At the bay

It was only the other day
I was returning from the bay
Where the trees stood like shadows of dreams
Beside the big lake one morning as it seemed,
The day was just then breaking for us,
Through the clouds the light slanted passed,
Falling upon the surface of water, soft,
Felt like by the beauty of the place held aloft,

It was only the other day,
I was returning from the bay
It was another morning bright
The lake was taking the yellowish light,
Cool breeze from the western front
Came flowing as if to slightly taunt
Me to sing a song of taking the road and be lost
Into love which could remind one of winter and Frost,
And of countryside away from crowd and noise,
Where nature presents her sublime joys.

Just after rains

After rains when the sun peeps
I think  then  Autumn is not far away
For the sky then in blue and white keeps
Dreams of mirth and of mind that sails away,

After rains when the lighted day
Arrives with a mild breeze cool
I think then it possibly may
Make the swans float in the pool,

I think of then our wandering around
Taking those roads which to the country lead,
I then think of scenes by greenery bound
That joys of heart by serenity breed.

In response to a letter

Last month the letter you wrote
Which I received after some fifteen days' wait,
Had the smell of pines and eucalyptus
And roses too,
You wrote the garden which you have been nurturing for long
Had started blooming,
Summer followed by monsoon
Had brought fruition there,
It must have been great
To see those trees growing greener
This monsoon,
I could picture you almost
Working at the garden
With those chrysanthemums
With your spatula, plodding the moist earth,
Your apron catching mud and soil,
A few strands of your hair falling over your eyes and you time and again
Trying to put them back ,
Using the palm of your hands,
Yes, I can almost see you,
There at the end of the day,
Sitting at the porch,
Looking at the vacant lot
Before your house,
Where every evening
Glowworms come gathering,

Then perhaps you go to kitchen,
Are there any dearth of works at home?
There is always something to be cooked,
And something to be washed and cleaned,

Then perhaps you serve dinner
The children are always hungry
And who else would understand them better than you?

All these works take away the evening,
The night finally comes with steely darkness,

You wrote then you get your time to read,
You read Eliot's long poems,
Auden's cryptic ones,
Sometimes , as you wrote,
You flip through magazines,

But...

All those poems which I sent to you
Have you ever them read?
Have you seen through them?
Have you?

Have you felt ever how I cuddled up with words
At night on bed and joined them together
By strings of my Love, for you?

Have you ever cared to open them?
Have you ever cared to get how ink dripped
Quiet and fresh , every day from my pen,
Only to reach you?

The mist covered mountains *

Come ye , O you wanderer, with me,
Let's go to that far away place,
Across thousand miles of land and sea,
To the mist covered mountains (of home),
You may then turn a Scot,
And sing that song that welcomed once
You to that land of beauty and Grace,
Come ye, O you wanderer, with me,
There we with music try to trace,
How nature fills hearts with wonders of joy,

Come ye, O you wanderer boy,
Let's sing that Mark Knopfler song,
The mist covered mountains (of home)
For which we always long,
For those slopes green and cliffs,
For those caverns dark and deep,
For those ledges where we could sit
And dangle our happy restless feet,

Come ye, to that mountains of mist
Of home, where smell of wildflowers us greet.

(*Note: inspired by a Scottish song written in 1856, titled 'chi mi na morbheanna' which had been rendered into English by many, including Mark Knopfler)

Martha's backyard

Of all the places where we liked
To spend our time more was Martha's backyard,
Just behind her cottage,
We would there go every time
We paid our visit to hills,
And to her, of course,

Usually we would there arrive
At peak of autumn
When trees would start turning bare,
Their branches shooting up to the Sky
Like ribs,

At Martha's backyard
We always had company,
Of birds and butterflies and bees,

The scent from earth always reached us fresh
Specially in early morns, dewy drenched
Mist covered,
The spot looked like a land of fancy and dreams,

We would go there only to loiter around,
Our cries and shouts filling the air
Making it cheerful,
Making it depart from its usual ascetic silence,

We there ran , jumped , hopped,
Did somersaults even,

Our bodies fell on the soft wavy grass
Moss we got half covered with
Leaves oft got stuck to our pullovers,

Late in the evening,
When the hamlet turned absolutely dark
And sleepy,
When only distant hootings of owls
Could only be heard,

We would sometimes gather
At Martha's backyard,
And create log fire,

Some of us would break into a song,
Some would shake a leg,

And old Martha,
Knowing we were there,
Would come and sit on the cane chair,
Watching us with her eyes of grandmotherly affection and indulgence,

After so many years, when the world
Had got changed,
When the hill and its surroundings
Got changed too,

Martha's backyard still holds
The same magic for me at least,

Just to go there
And stand before those trees,
Just to go there
And embrace the mist and the fog
Of autumn ,
And to roll on the wavy grass,
Still carries every bit of Martha's generosity,

Still I could that feel.

