Ushering in

As the year is softly passing by
With all its charms and also sighs
I wish love blooms everywhere
Trees more are planted fair
Our children grow with more of love
Peace arrives with the calm of doves

How I wish to see a world without poverty
How I wish to see people living merrily
How do I wish to find all afloat on river of life
Without wars, scuffles and battles and pains and strife
How do I wish to see a world better, greener and purified
How do I wish to see dreams not getting belied.

Lets go out then you and I

'Lets go out then you and I
When the evening is spread out  against the sky ' *

Lets go out then you and I
Whence the evening is spread out against the sky
You will be my lady with the lamp
Going out of the cave moist and damp
Where you have like a hermit stayed
Away from the world for months and days;

We will together go to the land of tomorrow
Bereft of pains, sufferings and sorrow,
Where birds twitter and chirp on trees
Where streams murmur forever without cease,
There we will make ourselves true
Naked like child me and you,
You will show me how thy splendour bright
Can turn a glimmer of hope into a spectrum of light
You will show me how in thy self feminine
The whole world resides and grows fine,
How in thy shape bright and womanly
Will I find heaven filled with glee,

And that will in turn for sure make me
To take a plunge in thy measureless    poetry
And from there will I for thou bring
Music , cadence and songs that will ring
For ages after we will take the flight to sky
For ages after we will bid the world ' Good bye'.

(* note: the quoted lines are taken from ' The Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot.)

Just a love poem ( duet)

He :

Losing myself into you
Has oft brought me to a sense
Of fulfilment perfectly due,
As perhaps a bud feels dense
Breaking open just at the cue
Of the morning's mildest light-
Pinkish and orange hues
Whence touch the sky bright,
And I think I turn a flower true
Blessed by love of you,

She:
The wine of Life flows in my veins

Since our hearts did intertwine;

Flowers now have a sharper fragrance

And Life is more divine.

Orange and blue are the skies

Under which I worship you;

Let never deceit and lies

Come between us two.

This magical Love and its essence

Overwhelms my Being and every sense.

He:
Your smiling face I then reflect,

My petals drenched by dew

With sweetness of pollens set

Greet my blossoming new,

Losing myself into you

Has oft brought me to the brink

Of an overwhelming view

Of life and love in which I sink

Haply as ever as someone lured

By something pristine and pure,

She:

Since I was young, I had dreamt

And for a great love did I pine;

All such dreams I locked and kept –

And today, you are mine.

The rosebud now becomes a rose

And the heart is a blue butterfly;

Fortunate I am that we chose

To together live and die.

Losing myself into you,

I think I turned a flower true.

If thou be Europa

If thou be just like Europa,
Providing me with thy ambrosia
All the time putting words in me
Making me delve deep more into thee,
I will cling more to thy divinity
Offering my soul, my blood and purest me;

Then perhaps you will reveal
Your love, your joys , your shine,
Then perhaps I will also feel
Your sweetness, your red red wine,

And we will with happiness lie
On each other true , for eternitie.

Sitting by the Indian Ganges side

Sitting by the Indian Ganges side

You and I, will read a poem

You might think of Andrew Marvell

And I perhaps too, think Carpe diem,

(Seeing the River thus

Flowing for ages

Just like our lives and us,)

So enchanted by the day's mirth

Perhaps will I weave a song too,

Just by your side

Spending the day long overdue.

Helena

If thou be the daughter of Leda
In whom Zeus once instilled Love,
Come to me dear Helena,
Come to me like the calm of Dove,
With thy kiss seal my fate, by Jove,
In thee will I forever reside
Whence everything barring thou so gross
Float me in thy Holy Tide,
Make me a winged creature
As thou art blessed by Mother true,
Give gentle breeze to my feather
And make me find me only in you.

If Love comes in thy shape

If Love comes in thy shape
As like Eos thou light up mindscape
Let that be the hue of my day
And let me sing for thee, pray,

If Love so takes me to the sea
Where waves hold the key
Following each other as they come
Glistening in light every night and morn,

Let that be my life with thee
Thou the rising Venus of Botticelli
And me conjuring for thee only eulogy.

Dresden china, belle amie and more

If I had to sing a song for life
What could I sing to thee?
Only joys and mirth and glee
Can there never be
A bit of melancholy?

If I had to sing a song for life
What could I sure to sing?
Love if more of love thou bring
Can there ever be
A touch of melancholy?

Not that all these I know
Belle amie for thou as I go,
May be for thou will I be
A potter, a sculptor
With a variety,

I will create then a china ware
Upon it will make flowers fair
If art holds the eternity
Can't  we not live forever,
You and me?

To Maya di

Who ever thought that you would take
That journey so early which stars do make?
Now that the sky is so filled with glittering things
Now that the evening reminding me you a dirge sings
How am I lost in words grope blind in search
Your laughter, your smile, your vivicious life,
How you have gone beyond with ease all pains and strife...

( Maya Roy, worked with us. She had been a phenomenal woman to say the least. She left for eternal abode this year. After her passing away wrote a short write up in her daughter's blog. But never thought would write any poem and that too an Obituary. This poem just happened. )

A box of everlasting spring

All those flowers that bloom everyday
In my heart for thou how I keep
In a box  with a sprinkle of preservative
So that when seasons will go away
There they will be still smiling happy
There how I keep the aroma of everlasting spring
So that even when spring will be no longer there
When arid summer will make the water , vapour
And dryness will return with all its rage
There they will be preserved for even that  age,

And do you know what that box I call
By which name there I keep memories all?

A box simple made of paper
with designs ornate, filled with flowers,
How I keep all my love there
Only for thou if thou be Calliope
for whom do I oft dare
To write more till the day
Whence will I no longer be here.

