to her lend;

He the poet hurried to her
Took in his arms her head
And asked her loud and clear
'What do you want my maid?' 

The woman said nothing but smiled
As if she had seen her love
As if she could die now in peace
Only at the end of such a sweet skirmish!

Then she collapsed on his hands
 With her grip loosening...
The poem fell on the floor, o dear!
 So much  blood ...with sand mixed.

(*Note: this poem/scribbling was written in 2012, January)

Lavender fields *

'I met an artist
Now my days are painted in lavender
Every hour a different hue'
~ Christy Ann Martine

Once having gone
To the lavender field one
I saw how painted scenes evoke
Love with every brush stroke,

And there we made us a promise
Me and the artist
Not to go anywhere but stay
In lavender field of May,
When the flowers turn a sea of green
Into a violet and purple scene,
There we have made a decision
To remain there as if stationed
And to see the purple violet hues
Taking away all of our blues

Once having entered the fields
Of lavender as I try to get the feel
Of morning and its splendour different
More in colors I got drenched,
Now I think I had done it good
To go to the field of lavender as it stood
Before me with its wide implication
I think I have moved to a different station
Where violets and purple come and play
Different hues for every moment of a day.

(*Note: loosely based on a painting as attached and also inspired by a Christy Ann Martine poem titled "The Dancer", as quoted in this poem/scribbling )

The girl with a mandolin*

'Don't you ever fall for a mandolin girl"
Told my father once,
But that gypsy girl,
Who had once cast a furtive glance
How can her I forget,
Who had played her fingers
Upon the strings of my heart,

Many years ago since today,
It had been a perfect day,
Winter was there in our town late,
That gypsy girl then  I met,
Was then coming home,
It was I all alone,
Near that wasteland at the outskirts
Of the town, where the arterial road did part
Into two lanes, one going to the woods,
There I think I heard her playing, so I stood,
For a while, taken aback by the music complete
The sun was then into the mist about to dip,
The dusk was just settling soft,
I heard her playing, so I stopped,
And saw her in the dying light
Her face glowing as if bright,
She was sitting on the grass,
A girl in teens, or just a vagrant lass,
I looked at her face and then her fingers
They were running smooth on strings and the tune how beautifully in the misty air lingered,

I stopped , absolutely motionless
The source of music as if I tried to trace,
And the gypsy girl was playing it
The music which numbed me as it me hit,

The dying light, the wintry haze,
The misty air, the music blazed
My heart, my Soul, my being all,
I just stopped there, and in love I made a fall,

O how handsome was her satisfied Gait,
It was , I knew by heart, getting late,

By that gypsy girl, how she kept
Playing on and sometimes looking at
Me, trying to separate notes from highs to flats,
She perhaps flashed a sweet smile,
I was still away from home a quarter mile,
And the music how me held back,
I lost my homebound track,
And kept on listening to,
Her music lending a hypnotic hue
To the surrounding, the trees and town
She was wearing a cape or a long gown,
Saw her face resplendent, and her fingers running unwearied,
I shouldn't have stopped there, to home I should've hurried,

But that gypsy girl,
Didn't She played it too well
As in love of her music I fell.

(*Note: the painting attached is used to highlight and decorate the theme of the scribbling/poem, done by Jean Baptiste Camille Corot, 1874)

The Vast green land *

That Vast green land
How appears as the Refuge
For the twilight to settle quiet

In fading light how the twilight drapes
The country as a scene just to behold,
Where silence is occasionally interrupted by homebound birds' chirpings,

Perhaps there the village comes
To a sleepy trance ,
Every day, at the hours of dusk,

As it settles quiet,

And the river only sings
There as it has been singing
Little Joys of life ,
Since human are born
To live upon this earth.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached,done by Olga Odal Chuk, courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni.)

Upon Les Demoiselles d'avignon and other arguments*

Right there at the street of Avinyo
He how found them five in number,
And some people, termed it with only 'no'
And some thought to use it to poke
Others to join the bandwagon 

Of severe castigation and some even joked,

What its origin,
  what that really meant?
Cubism was then at its nascent stage,
And how from there he with paints evolved,
Further more to create, he was perhaps standing at the ledge,
To do more of his experiments,

Matisse , his old friend and critic severe
Called it as a joke turning real bad
Other wise who would've thought
To go to that street and to meet
Those dames, and two of them surely masked,

Were they African? Those two?
Someone perhaps asked,

(Even if they were,
Are not black people of Africa
Same as white of Persia,
Wonder I,)

But the counter arguments continued,
His old friend came up with an argument,
This time with bathers with a turtle on a beach,

There not those dames were put to rest,
Some more came up with more of works,

Matisse knew he was not against
Him, after all they were old mates,

Perhaps he knew too,
What that street of Avinyo meant
And those demoiselles,

They together meant
A revolt,

Apartheid , perhaps they both knew
Too well.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached, done by Pablo Picasso in 1907, titled Les demoiselles d'avignon.
Matisse , Picasso's friend , as the legend goes, was against the painting and he came up with a answer or counter argument to the painting titled 'Bathers with a turtle'. Interestingly , it was argued that Matisse was imitating a work of Cezanne, leading to a lot of debates, arguments and counter arguments with the painting. The use of two particular figures with masks is what makes the painting definitely different. African women and their presence is something that lends a different touch to this painting. Interestingly that also becomes an issue of this poem/scribbling.)