Rain rain relentless

Rain rain relentless
Sketches on the window panes,
Water pictures of a town
When it rains does brace,
Rain rain relentless
Makes the streets empty more
As it rains heavily
An early morning's downpour,
Roads, avenues and little lanes
All become waterlogged,
Rain rain relentless,
Finds the croaking of merry frogs,
Cabs, buses, vehicles move
Slow at snail's pace,
Rain rain relentless
As the town does brace.

Sky of a night and we

Can't you write a sky of a night , like this
As we are here, one time more,
Please?'
She asked me oneday,
When we were lying on the grass
Under the sky with stars twinkling luminous,
I looked at the sky and those glittering things
And thought how for ages they did bring
Amazement to us mortals living on earth,
I thought of human struggles and existence
And so many poems and plays and prose,
Of writings eulogising God and Goddesses,
Of stories which spoke of Love that could inspire,
Millions to go in search of life,

She knew I was thinking and having a travel
By mind to distant places, those valleys and Hills,
She knew perhaps what did I then really feel,
So she waited with ancient patience
Written on her face, her eyes deep and calm,

I was thinking of roads and lanes and streets
Which have I walked through only to meet
Her and our days and our nights,
I was thinking of journeys to the woods,
Of stumbling upon a brook,
Of coming across blooming Rhododendrons,
And also of those wonderous lakes
Where swans floated like white objects of art,
I was thinking of varied images that the world to us had brought,

'Are you thinking of going to any particular place?'
She asked me, after a long pause, silence when wrapped us more like the cool night dense,

'Yes,' I finally ventured to give a reply,
'I was thinking of a cottage built somewhere
At the hills, overlooking a Valley green
With flowering tulips and juicy berries,'
I said, gradually turning wakeful from the trance
That made me to ruminate and to mentally write
Words , arranged with care , placed side by side,

She got the cue perhaps,
Of the place from my spoken words
And unspoken expressions,

'It might be somewhere near Ranikhet,
Or Kaushani,
And it might be the onset of a sweet winter,
When the mist and fog would start to descend soft
Upon valleys there'
She remarked,

I looked up at the night sky,
The stars were twinkling there alright,
And I thought there was nothing more
Could I hanker after, at that moment.

At the souk

Met her the painter oneday,
At a corner of a souk,
She was busy painting canvases
(Which she told me) to her dreams
As they her took,

Watched her for hours
Completely submerged in her works,
People like me as passed by her,
And she in her paintings at the nook
Created a world of wonders,

It had been a lovely day
Quipped I seeing her
and those canvases spread,
She was filling colors
Orange, blue, yellow, green , red,

I looked at her, standing awhile,
Quiet as a stone almost,
She was stroking on the canvas,
With brushes she drew a sea coast,

Right in front my eyes,
Under the sky bright and with Joys mixed,
I looked at her fingers
As they upon canvas did tricks,

The seas came to her,
So also the seagulls and other birds,
The hills came alive by her touch,
And roads made by her flew upwards,

The souk was a lovely place
People walked checking those shops,
Garments hung loose in the air,
And before her I momentarily stopped,

She sang as she worked,
Singing a beautiful tune,
And how I looked at her
Drawing deserts and sand dunes,

One after another canvases were made,
And they were kept there hanging by hooks,
I just stood quiet like a stone there
And tried to fathom what pleasure
Her it really took,

Just to there come and sit every day,
Right there at the souk,
I just looked at her works of art,
And wondered what passion her really took
To make so many lovely things,
Every day , every morn and Eve,

I just looked at her,
And into a painted day
I, a swim with ease took,
Right there oneday,
At the souk.