Where my moving stops*

Where my moving stops
There whence I (like a leaf) drop
There how opens thy door;

Where my song ends
Whence it ( towards thy Self ) bends
There how the silent ocean lies;

Where my eyes get closed
With (thy )darkness whence it ope's
There how the Eternity lights up;

The flower outside blooms
Onto dust how it swoons
Within me how thence
ambrosaic fruit bears essence;

Whence to thee
My works I see
How thence my words flow
Finding in  the sky thy eternal show;

Whence I lose me
Spent absolute,
How do i find thee
In Thou how i find me.

(*note: it is a transliteration/ translation of a poem/ song of Rabindranath Tagore,  number 100, as can be found in 'গীতালি ' / ' Geetali' section , page number 449, Collected Works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি, volume two, Birth Centenary edition.
The transliteration/ translation is my humble tribute to Tagore, the  greatest poet and bard and philosopher of all times.)

Waiting*

Now have I scraped out time-
Whence wilt thy time come,
Put the taper there at thy door
Whence wilt thou light it up,
Shoved away all burden
Tied the boat at the ghat-
Left all the seeking on roads
Selling wares, buying up in markets
Of the ville;

At the evening that mallika which blooms
Her fragrance fills my room,
On leaves of lotus jasmine have I gathered
Only to pay obeiscance to thy feet,
Kept my mind for thee, calm and restive
For thou have I adorned my self
With sandalwood paste;
Spent the whole day doing works
Now  whence thy time wilt come,
May I ask;

Whence the moon wilt rise tonight
By the side of the river
Hovering quiet over those coconut trees,
How the courtyard of the temple
Would find light embracing the shadows of trees;

The southern breeze would  blow sudden
Bringing forth the tide-
The tied boat mine by waves so touched,
Would how with the ghat converse
About his longings and dreams
( expansive and vast);

Whence the tide would with the bay get merged
Whence the water would become still,
The breeze whence would become mild
The moon would also go to sleep,
How then would  with indolence come sleep
Only to lie at thy feet;

Sitting quiet leaving my sleep on ground
How on wait I for time thine
Get bound.

(*note : it is a transliteration / translation of a poem of Rabindranath Tagore titled 'প্রতীক্ষা ' / ' Pratiksha' , as can be found in page number 195-196 , volume two, ' খেয়া' / ' kheya' section, Collected Works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি, Birth Centenary edition.
The transliteration / translation is my humble tribute to Tagore, the greatest poet and lyricist of all times.)

Wintry morn

The mist and fog
Arriving out of bog
Spread their wings
On the road they
Translucency bring,
And sings the sleepy day
Of chilly wintry holiday,

The sun as it seems

Forgetting his duty

Wrapped in blanket

Fast asleep in his bed

Dreams of songs too

Of leaves drenched by dew.

Ode to Theia*

' O Queen,
Ships contending
On the sea
And yoked team of horses
In swift whirling contests
Become marvels'

How out of Ouranos and Earth
Thou as vivid form of sight
How bring Eos for mortal eyes to see,
You had for ages made men to seek
Helios and Selene, both out of the sea
Of the sky,
And how marvels had been for years thousands gathered by mortal hands,
How by thy sight poor am I also made to fly,
Catching the morning's splendour bright,
You the bearer of light!

All who thought of finding that state
Of reaching heaven , through works alone
Sought thee,
You had remained in minds of men
For Eternity,
So many odes had been written to thy name,
So many had thought of thee only to attain fame,
And You remained like a primordial source
Of life taking its due course,
Amidst everything that happens around us
How they come and go, like transient beads of time,
How they just with the flowing river pass,

And You shine forever,  the mild eyed ' far shining one',
Euryphaessa, offspring of Gaia and Ouranos.

(*note: the first few lines quoted in the poem were part of Pindar's works.
Theia : the bearer of Helios, Eos and Selene,
Euryphaessa : another name of Theia)

The moon, kadam tree and others*

I only said
' can anyone for me
Take down the full moon
From that kadam tree
Right at the evening'
My words thus listening
Brother said laughing
' never seen anyone so
Like a fool like you
Moon resides far away
How can I touch the orb
Of silver';
I said ' that I do not know
But whence our Mother
Smile through that window
Will you say the same
That our Mother stays
Far away, at some distant lane';
Still brother said
'never seen anyone so
Like a fool like you';
Brother said
' where will you  find
Such a big string or instrument
To bring moon here
To her bind';
And I did revert
' yonder lies the moon
The small rounded one
Can not with ease
Her we by our hands bring
Please';
Listening to me thus
Brother laughed
' never seen so anyone near and far
Like a fool as you are ';

(* note: it is a transliteration of a poem of Rabindranath Tagore as can be found in page number 36-37, ' শিশু' / ' Shishu' section,  Collected Works / রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি, volume two, Birth Centenary edition  The transliteration is my humble tribute to Tagore, the child forever and the greatest poet of all times)

Leda and the Swan *

Once out of His amorous pursuit
How on the banks of Eurota
Zeus taking the guise sweet
Of the Swan , Leda , He approached;

It had been a beauty of a day
And Eurota had the sparkling waves
In  her how Jupiter after having a soothing bath
Whence was just about to emerge,
(Naked like a child after rains,
Pure and white with a serene sense)
Leda He saw with eyes newly ope'd,
He had never seen such a beauty true
So decked with golden hue
That from Him spread far and wide,
Leda He saw resting there quite,
Zeus thence thought of going away
But there came urchins three,
Cupid and his friends filled with glee,
Cupid started playing his lyre
And flutes the other two,
How the amoretti touched both,
Giove and Leda;

Seeing Zeus so magnificent and gay
Thought Leda why couldn't she
Have a conservation with Him,
Afterall who doesn't know
What might the God upon lesser things bestow;

So Leda lied down, by the river
Striking a pose,
How there the daughter of Aetolia the King
Got struck by Cupid's musical dose,
Zeus also had that feel perchance
To implant Leda with the formidable sense
He wanted to perhaps get near her
And understand what could fail to bar
The spring of knowledge that flows
From His omniscient Mind,
But how come He plant it True
Into Leda His amorous mind?
How come He plant it True
Into Leda the knowledge that binds?