The tree by the sidewalk and me*

The tree by the sidewalk and me*

Since morn ,
It has been drizzling
In our town,
The tree by the sidewalk,
Wet and moist
Stands there
Much like me,
Both of us
Are on wait,

Midweek has never been
So sloppy,
People haven't come out,
And those who have
Do not bear your sign,

So we wait,
The Tree and me,
By the sidewalk,
Wet and moist,

The street too look wet
It is on wait too,

Only few cars that are plying
Leave momentary designs of light,
On the asphalt,
And we wait,
By the sidewalk,
The Tree and me.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached, done by Mike Bar)

There had been that lady

There had been that lady
My love who in her bosom kept
The more I looked at her
The more I just got swept,

And leaves how by that
breeze murmured,
In me , how they whispered songs,
Just by looking at her,
I as if to a new morn, borne,

There had been that lady
My love who kept it quite,
The more I thought of her
The more I felt how light
Traveled through ages and beyond
How those starlets in the night sky shone
That lady in red how made me,
All the more alone,

And I in my solitary walks through days
How more of Poetry i do find ,
How by her love so laid
I find Springs in my mind,

How I think of things ,
all so imagined worthless,
How in her beauty I ,
century old civilizations trace,

How by painted forms, poems
and so many other things
That lady in red,
to a World of creation,
oft me brings,

And I go on doing the search,
of finding that wonderous shade,
Which gave birth to love
and that heavenly Gate,
Where many before us,
tried to reach and few reached,
Where many before us,
for Love, us so preached,

And there had been that lady
My love who in her bosom kept,
All that was me, like a beautiful secret.

Tree to my life

Tree to my life

When I stand before you,
Catching my seasons all,
Winters, springs, summers
And the beautiful fall,

I think of you as a tree
As a colored part of my self
Seasons where stay side by side
As memories of shelves,

One by one I go
Branches of your i ride
One summer yellow
And a winter Eastertide,

Seasons how there upon you
So sketched and drawn lay,
When I stand before you
To your colors I just pray,

And seeing you thus
Standing quite like a Dream
How through colors I pass
As beautiful as it seems.

Childhood

Childhood is such an age
To go with fun all the time,
Childhood is filled with days
With eternal Sunshine,

How I go oft to that time
When there were no worries,
How in that time I find
My Joys beyond 'sorries',

How to that time I go
Only to find me the most happy one
How my childhood's memories show
Me, flying like a beautiful Swan,

Childhood is such an age
That has given us all so many things,
Laughter, Joys, games and toys,
How childhood to all did bring.

Of brushstrokes, feminine

Of brush strokes, feminine

Sometimes I think of you
Like brushstrokes on walls,
Painted pretty abstract
Till the sense upon me falls,

Is that what I thought?  I think I ask
To myself true,
Looking at the strokes of brush
As if looking at you,

Sometimes on papers
Beautiful designs emerge
When I think you and
Waves of passions surge,

Somewhere on the canvas,
Somewhere on walls,

Is that what I thought,
Whence sensory perceptions fall,
Upon me like a painted scene
A canvas perhaps meaningless,
But then, in words and beyond
You, the Beauty, I trace,

There I find you oft,
Sitting just in front of me,
 painted,  brushstrokes filled
And with a book of poetry.

The girl on the bench*

Every day, when the dusk
Would descend at the park,
The girl would there come
And sitting at one corner,
Over a phone, would just talk,

With whom did she shared
So many details of life,
No body ever that dared
To her ask,
But at the dusk,
She would come, the girl,
And would sit on the bench
And talk with one hand her hair she curled,

With whom did she talk,
No body really that cared,
But with that unknown
She her details of life shared,

What did her father her tell
Which shopping mall
Was having the rock bottom sale,
She would talk, till twilight did fall,

She would talk,
About the town,
Which circus had brought
A parakeet and a clown,

Which season last
She went to an eatery
What foods fast
There they served just,

Which palanquin ,
(Perhaps imagined, )
Had last month been
On a distant street seen,

Who rode that,
(Perhaps a Prince,)
She talked all over
Phone , dusk fell since,

Which dress fashionable
Her cousin sister bought
What gown silky from a souk,
She, a whole wedding season thought,

Which travel to a station
Brought to her scenes
Of beautiful clouds
Coming to her, floating,

Which sea side resort
Had all the crabs and prawns
On her platter served
Tasty and hot,

Which cuisine last Wednesday
She learnt from which show
And how she tried to prepare the same
Making the grilled chops on flames
Kept a little mild, a little  low,

Every day when the dusk
Would arrive at the park,
The girl would there come
Just to , over phone, talk.