Missing you,

Nowadays, when I get to sit quiet
And think over about us, our lovely times,
Your face appears in my mind,
And I feel that I miss you,

How do I miss you?
Like the way the clouds miss the sky,
Or the birds miss their songs,
Or the kite misses the breeze,

I miss you
For I miss my fancy
Which you have always in me evoked,
I miss my imagined land
Where you have taken me so many times,

O how do I miss you,
Your smiles, your little things
Like your words quipped spontaneous,
Your eyes which hold the oceans,
The scent of love which you carry in your palms,

O how do I miss them oft,
Your winged thoughts
How come to me
Only to increase that missing
Which stays like an inexpressible thing
In my heart,

O how oft I miss you,
When I hear someone talking about
A visit to the River,
Or to that pleasant place where trees whisper prayers of Peace
Being so caressed by the breeze,

O how oft I miss you
When I get to watch the sun rise on hills
Or a dusk settling in along a Bay,

O how I miss you
When I think of a song
Of yesteryears, from a flick,
Perhaps, depicting an empty street
In the sleepy quietitude of a moonlit night,

How I miss you.

(*Note : the painting attached was done by G.Seurat, titled 'on the island of La grande latte')

If You are Eve,

If you are Eve,
Come to me,
And make me man,
Your Adam,

We would with pleasures fill
Valleys of green and pastures
We have not wandered away to,

We would go there
And cherish our living,
Like birds do while flying together
In the sky at the dawn
Drenched by golden light

We would come to our best too,
At the dusk, again drenched by crimson light,

If you are Eve,
Come to me,
Make me a man,
Your Adam.

(*Note: painting courtesy: Flimt, Adam and Eve, 1918)

Upon a Renoir (as found in a museum)

Walking down the aisle of the museum
When we came to that hall, where Monet mingled with Renoir, and other greats,
We stood for a while by those paintings set,

A Renoir there was with much care kept,
We heard those people there thronging
As they were busy celebrating something,
A holiday, a vacation, a pious occasion,
Perhaps, some sat at tables with paper and potion,
The day they were thus passing through,
Ah, a Renoir could only bring that with details to view,
Cloaks, jackets, hats and bonnets,
All pictured just perfect,
And how could one dare to catch the attention
Of a viewer even when there was nothing really to mention,
No revolt, no grand opening of any fair,
Still how people there (like us) stopped and stared,
At the big grand canvas of life filled with laughter and fun,
How we stood in front of a Renoir, without making a turn
To other things that were there sure in the hall,
We just stood there and watched with Heart's content
That congregation which perhaps had caused a windfall.

At a lusty dusk

At a lusty dusk
When the sky got the rouge
Of love , so yellow , orange and blue,
They sat , the two,
And watched how
The colors of their love got spread,
From the sky,
To the river bed,

At a lusty dusk,
When the sky got the rouge

They sat there, the two.

Finding a field unsown, one morn

Once when you go out into the fields unsown,
You find the glory of the morn,
Filled with birds' song,

And you think how wonderful is it
To take the morning's greet,
Right into one's soul,

When all things appear lovely and gay,
Drenched by the new rays
Of Sun and the breaking of a new day,

Then you perhaps stop somewhere
Where you feel the cool air
Blowing through the hair,

At that moment precise,
You think of how Divinity lies
In the open wide Vast ocean of Sky.

A turn of a day, by that river,

Whenever we would get time spare
We would just go there together,
Me and my love,
There we would sit on the sand
Warm and golden as would turn the land
In the afternoon when the sun would drop
Down gently kissing the river and her waves,
There we would put our legs
Into the water cool and blue
And get the feel of the dappled things' hues,
The silence of the place would then slowly into us return
With beauty of finding the day's turn,
We would sit to watch the trees and the green,
We would get sublimated into the scene,
Which could only to us more of Divine Love bring.

Those evenings musical

Every evening, when the house would become agog with activities,
after the lull of the afternoon,
when uncles and father would return home,
Grandpa would switch on his turntable
And put LPs upon it,

Usually it would be a Bismillah Khan
Or Bade Ghulam Ali,
From his room the music would emanate
Till it got spread through the corridor,
Reaching the rooms , the hall, the yard
Till it reached the portico and even beyond,

We had then also returned home
From our daily ritual of games and matches,

Mother and aunt would blow the counch shells
And put incense sticks at the tulshi mancha,

Grandpa would recline on his favourite armchair
And take puffs from his hookah,
His eyes would remain closed,
He would then be dipping into music,

And the house too would turn musical,
Aunt would be humming a tune while chopping vegetables at the kitchen,
Uncle would be reciting a poem to us
From our textbooks, teaching us the nuances of poetic diction,
And we would sometimes break out singing in chorus,
Our rhymes and verses,

At the backdrop, the LPs would turn on the table,
Spinning and churning music,
As the evening would become night, slowly
Almost imperceptibly, musically binding
All and sundry.