Then He turned his Self into a Swan
And seeing his beautiful feathers
Glistening in the morning's light
Leda couldn't stop herself from
Hailing Zeus,
How she Jupiter by her side beckoned,
And Zeus gave Leda the thoughts of Life
How to bear all the pains and strife,
How to make out where Love turns to lust
How mortality turns just to dust,

Thus  mere ' Amori di Giove'
How here I turn to a story
But then the story takes me to
More wonders of art to view,
Michelangelo and Corregio
How both of them I find sure
Both of them being so infused
How found  Leda with the Zeus,
And the more I look into their works
The more I get that feeling of fire, those sparks
Which turn a poet or a writer to go
Discovering what painted forms
to the world aptly show,
They all bring into fore stories, myths and tales
They all carry curious divine sense
And how I so taking the road in search
With more of words pure just emerge,
How my pen finds that flowing ink
How in writings more with my mind and soul I sink.

{* note: Leda and Swan had been one of the most celebrated themes of 16 th Century paintings. The poem depicts a story which is purely my own fabrication.
Michelangelo and Corregio both worked on Leda and Swan myth in their own ways. It is believed that Michelangelo painting ( probably in 1512) inspired Antonio Allegri da Corregio to draw a series ( in 1530/32). The painting attached for illustrative purpose was done by Michelangelo.}

Ferryman*

Who art thou
Who people doth ferry!
And I sitting at the door
See how you take
People from one ghat
To another,
You ferryman smart!
Whence the day ends
And men , women , children
From the market come to you
How I also think of rushing to thee
You, the ferryman, how you I see
(And think why can't you ferry me!)

At the twilight hours
How you take your boat
To the other side
Seeing that how a tune strikes
The chord of my heart
And how do for you I sing!
You, the ferryman, how you people
From distant lands bring!
On the waters, how the golden hue
From the other side
Silken patterns drew,
And how in my eyes
They twinkle with longings due
Enveloping my heart, my soul,
O You, the ferryman bold!

Seen how You speak not a word
You the Ferryman, my heart's joy, The Lord!
Try to find, what is there written in Thy eyes,
If by chance, Thy eyes,
Upon my countenance lies
How do I feel to go
Ferryman, only to Thou!

(*note: it is a transliteration of a poem of Rabindranath Tagore titled ' খেয়া' /' Kheya', as can be found in page number 212, Collected Works/রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি, volume two, Birth Centenary edition.
The transliteration is my humble tribute to the greatest poet and philosopher of all times.)

An Aoide to the Swan who keeps me Awake *

Know I not from which land of dreams
Thou hath once arrived at my door as it seemed,
But heard the soft murmur of leaves
Quite true like they are left bestirred by breeze,
And thought I, like a child, perhaps You have arrived,

The day has been just another day
Of wintry sun mellowed yet bright
Turning everyone joyous and gay,
Heard thy footsteps on the stair
( have you carried thy lyre?)

Know that I not,  but thy love me so wrought
That  I just keep on papers my pen
And words come out of heart
After being so long locked and  pent,

I think of thee, someone just like a deity,
Residing faraway from me,
Perhaps in the homeland of Hesiod
Where dwelt the gifted Nine,
And for whom all poets and writers pined,
Perhaps thou art that form of One
A white white floating Swan,
Having all the grace of Three
For Erato, Calliope , Euterpe,
All in You how I  imagine to see,
And Polyhymnia too,
Just like a scared hymn
Somewhere upon thy dress I view
As it flutters in the wintry northern breeze,
O how You light up a song in me, without cease!

(* note:
Aoide : meaning song , as per Varro, poetry can arise out of mind because of three muses 1) Melete 2) Mneme 3) Aoide.
Erato : Greek muse of Love poetry
Calliope: Muse of Epic poetry
Euterpe: Muse of lyric poetry
Polyhymnia: Muse of Sacred poetry
Swan : symbolic of knowledge.
The picture attached for illustrative purpose is of The Nine Muses on a Roman sacrophagus, 2nd Century A.D. as preserved at Louvre, )

Band of boys days *

How for years together
At your humble heart
Had we nature's pure gathered,
Morn after morn, wintry mist
Dews assembling on fresh leaves
Like little sparkling gems
How in the vast green fields
We found mother Nature's
all pervading sense,
Those sprawling trees,
The light filtered through
Morning prayers
'Gate passes' few,
The sound of gongs
Waiting in queues
Before canteen ,long,
Table tennis, cricket matches live!
( on tv at common room
O what a dive!)
Indian Culture class,
Satya da standing quiet
Right at the entrance
Drenched by Light,
Jithu Mirani nodding his head
Money order or demand drafts
Arriving a bit late,
Shovon da dribbling the ball,
Wanshai strumming a song of a Fall,
Paia in his half broken bengali
Trying to tell us the story of one Sally
For whom his heart pined oft
Faraway somewhere at Wahingdoh
Who perhaps for him written soft
A letter , a mail,
A long,  long distance call,
At the courtyard of GB, a sudden volleyball!

(* note: this poem is written upon visiting RKMRC , Narendrapur, after a gap of almost six years. )

Mother's son *

Those angels who live in the clouds
They how call me, how me they call;
They say ' Gee! How we play
From morn to afternoon to eve,
( with the passage of the day)
In the morn with golden rays
At night with silvery flakes
Of the moon
( how with her songs we swoon)

And I them ask,' how can i in your joys bask?'
They say, ' Come with us to the end of the field
There we'll with mirth do seal
You would've just to stand there quiet
And stretching your hands up stand upright
We'll take you to the land of clouds';

I tell them , ' Mother is there at home
Looking forward to meet me
How can i leave her
Only to see
Your fantasy?'