(*Note: upon a drawing loosely based as attached, done by me)

If I could make*

If I could make *

If I could make a city
Filled with colors so,
I would have always there
Gone away, long time ago,

There would have been sure
A lane to reach a tree,
Standing at the very end,
O how so flowery,

There I would have reached
If would I there go,
A city made of colors
So lovely , made a long time ago,

There would have built a home,
For you and for me,
Only for that beautiful tree
O so flowery,

There would have gone away
Really long time ago,
If would have created a city
There, right away.

(*Note: upon a drawing loosely based as attached, done by me)

That land of woods

That land of woods

Ancient, algae ridden

Where huge trees stood
Silent like stones,

Had surely brought dryads home,
Diana too and also Brucie,
And other sisters of theirs, 
At that land of woods,
Where trees like sages stood,
Wish to there escape,
Only me and You,

There we would feel
The rustle of leaves
And that soft murmur
In our ribs ,
How nature writes the Vast,
How she writes the long,
There at that woods,
We would weave a song,

Or it might be a prose,
We might together write,
There amidst green,
We would kiss the morning's bright,

Through those branches and twigs
Whence the afternoon would come,
Under those trees huge,
We would feel in veins some
Beautiful lines flowing,

You will perhaps
Bring out your book ,
There we will dream
What it really took
For the World to grow,
Which primordial force
There hides in tides
High and ebbs so low,

There we will hear
With our heart and ears,
The songs of birds
That filled the earth for years,

There you might write
A few lovely lines,
Or I might do a paint
Of a wild flower's shine,

There , at that woods,
Where huge trees stood,
We might there one day,

All our writings lay.

(Note: #Diana: GODDESS of woods, 

#Brucie: wood Nymph, GODDESS of forests)

The cottage with flowers*

At the cottage with flowers
We had always bred
Our Love, Mon amour,
Where our verses we laid,

There how oft in our
Summers we had met
At that humble cottage
Which we with flowers decked,

There we raised our Love
There we sang our songs
There we made a sweet cove
There we always belonged,

You sang in full throated ease
In our lovely summer's lease
Your songs of Love and pain,
There we need a beauteous garden,

There bloomed roses
Red as red were your lips
There by that cottage
We how grew with care tulips,

There blossomed quite
By the wonderous autumnal light
Dahlias and chrysanthemums
Blessed by Love, bright.

We had a splendid morn*

We had a splendid morn*

We had a splendid morn
To go out and play
At the garden, near the park,
With the arrival of a day,

We had all the games
To go go out to the lane
That led to the park
Beside that beautiful garden,

There we went about running
From one end to another
At the garden, near the park
When we braced for day another,

The sun was shining gold
The sky was just like a dream,
The breeze had scent of flowers
The grass had a hint of spring,

We danced and laughed out
Watched how our playmates did chase
Little daisies waking up with colors
Heralded how another newest day,

Was not that a day for us
To go there to the Garden,
Beside that street , at our town
Just beside that shaded lane,

Flanked on both sides by Trees
Oaks, deodars and pines,
How we went there to play
Whence the day broke with a shine,

We had a morn splendid
To go out and run as we wished
At that painted colored street
We for us gave a treat,

At that park, beside the lane
How we went one morn
To see how in that garden
New buds woke up, just born,

How there little birds
Gathered and made chirps
How there butterflies
Flew about in colors wrapped.

(*Note : upon a painting loosely based, as attached, Courtesy: Art Georgio G.Kola.)

O Mona Lisa!*

O Mona Lisa!
How Thou hath been made to linger
In art forms pristine and vulgar,

If Vinci had been alive and seen you thus
What would have come to pass!

You have been made to seat,
For how many hours, for this unusual treat
For eyes to see you, to find you true,

O The Jocund One,
how you have been viewed
By the puritans and plebeians,
In different shapes and forms,

Those paintings made and remade
How completely, You ,had been re-laid,
By people with discerning eyes
Queries made by those who with You tied
Linguistic and cultural values and worth
Questions come out, answers too brought,

What in between those textures lies?
Where those eyebrows had gone?
Which little bridge there found behind, lone?
Why there was no sign of human around?
Why the horizon got mixed with hilly mounds?
Who had been this Lisa and why
Her face did carry a bit of sigh?

O Mona Lisa!
How Thou hath been made to linger
In forms pristine and also vulgar.

(*Note: the painting attached of a replica of Monalisa in traditional kishengarh miniature painting form was done by Gopal Swami Khetanchi.
#monalisa : the famous and most debated, analysed, replicated painting by Leonardo Da Vinci, literally means 'the jocund one' or la Gioconda . It is believed that Lisa Gherardini or Lisa del Giocondo had been Da Vinci's model for the famous and widely known painting.
This poem is just a tribute to that Painting and also its widespread popularity and related effects.)