Field of dandelions

The field looked like a clouded one,
Foggy and full of dandelions,
The day was there slowing waking up
Amidst the green, in  molten rays of Sun wrapped,
Distant cooing of birds came like calls
To send heart wandering where hues autumnal
Grow like dreams spread wide and far.

Way to heaven

It had been some ten years ago
Got that song , simply oneday, out of a radio,
I was then on the road, surely, traveling,
To a hilly spot, I remember certain as do I feel,
It had been a stupendous morn,
The sun had then out of the thick woods born,
Carrying warmth through the mist laden air,
I was made spellbound by the scene fair,
Then I thought out of the woods
Where time like ancient algae ridden statue stood,
Came floating a flute so enchanting and soft,
Must have reached near heaven I thought,
The greenery with their mossy layer wrapped
The music perhaps that got my attention rapt,
And I just tried to get taken away by the Beauty so
Which took me to the hills and their wonderous show,
I heard the murmur of a brook too,
Cool crystal clear water as came to my view,
The rippling sound got interfused with the flute,
I thought I was made to just there stay put,
I dropped off the car and stood quiet,
Slowing getting drenched by misty light,
And the flute , it was weaving a calming day,
I just stood there losing all words that people usually say,
I just stood there and heard and felt
How the dews and fog and mist before me melt
And planted their marks of water on leaves,
How there , I felt within the way to heaven, deep.

Maria was that girl

Maria was that girl
Who would by weather go,
She would sing if the sky is blue
She would dance if the land is green,
And with songs she would show
Little children what it did mean
To go by always singing,

Maria was that girl
Who would be always at her free will
She would teach the children to feel
The sweetness of the flowing breeze,
She would never stop or cease
From doing what her heart would to her tell,
She would gather the children around her
And mesmerise them by her musical tales,

Maria was that girl.

A walk with her

Holding her hand in mine one dusk
Singing a praise to the day
Walked through the meadows just
And got by her whispers of love swayed,
It had been such a walk wonderous
To feel the grass beneath waving soft
And to get the fragrance of flowers
Waking up after a mild spell of shower,
Holding her hand into mine
Walked a few miles green dressed
By the setting sun's shine
Had been so beautiful to trace
Our Love getting slowly spread
Across the meadows dotted by blossoms red.

A view to remember

There I got once a view
To remember for years few
Wild blossoms where bloomed red
Amidst the vast green space,
There I got once spelt
By the aroma of flowers red
Mixed with yellow pollens
There I got once the Divine sense,
And stood aloof for hours amazed
By the play of setting sun's slanted rays
Drenching the wild with a different charm
There I stood as if enbalmed.

For that maid

For her would I often wait
She that village maid
Who would come to pick fruits
From the tree that by my window stood,
She would jump to get hold of the branch
Of the tree to pick mangoes hanging beautifully,
She would sing as she would run and hop
Around that tree where she would come to stop
Every summer only to pick mangoes ripe and yellowish slight,
And I would just her watch drenched by afternoon light,

For her I would wait the whole day
For her to come there at noons of April or May,
She would sometimes do a jig of a kind or dance,
Being in harmony of Nature's heavenly abundance,
She would sometimes make calls to birds Right there where I would wait for her, for hours,
She would there arrive like a fragrant flower,
And I would there wait for her to arrive like a song,
For her I would oft in summer afternoons long.

Country road

The road that went to the hills
Running through a sleepy vill
Is the one oft I go taking with glee
Where Nature's boundless bounty
Comes with awesome serene feel
That road how I take straight to the hill,

The birds there sing with happiness found
Their songs how there with love remain bound,
The road every moment how newer scenes invokes
How there I wandering in lust get soaked,
And when the day brings me there the belle's smiles,
I think it has been really worthwhile to walk that extra mile,

The road that went to the hills
Giving rise to a poignant blessed feel
Is what I always long to take and follow
Where at every bend nature her beauty sows.