Hearing this, O mother,
How they go afloat
Only giggling;

Instead mother, I will be the clouds
And you wilt the moon be,
By my arms will you I embrace
We will make the sky on the terrace;

All those angels who live in waves
How me they call, how they call me
Saying, ( after rising from the blue blue sea)
' We only sing from the very beginning
Of the day,
We sing for all who want to be jocund and gay';

They say , ' To which country do we go
No one that does really know' ;

And I to them tell , ' How can i go?'
They ask me, ' why can't you come to the ghat's end
There standing quiet , closing your eyes
You should us call,
And we'll take you sure
To the land of waves pure' ;

I to them tell, ' Mother mine always me calls
When the day ends and the evening does fall,
How can i her so , for you leave?'

Hearing this, O mother
How they go afloat
Only giggling;

Instead mother, will I the wave be
And you a farway country,
I will go to sleep
On thy lap,
And no one will find us
With You in glory
Will I bask.

(* note : it is a transliteration of a poem of Rabindranath Tagore, titled ' মাতৃবৎসল' / ' Matribotsol' , as can be found in page number 39, Collected Works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি, volume two, Birth Centenary edition.  The transliteration is my humble tribute to the Tagore, the child forever, the greatest poet and lyricist and philosopher of all times)

The Adoration of the Babe*

Came from East to Jerusalem
The Three Wise Men
And how they spake
" Which path could us take
To the Babe who has been born?"
How they carried they Three
(With the only object to see
The Babe smiling and mewling
At the poor poor hut, )
They the Three pious and smart,
How they following the star
Arrived with gold, frankinsence and myrrh,
And seeing the Babe at the trough
How they drooped down , bowed,
And Mother of the Babe and Joseph
They were simply left quite amazed,
' Something has happened it must be Good
For even before the Child came how I saw a sparkle
On the water and the feeding trough that did tell
Me something it must usher in
O what  an ambrosaic evening
We are so here to welcome
The Babe how into our poor cottage has chosen to come!'
Gushed out of pure devotion the Mother
For how people and shepherds
And The Three  Wise from East had gathered
Right at her doorstep the simplest one
How Joseph and Mary had seen the morn,

And the Three they stooped down and bowed
Feeling how the Lord's benediction in them sow(ed)
Love and only Love that overwhelms everything
How the day brought the purest meaning
To them and to the World at large
How  joy and love, the Babe by His smile, in all surged.

{* note: the painting attached for illustrative  purpose was done by  the gifted painter and artist Peter Paul Rubens ( 1577- 1640). }

Gabriel - an ekphrastic poem*

Once out of pure  form of devotion
So intoxicated by The Father's unforgettable potion
How Giambattista # painted Thee
O Thou the messenger of The Eternity,
How You, Gabriel came floating by
Only to be sighted by Her eyes
An angel of the Lord, The Infinite,
How You turned Zechariah with awe blind
And then how You doth with solemnity declared
Elisabeth and Zechariah had nothing to fear
For out of the beauty of morning's light
Out of purity that oft is missed by mortal sight
There would be the arrival, the Birth
Of John, to make mortals to be filled with mirth,

O how Gabriel, like a daniel there arrived
Out of sky how before Elisabeth He took dive
To make Her filled with gladness
Not with silver and gold and diamonds
But with that which only provides mortal with immortal dress.

{* note : Loosely based on a painting as attached, hence ekphrastic a poem it is.
# Giambattista : Giambattista Pittoni is the painter and artist upon whose painting (1758) this ekphrastic poem is based.

Ekphrastic poem : a poem that describes a painting or a work of art}

Paper boat*

If it is a holiday
Float on water
Boat mine
Made of paper;
Write on it
In words
My name
The street
The ville
Names such
In bold alphabets
Before the boat
Do i set
Afloat;
If it would reach
Someone's hand
He would know
From which land
The boat had come
Sailing so;

The boat mine
How do i decorate
With ' shiuli ' and 'bokul',
In the garden
Early morn
How the blossoms
Gather and fall
Under the trees
And with dews
On their lips
How do they glitter
As the light of the morn
Piercing winter
Set them with beauty;

And that little boat
How goes with flowers
Towards the end of the day
Whence it reaches the bay
It there how delivers
Those ' shiuli'  and 'bokul' flowers,

Floating my boat on water
How do i just sit and stare
At it, little waves whence rise and fall
The light of the sun whence shine on them all,
The birds giving calls how go away flying
The mild breeze whence blowing saying
How the day has come again after night
( O how do i with dreams wish to take a flight!);

How little cloudlets float in the sky
Like my little boat how they fly
How they go away , in the ocean of light
To which land , to which country them, people sight,
Those cloudlets and my little boat
How they just haply with each other vie;

At the twilight how they pull me out of home
How with them do i feel the presence of the awesome,
To which ville, goes floating my boat
No one knows where it wilt go afloat;
No one stops it , no one compels,
How my boat just goes where it wishes to sail,
Goes it to newer lands, newer seas,
The paper boat mine how goes on unceased,
And rowing with it how does mind mine also go
To newer discoveries how the boat i row;

(*note : it is a transliteration of a poem by Rabindranath Tagore titled 'কাগজের নৌকা' /  Paper Boat, as can be found in page 61-62, volume two,  ' শিশু' / Shishu section , Collected Works / রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি, Birth Centenary edition.
The transliteration is my humble tribute to the child forever, the greatest poet and philosopher of all times.)

Goddess Two*

At what point of time
Know not me
Out of the infinite depth of sea
Of immense creativity
Rose Two;
One , the angel of heaven
The Goddess with splendour
Who could incite desire
And the other
The Goddess of Goodwill
And compassion
Filled with Love-
The primary potion
The Goddess of Heaven,
Lakshmi;

One meditation broke
Filling the cup
With laughter and fire
Putting desire
Of beauty
Purely ' falguni',
She gave rise to songs
Of springs, of youth,
Which could never be kept at bay
For long,

(Like that flowery chants 

Which come out spontaneous

From intoxicated hearts)

She took away sleep,
Made the bud of rose
To turn sanguine, red
Where passion is always bred;

The Other how returned
With tears of dew
Pouring forth
That serene feel
Of finding morning of life, renewed;
How She returned
With the sky full of bless
How She made all to smile
Finding solace,  in self contentment;

How She had all brought
To that sublime thought
Where all could find
How the pristine could bind
All at that meeting point
Of life and death,
How She had ushered in the eternal
The songs of seasons, the autumn,( the fall,)
How She had implanted that pure
Where we can only by Devotion lured.