When the night sky came down

When the night sky came down
We looked at the beauty
She and me,
Struck so by the night
Beside the pool
Reflecting the ocean of the sky,
Those little twinkling things,

We just looked at the sky
And wondered what brought us
To that tryst to behold
And feel the Calm of Divine splendour
All around us,

We thought we were made part of the vast
We became completely unconscious of us,
We became Dreamers then,

When the night sky fell
Upon us ,
We realised truly,
What made us stick together
Through all nights
What made us to fall back
More into love,

Then we made the sky
Our meeting place,
Our sweet rendezvous.

Garden of flowers

It would have been just another day,
Had I not wandered away
To that garden of flowers

It would have been just another day
Had I not wandered away
To the warmth of Thy love

That lake and its wonders

After a spell of rain, when the lake would get filled upto its brim, oft we would there go and under those green green trees would sit and watch fish and tadpoles playing near the bank. Usually the afternoons we chose for at that time, the lake and its surroundings took the most silent serene shape. There were scarcely any human around at that time and we would have enough time to do our things like chasing tadpoles with sticks or trying to catch fish using worms hooked at the end of strings tied to twigs.
Sometimes one or two ducks would come floating to us. We would watch their white feathery forms and their quacks oft would fill the air.
Not far away , in the barn, men folk would remain busy arranging the hay or threshing the corns using ladder. The sound of ladder hitting the earth got mixed with quacks of ducks or chirps of birds who thought of adding Beauty to the afternoons simply by their cries and calls.
Sometimes a kingfisher would come and sit motionless perched on a branch of a tree, looking at the water. If any fish would come to the surface, the kingfisher would fly sharp, swooping down and picking up the struggling fish held between its legs.

After a spell of rain, that lake provided us with little wonders and how we had always taken them straight into our hearts.

Winged

She faced the sky and the clouds
And looked at the expanse of the hills,
The breeze came and took
Her frock , her cape and soul,

It had been so wonderous
To look at her and those clouds,
As she became winged fancy's another name.

Lighted motion

The evening then had grown just
Into a night of busy traffic,
I was standing at the bridge
Watching how the city sped up , stepping on gas,
Lights flew by like little dots in motion
Weaving threads, fast
The cars plied, on the drive,
The wind came like pulling me away ,
From the bridge, thought I , would be floating away,
Taking the ethereal space,

The cars whizzed past, honking,
From the bridge it looked like a toy town,
All moving fast, a lighted volition.

With her, in the woods

Met her once treading along the path
Through the woods, near that bridge,
She told me she had gone down that path
Long ago reaching the that land of wonders,
Trees where told her stories of kings and queens
And horsemen who had gone there hunting,

The woods was lovely sunlit, scented leaves
There left traces of spring in the breeze,
Following her cues, tried to find those birds
Who chirped haply the birth of the morn,
Under our feet dry leaves made crumpling noise,
The day seemed with Poetry so poised,
Asked her what did she there find,
She looked at me and charmed me by her eyes,
They held tales old and also new,
They held little droplets of dew,
Accumulated on her soft eyelids,

"What not did I get here?"
She said whispering through the air,
"I saw how flowers with love bloom,
I saw how petals opened to fill Heart's room
With more of kindness that the Divine for all spread,
Here I days of dreams with paints bred,
Saw and felt the green earth's serene presence,
Got thrilled by the tranquil blessedness,
Found all that I wished to discover and unravel,
Through the woods I to lands of unknown did travel,
In the stream saw school of colored fish playing,
Savoured pleasant solitude in stream of water murmuring
Life as it flows by you and me,
Found there songs hidden in towering trees,
Reaching up as if to touch the beautiful sky,
There with poetic fervour how oft I did lie"
She told me all these as if she spun a magical weave,
Right there near that bridge in the woods that ran deep,

I heard her words, looked at her lovely blessed Face,
Felt like I found in her nature at her best.

The pulling of chariot,

It would have been no less than a spectacle
To watch and to be amazed,
Thousands thronged at the road
Children, youth, women, old,
Pious and the plebian all together,

The chariot they tugged amidst great fanfare,
Chants of offerings heard occasional
Made the road of the town a moving sea
Of Teeming Millions ,

Those who didn't want to get into the mêlée
And yet wished to savour the fest,
From windows and balconies they found
The jest of people pulling together
The chariot, a grand sculpture
On wheels inching slow,

Smell of jalebis filled the air,
Already turned sacred
By cries and shouts and prayers,

Nearby a fair had grown overnight
On the road right  there,
Little stalls makeshift sold
Toys , bangles, flutes, drums,

The pulling of the chariot
Continued
Unabated, unhindered, a joyous spurt,

Wheels there moved through dust and dirt.

Dusky *

When the sun goes down behind the bushes and hedges,
And the sky turns a Beauty by its own,
I know dusk has come as my love
Singing for me to keep me charmed.

(*Note: the painting attached is done by J. Sams. Courtesy : Keith Linwood Stover)

That place

That place had so many things for us
Under the shade of trees a long afternoon to pass,
And those blooming krishnachura red
Love how they by their sweet murmur bred,
And those ponds and little piers to rest legs,
Wintry evenings whence came with mist so fancifully dressed,

O how they had become part of us,
Even when we are so away from the place,
O how those little fragments and scraps
Of memories come singing leaving a faint trace,

O that beautiful serene place.

Riding phaeton

You go riding phaeton
Through the woods,
Horses' hoofs making a plunge
Into the dust,
And like a charioteer through the wild
Summoning songs of yesteryears,
You go throwing away
Dust as speck of gold
Drenched by the warm sun
Peeping through the leafy banners,

You go riding phaeton
Through the woods
Taking the path
Meandering.

The children of the garden

The sprawling garden inside that enclosure had been our place of daily gathering. Soon after the hours of school we would there gather. During summer vacation, when we had more time at our disposal to do things which we always wanted to do, that garden became our shelter. We would there go as early as eight or nine in the morning and pluck fruits as we pleased. Fruits there grew abundant, mangoes, guavas, lemons. We would there go feasting. Sometimes we would sit under the big shadowy trees listening to the sweet chirping of birds which like us, gathered there.
The garden, so big and vast, always provided us with some sort of adventure.
We would watch different birds, their calls we tried to imitate. We would climb up to the branches of trees, made a swing tying twines.
The owner of the garden lived in a mansion at the far end of the garden , near the river. Rarely they came out to see what mischief we played there at their garden. The garden had been our refuge. We spent most of our daytime there. As a result, we knew almost by sight, each and every tree in the garden.
If any new sapling would be planted, we knew exactly its location. If a tree got felled for some  reason, we knew that too. The garden gave us so many wonderful memories- memories of learning to imitate calls of birds, of chasing insects like bugs and beetles, of catching dragonflies and tying string to their tails and making them fly like little pets, of playing hide and seek all the afternoon till the dusk entered the garden with long shadows of trees enveloping us.

The garden taught us things about climbing trees and making swings. Once someone collected a discarded rubber tyre and we hanged it from a branch of a Tree to make an improvised swing. Then there had been a little fight amongst us over who would get first the seat at the swing. The garden taught us our primary lessons of zoology and botany perhaps for we learnt to observe the flora and fauna there. Moreover, the garden made us awesome  friends. We became friends in the garden and the keepers of the garden too. We, almost unknowingly became the children of the garden.

To that valley of spring

To that Valley of spring

To that Valley of spring
Oneday thought to go,
Where by the days the trees bloom
Bringing Beauty for us,
To rest our eyes and be blessed
By the lovely and eternal show,

To that Valley of spring
Oneday will you take,
Where the country road runs
Through the green lemony and lush,
Upon earth where nature
does a heaven re-make,

To that Valley of spring,
Oneday thought to go.

Over the heap of guns and bayonets*

Over the heap of guns and bayonets*

Over the heap of guns and bayonets
Oneday we will stand up straight
You and me or our playmates of yore,
We will oneday stand there sure,
Holding our Love a hope,
Amidst bloodshed we would stand
And unearth those mines down the slope,
We will sing for Love and only Love,
We will sing for doves,

Then how the world with us join
Seeing us standing right there
Over the heap of guns and missiles
We will surely new words coin
To replace obsolete words-
Hatred , malice and other things,
Sabres, machetes, swords,
We will over them stand.