{*note: it is a transliteration of a poem / song  number 23, of Rabindranath Tagore, as can be found in ' Balaka' ( বলাকা) section of his Collected Works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি, volume two, page number 500. The transliteration is my humble tribute to Tagore, the greatest poet and philosopher of all times}

There's that boy named Chris*

There's once that boy named Chris
After graduation he took the road
As taking the road was his only wish;

Hitchhiking he lost his shoes
At the Magic Bus he got his blues
And once arriving at the beach
In waves of sea his dream he unleashed,
Then he walked some hundred miles
Saw how at morn the flowers in light smiled
Saw that crimson face of the sky
A crowd of falcons he watched how flied
Then at Alaska being greeted by snow draped pines
He ticked on his notebook a bucket list fine

There's once that boy named Chris
Taking the road was his only wish
And by doing that how he turned into a man
Made of soil , frost, flower, books  and sand.

(* note: based on a flick titled ' into the wild' )

The magician of math *

Math had been the thing
That always tears to me bring
But then that doesnot stop me
To say ' Hail to thee!'
As You are born today
( and worked to fame  with Prof. Hardy)
To create new ideas , infinite series,
So many other  things that took you to find
What the figures and fractions and numbers say
What possibilities they before us always lay,
What can be thought and expressed
Through abstract ideas how problems can be redressed,

Then it had been surely a tough time
Under Colonial rule by math simple You did shine
And made even those british rulers to agree
In You they in newer ways the World did see,

Heard several tales  about you
That you could even in your sick bed
With numbers easily like a magician juggled,
You , read somewhere I, once created a series
Based on a taxi cab number ,
Finding what wonder there lied
On a silver plate that was tied
To a vehicle of daily use,
How numbers You turned Your Muse.

( * note : written on Srinivasa Ramanujan, the mathematician who brought laurels for our country when we were under British Rule. 22 nd December is his Birth Anniversary)

Whence Thou take my hands

Whence thou take my hands
With love (whence you take me
to a different land)
How have I spent the night
Sitting right there by thy side,
All through I was so afraid
( touching thy hair, thy locks, thy braid)
If I have lost careless
Thy music which I just wish to trace,

Walking with thee
How am I made to see
How going afoot
I have pressed my boot
On thorns,
( O how am i made to born
To find thee one beautiful morn)

Then how have I found
Liberty seeking me
As if thy flute has somewhere been played
( O how have I been so afraid
To touch thy hair, thy braid)

Now that You have asked the sky
To come close to me,
So that can I just fly,
Like a seagull , white and fearless,
Pure as Thou drench me by thy bless
I just bow more to thy feet,
As all night by thy side
I just with words untold doth sit.

Ode to Eyasha*

Whence the morn comes
With dreams of serenity awesome,
Dews whence gather at the tips
Of blooms and freshened leaves
How do I think of thee
Eyasha, the Goddess of Tranquility,

Have You risen from the Dream
Of Ava , the elven myth?
Have You sown poetry too
With Grothar and Nehtor
As Thou from Carpadosia
Arrive with a magnificent view?

They say Thou art the one
Of the twelve Aeolia
They say Thou art True
The Queen of Ava,

How as the winter arrives
Tempting me more
To take a plunge in writes
How Your guiding force
Takes me more to that source
Of poetry , painting and musical lines,
How with the breaking of the day
I get merged with poesy,
Only to find what conjured
Thy dazzling lyrical form,
Thy immense overwhelming poise
Thy life, so enchanting, divine.

(*note : Eyasha : Goddess of Tranquility)

The journey by boat*

That boat of Madhu the boatman
Is left tied at the ghat of Rajganj
No one is taking it
As it is filled with jute raw;
If they would give me that
i would attach hundred oars
To it would fly sails four five six-
Would I not with it float
Selling wares , instead would i
Go even if for once
Away voyaging
Seven seas thirteen rivers, just sailing;

Then You should not cry, sitting
At the corner of the hut, lone,
i would not go away like Rama
For fourteen years to some forest;

i would go like a prince
Carrying wealth in the boat
Would take Ashu and Shyam with me
Would we go sailing, we three;
Would go for once voyaging
Seven seas thirteen rivers crossing;

At the morn would set the boat free
And how it would go all by itself (to the sea),
At the noon You would be
At the bank of the pond
Then we would've new kingdom found;

Would go beyond that ghat of Tirpurni
Would go beyond that faraway land,
It would take the whole day for me
To come back to thee,
At the twilight hours surely would
Tell You stories where i had gone
Sitting on thy lap,

Only would i go for once
Crossing seven seas thirteen rivers.

{*note : it is a translation/ transliteration of a poem titled ' Noukajatra' ( নৌকাযাত্রা), as can be found at page 31, volume two, ' Shishu' ( শিশু) section,  Collected Works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি, Birth Centenary edition.  The translation/ transliteration is my humble tribute to Tagore, the child forever, the greatest poet and philosopher of all times}.

carpe diem( kɑːpeɪ ˈdiːɛm,ˈdʌɪɛm)

' Dans une position feutrée
Une respiration douce saccadée
Sur ce corps de tendresse enlacé'

Within moments few
The soft afternoon hue
Will go fading away
And how lucky we two
Would stick together
Your dupatta turning a feather
How  would stay momentarily afloat,
How would I sing with easy throat
You so poised with me
As earth would be drenched by beauty
Of that wonder that catches the twilight,
Your face shining in my eyes bright
And mine in your mirror true!