(*Note : picture courtesy : Sam Carlo)

To that night sky

Once under the sky of a night
Filled with the glorious sight
Of stars, moon and Celestial things
We sat benumbed quiet,

The castle old near placed on a mound
Looked like a witness by history bound,
And the occasional hooting of an owl
Made the only perceptible sound
Amidst the sea of silence,

How we then under that sky traced
Our Love, we sat quiet when as if blessed
By the night sky falling upon us
And time as in slumberous pace passed,

You perhaps ran your fingers on the soil
I perhaps talked of the toils
That lovers oft go through
Pains of Love I showed thence to you,

You saw those marks on my moonlit face,
Perhaps you saw my throbbing heart too,
And then you upon my hand yours placed,
We thus remained clung for hours who knows how long,

O how we to that night sky once belonged!

She, me and memories of country

"How is it that as we sit
Beside the river, beneath those trees,
We think of life flowing without cease?"
I asked her one day, not seeking answer any
For we have traveled roads many
And thought of unwinding just
Thinking of present, future and the past,

She looked at me, her eyes resembling a sea,
Blue and deep and filled with waves
Perhaps that me, with much care, saved,

"I am a village girl, you know,
I have nothing to show,
No big dreams, no big notion,
Haven't ever thought of life as motion,
Instead it came like a soothing feel,
Almost stagnant, a story have I not to fill
Your heart which longs for adventure and thrills,
There had been no such thing in our ville,
Only there were beautiful images everyday,
They might appear to you, nothing extraordinary , per se,
But to me there were my living life's part,
Never can I live from them apart,
Like the dusty road which went singing by
To reach the river where our childhood lies,
Like those little cottages covered by vines
There where I have lived all through, so entwined,
Like those gardens with bamboo fences around
Where flowers blooming could always be found,
And so many little insignificant things
Which the village of ours always for us brings,
They may not be glitzy and glamorous
But they kept us happy always, amorous..."

Saying these she paused, taking time,
I looked how her eyes were pinned to the skyline,
"She must have been homesick"
I thought about her ,
Seeing her eyes looking at the horizon far,

The breeze which ran through her hair
Came to me as well like fragrant dream,
We were both down the memory lane perhaps traveling,

I was thinking of my childhood too,
Similar to what she painted for me to view,
I thought I had been to that village too,
There I must have got that beauteous hue
Of images as wonderous as postcards true,

And the river flowed by before us ,
leaving us amazed.

(*Note: the painting attached is used to decorate the poem/scribbling. Courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Artist: Alexander Zhilaev)

There had been a time ...

There had been a time
When me and sister mine
Had that ritual to go
To the pier and there
we would throw
The lines with hooks
Into the river,
It surely us took
To a different dusk,
Me and sister there
Spent time like anglers
There in the setting sun's
Golden rays we would bask,

Some seagulls and doves
Also would there gather
They would chirp, tweet,
Send the air aflutter,

We would wait there
As two patient beings
Staring still at the water
Waiting forever as if waiting,

Not far away from the pier
From the terrace of our house there
Uncle would keep a watch over us
Time we thus at the pier just passed,

And the river already turned magical
By colors of the dusk as they upon her did fall,
Murmured softly songs of the eve,
Me and sister at the pier as our plays did keep,

Oft it would not take long for one's fishing line
To become taut and by the sudden tug
We would surely know the fish had got
Into its mouth the worm, and we would shrug
All our patience and calm, we would fill the air,
Shouting our little joy, finding fish hooked there,

And the dusk would by then turn
Into an evening dark and deep
We made then a return
To our house with a haul of a fish or two
River had by then caught the blackish hue,

My sister would sing a song way back
I would be happily following her track,
And uncle from the terrace would show us light
His big torch catching us there bright,
Father would be amazed to see the fish
And we would request mother to serve us with a dish
That would be the proper culmination
Of our efforts as anglers at the pier so stationed,

The house would become agog with tales,
Of catching fish of various kinds, as the night fell.

When i go walking by *

I go walking by
The lake and its side
Carried and so being borne
The beauty of a rainy morn,

There I find flowers drenched
Waving gently in the breeze
There I get that essence
Of country filled with love so dense,

There I think I get the feel
Of walking to that serene scene
Where birds and bees and little insects hum
Of a morning painted really awesome,

There by that lake I see
On leaves glittering balls
Of water catching nature's glee,

There by that lake on the ground
I think I have always love mine found,

In varied ways of Nature's course,
There I think I discovered a source
Of undying love and tranquil life,
There by that lake blue and white,
how into  poetry I take a dive.

(*Note: loosely based on a painting as attached, done by Mark Webster)