Aha! The twilight whence giveth us hues
Of love, togetherness and genteel care
Love of dusk as we would sing like a prayer,
You would perhaps say there is nothing to regret
Upon my breast as you would serenity get,
And I would perhaps think of writing a poem
Our journeys through life - purely carpe diem.

There's no end to devotion*

There's no end to my  devotion to thee,
whence in You do  I  see,
all my wishes and desires
(Melting into tranquility);

This search, is it for fruits?
(Or for corns? )
Nay for that wilt be
Taking away me
From thee,
(Can never carry that burden
If I think only of fruits,
coming to me sudden),
Instead leaving the fruits
Do I soulful sing,
To make buds bloom;

Thus in my life comes
That eagerness like a balm,
Which brings new pains
With newer creative sense;

Once do I get things I wish
They with time only diminish
And I (opening to thy sky)
Stretch my hands again
To get more of thy perpetual music
Thy perennial sense that sticks,

And how that keeps on
Me getting Thy ambrosaic potion
And I turning them to songs.

(*note: it is a transliteration of poem/ song  number 37, as can be found in page number 411, Collected Works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি , Birth Centenary edition.
The transliteration is my humble tribute to Tagore, the greatest poet and philosopher of all times)

All related to Love*

1

Seen him one horrendous rain filled night-
He was getting wet, alone,
I wanted to beckon him to my room
He reverted in brief - ' no!'
he had said,
Knowing the old man's unease, could not say more!

The night how far kept him away could not make that out,
In the morn
Saw all those flowers of the  jasmine tree
Had fallen,
Like pain,
Then,
Had he been the soul of that immensely beautiful tree?

From then on,
Every rainy night
I stay awake looking out
But he does not care to come,
Only that curious smell of jasmine-
Gradually enveloping me
And that white color of buds
Only tell upon me,
As if they ask me to dream
Without getting wet,
Without being burnt!

2

Have scraped all colors black and white from you
Scraped them out like dream
Then put colors more real
With green have I filled,
Wrapped from head to toe
And sent them away to the woods;
Now no amount of enmity would come betwixt us!

Life would now largely become songs of afternoons,
Hearing the gongs of copper bells would you learn
Every temple after being sheltered by green trees
The Gods would come alive;
If leaves would fall and stay on the yard of temples
Temples would become true
Places of worship -
It may happen that temples are not that very much clean ( devoid of fallen leaves which come floating in the breeze),
It may happen that the temples are not that bright, glittering ones by light so enflamed!

I have sent the zebra in different form
Only in memory I visualise zebra as black and white,
Once in dream have I found that cave where ancient and the modern meet - prehistoric and unchanged earth!

3

You have called me like a secret deep and large mansion,
Have shown me those large rooms,
Why have you  forgotten that one should not leave open those bejeweled branches infront of a beggarly person?

The breaking of a trance, it will happen sure!
Then on he down turned his palm,
Up turned it,
Taking exquisite shapes of a stance, a pose, the most beautiful;
That restless irresistible 'Ichcamoti' ,
Her breezy silken touch having worn
Stayed alone the bemused neighbour woman,
Just like a princess, waiting for the night...

{*note: it is a translation  of a poem  titled ' প্রণয় -প্রধান' ( Pronoy- Pradhan) by Shweta Chakraborty, done by me }

That path away from the ville *

That  path of red soil going away from the ville

How mind mine with mirth doth seal,

For whom do I stretch my hand

For whom do I get away from the land;

She how takes me away from home

Pleading me to see her wealth awesome;

How she takes me away

To which heaven she for me shows the way;

I know not in which twist and turn

She would show me ( a splendid morn)

Her beauty and her wealth,

Where she hath forever dwelt;

Where would the end touch

With the beginning of which beauty such,

Can never find that so,

Which path away from ville she sows.

(*note : it is a transliteration of a song/ poem of Rabindranath Tagore, as can be found at page 421, poem/ song number 14, volume four, Collected Works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি , Birth Centenary edition. 

The painting attached for illustrative purpose is done by G.D. Arulraj.

This transliteration is my humble   tribute to Tagore)

Uninvolved*

Child O my child
Playing with dust
How you spend
Your day without end;
I just smile
Seeing you thus
Playing with bunch of grass;

And I remain how
With books and copies
My mind I rake
My soul I plough;
The copies I fill
With drawings and sketches
Moments of time I seal;

Child O my child
Playing with dust
How have I forgotten
Many little things;
Where could I get
Toys , thinking about them
How I have lost in the game
How go I searching in vain
Gold and silver how I gather
False (thinking thy name);

And You, the Child
How you do create
Whatever in hands thine
You with ease get,

And I how spend time
Wishing to get
Which  is not in my fate;

How do i go beyond
The implausible
How by that
Do i turn a song, (a fable,)
How do I on the river of dreams
Float my boat ( as it seems).

{*note: it is a transliteration of a song/ poem of Rabindranath Tagore, titled 'নির্লিপ্ত ' ( Nirlipto) as can be found in ' শিশু' ( Shishu) section of Collected Works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি, volume two, Birth Centenary edition. The translation/ transliteration is my humble tribute to the Tagore, the child forever, the greatest bard and poet and philosopher of all times.}

The big friend*

Whence after writing
Losing myself in dreams
A bit of nostalgia whence
Wraps my mind like a comforter
How am I reminded of him
The 'Big Friend' , had been his nickname;

He used to sit on high stool
Overlooking the reading hall
Grave looking faces with specs
Whence news on papers read,

We just loitered around him,
' what do you want? Tintin?
Or Alistair Maclean?'
His eyes filled with humour
Filled our sunday morn's hour;

How after so many days
Whence I feel lost  in dreams
How am I simply reminded of him.

(*note: it is written on a special person who had been the librarian of a club called ' Sports Club'. He used to keep open the children's section of the library every Sunday without fail, just to supply us with books)

'বড়ো বন্ধু '*

অনেক লেখা লিখলেও
যখন লেখার রেশ
হারিয়ে খেই
হই নিরুদ্দেশ
ঠিক তখনই দেখেছি
তোমার কথা মনে পড়ে বেশ;

রবিবারের আসর শেষ
রেডিওএ কুঈজ শো
স্পোর্টস্ ক্লাবের রিডিং রুম
চশমা চোখ পড়ে খবর টাটকা হাত গরম;

আর তুমি হাই স্টুলে আসীন
আমাদের বড়ো বন্ধু
' কি চাই? টিনটিন?
না আলিস্টেয়ার মাক্লিন?'

সহজ চোখে হাসির রেশ
তোমার কথা মনে পড়ে  বেশ,
বইয়ের থাক, সারি সারি প্রলোভন,
ঐ তো নতুন হোমস্, ঐ যে রবি ঠাকুর পুরাতন;

অনেক লেখা লিখলেও
যখন লেখার রেশ
হারিয়ে খেই
হই নিরুদ্দেশ
ঠিক তখনই দেখেছি
তোমার কথা মনে পড়ে বেশ।

(* বি:দ্র : ' বড়ো বন্ধু ' এই লেখাটা একজন বিশেষ মানুষকে নিয়ে লেখা যার আসল নামটি মনে নেই কারণ তিনি আমাদের কাছে 'বড়ো বন্ধু ' নামেই পরিচিত ছিলেন। উনি ছিলেন আমাদের এক ' স্পোর্টস্ ক্লাবের' লাইব্রেরিয়ান। প্রতি রবিবার ছোটদের জন্য উনি লাইব্রেরিতে থাকতেন শুধু ছোটদের হাতে বই তুলে দেবার জন্যে। আমাদের ছোটবেলার হরেক স্মৃতি তাই ওনাকে ঘিরে আজও অম্লান। )

If Thou hath reached the shore*

If thou hath reached the shore
Leave thy oar
Take my hands instead
For moments make me sit
By thy side ( for a treat)
For moments few
Make me sit
On the meadows (drenched by dew),
The night has  got blown away
By the waves, as arrives the day;

Thou the Boatman,
If my home is not far away
If the tune of homecoming
Holds over me the sway,
With the arrival of the morn,
Just that music Thou play
Which upholds the song
Of the road at that root of the tree
( as my home do I see
Arriving at that step of door)

Thou the Boatman
If Thou hath reached the shore
Leave thy oar
And take my hands instead.

( *note: it is a transliteration of a poem/ song of Rabindranath Tagore, number 66, as can be found in page 429, volume two, Collected Works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি, Birth Centenary edition)

The river at dusk

The River which goes on flowing
Without hassles meandering
There  how I find it oft and true
The dusk painting her with hues
Wonderous and surely enchanting,
A blissful state of a blessed evening,
Colorful, joyous , sublime a song
How in her murmurs that is  kept for long,
How in her flowing never ending mirth
oft am I made to find happiness of earth,
How in her eternal poesy so wrought
Do I find what life for us always brought-
The beginning of civilisation, human race
And that soul immortal by which we are blessed.

( the painting attached for illustrative purpose is by David Lloyd Glover, titled ' the dusk river')

A few lines written on a brief sojourn to a village

Being confined in the city for long
Whence once I got the chance
To go away to a village
On a brief sojourn,
How had I been with warmth filled
Seeing the translucent curtain of mist
Over the benign earth,
The trees looked lovely and green
Fresh as if they had taken a bath
( and how I took a sabbatical),

Being pent up in the city for long
Whence once I took the road
That went to a village sure
On a brief sojourn,
How had I heard the songs and chirps
Of birds welcoming the morn
As it arrives quiet on earth,
The day smelt of flowers and buds
Fresh as they woke up with me
( and what a sabbatical I took).

Ode to childhood

'The child is father of the man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. '
(Wordsworth, "My Heart Leaps Up") 

There had been a time
Whence everything came with a shine,

The river ( by which we spent most of our life both young  and new,)
The trees standing quiet ( like angels on two flanks of the avenue,)
The ponds ( where we spent many hours chasing tadpoles with sticks)
The playgrounds ( where we played  till our sweat with dirt got mixed,)

They all came with wonders and awe
They all filled us  with joy for we gathered
Love and kindness from what we saw,

We were then mere children left at the mercy of nature,
We lived neither in past nor in future,
We lived, ( as children were we) on the present,
We discovered how the flowers bloomed with scent
And how fruits hung from some trees in summer
How just at dusk, from fields with cows, returned the farmers,
How the lanterns ( made clean by mother) shone bright
How the candles made shadows on our books at night,

We watched grasshoppers' jumps too,
We ran barefeet on moist lands touching dews,
We watched the sky at night lying on the ground,
How we different stars and constellations found,

Then there were hours of listening to
Bedtime stories from uncle
Who had always something to tell,
Stories of Princes and kings
Story of the likes of ' Rumpelstiltskin' -
The miller's daughter was how saved
By that gifted little imp, from being executed
By the King who wanted gold and more of gold,
How we also made journeys with Hercules The Bold,

Much later when we learnt to read and write
How we found our school , a kindergarten,
A place for all our mirth and delight,
There how we spent many hours in
Playing and singing and dancing,
Even doing ' hiding and seeking'
Behind those columns of trees,
Eucalyptus and deodars some,
How we had then lived really awesome!

My freedom lies in the lighted sky*

My freedom lies in the lighted sky

My freedom doth in dust and grass lie;

How I lose my self beyond  the body and mind
In songs my liberty how do I oft find;
My freedom , in the minds of all , lies
In works hard which dangers and plight trivialise;

In the Lord's sacrificial fire how my self I free
As if in that self annihilation  I always find Thee.

(*note: this poem is a transliteration of a song/ poem of Rabindranath Tagore, a humble tribute to Tagore)

Samson and Delilah - a story retold

At the Valley of Sorek whence
Samson first  Delilah saw
He had perhaps that pervading sense
Of love within him growing raw
So he sought love from her
The maiden with wonderous looks
Eyes that could pull him near;

He pledged his heart to her
In lieu she asked what could make
Samson such a valiant warrior
And he , being what he was
Without doubting made the mistake
He told her if could someone his hair
Cut and take those strands away
All of his strength would just disappear;

Hearing this Delilah made a pact
Betraying love that was sacrosanct
She took Samson to the bait
Luring him upon her lap to meet his fate,

And how awful had been that sight
To find Samson losing the fight
Like a child as he dozed off
Upon the lap of his lady love.

( the picture attached is a painting by Peter Paul Rubens, 1609, based on the O.T. story of Samson and Delilah)

Milton

Be it Paradise lost
Or Regained,
Whatever be the cost,
Who could ever think to write
Like John , lines so bright?

Upholding the freedom of press
At that time even,
'Areopagitica '
As it was so named,
And then there is Lycidas
Who had been multilinguist such?
Knowing hebrew and also dutch,
Who had created things polemic
Out of excruciating grief?
Who could create Satan that way
An anti hero holding sway
Over the whole world,
Declaring outright
' better to reign in hell
Than in heaven  serve'?
His L' allegro and Il Penseroso
How in us still wonder sow,
And when we read
' On the morning of Christ's Nativity'
How are we filled by only pity,
His that poem on Shakespeare
How brings forth his tribute
To his literary predecessor,

And the book that he added
To Paradise Regained
How that for us Samson
brought, that champ,
How we through him gained,

Be i t Paradise lost
Or Regained,
Whatever be the cost,
Who could ever think to write
Like John , lines so bright?

How oft I think of thee

How oft I think of thee
Just to have a life
Like Walter Mitty,^

Not a milquetoast kind
But with colors which bind
Would I just float away
Down that road which infront lay

Running down that road by the hill
And also by that sea which gives that feel
Of being part of a larger design
By which the Lord up there doth sign,

Would I go on forever true
Walter Mitty like so catching hue
Of life, unchallenged, savoured
Taste of ambrosia , in mouth so flavoured,

You might say it is all unreal
Concocted thing,
Life can never such beauty bring,

But then why are
We so alive here?

Poets and writers
Don't they dare?

(note: ^ Walter Mitty: a character of a story by James Thurber; also the protagonist of a flick based on the story)

She *

If thou be the Mother incarnate
And that of power too
If thy omniscient soul knows
The blessings of rain and dew,
Whence on painted forms
Emerge thee,
That I call the potence of woman hood
- SHE,

And You keep all in your beauty intertwined
Colors, paints, sculpted forms, poetic lines,
You make an artist , you make a poet,
By Your wonder You the World do create,

And i just keep on my lips
Prayers and songs
That takes me to the deep
Of Love, all encompassing,
I just try to find thy light
Thy existence ,  YOU,
The non-existent  Being.

(*note : loosely based on a painting by one of my students, who is a painter and an artist , Anwesha Chowdhury Mitra,)

The life of a child*

Have not the courage to be
A small child so
With old age how i grow;
Try to save trivial things
With them boxes how i fill
Full upto brim;
Yesterday's thoughts
How come today
How they brought
Tomorrow's burden;
How that quest never ends
As i keep on the search
Those have i gathered
How discover i
Have no value
(So do i search
For eternity);

Being afraid of future
Can't get to see
Where doth the path lie
Day after tomorrow
(Where wilt i be)
Future will remain
In future such
When wilt the holiday
Come with mirth?

Try to light up
My mind's candle
Which just flickers
In the breeze and does tell
To walk me tip toeing;
So many people
So many friends
They advice bring,
So many little things
Nitty gritty they  send
( how i take the path
That goes by without bends);

Come there that assurance
Again in me ,
To find that child
Within my mind's sea;
Let there be that breeze
Which can touch my sails
As i wish to go floating
Without fail(s);

Wish to go beyond
The future so
That can i see
The present through;

At the terrace
At the bank of pond,
How i wish to learn
The unknown , Unbound;

(*note: it is a transliteration of first three stanzas of a poem of Rabindranath Tagore, as can be found in volume two, collected works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি, birth centenary  edition; this transliteration is my humble tribute to Tagore, the child forever, the philosopher, the greatest poet and bard of all times.)

Viola*

What kind of love, what emancipation
Did once make that bard to find thee?
Are You only a character of just a comedy?
But then, towards the end of Juliet and Romeo
So praised by the Queen , the wight and the beau-
When they came together, right at the tip of feather,
How Shakespeare , thought of  you,
Viola, the heroine, when  came to the bard's view,

A page, a woman with love so much unbridled,
Who could go searching for her love as she felt,
In the kingdom of that Duke, Orsino,
How on the 'Twelfth Night,' ^ everyone did know
You , Viola, the muse of the playwright,
How by your presence you made bright,
Your feminine heart , your ways to find
How to touch the Duke's nimble mind,

And when you sang for your brother,
How Sebastian ( thought to be buried in the sea)
Came back alive to find thee,

What kind of love, what emancipation?
Did once make the bard to find thee?
Are you only a character of a comedy?

Nay, cause thou art true and wise
By love made so, beyond tears and sighs,
Thou art that eternal form of lyric sublime
From which music emanates and also poetic lines.

( *note: Viola is a character of William Shakespeare's comedy ' Twelfth Night'.
^ Twelfth Night: also related to Epiphany.
Viola is also the name of a musical instrument, resembling violin, but larger in size and dimensions)

A flower, abloom

How the flower blooms there
In thy heavenly lair
A retreat, a sanctuary perhaps
Where time stands still, (without lapse)
And how that sight in heart giveth birth too,
Of a  poem or a song
Filled with pristine mirth
Graced by thy love laden view...

Mother, if You have been the sky*

Mother, if thou have been the sky
And the champa tree, I,
With you without words
Would've I conversed;

The breeze from thou
Touching branches mine
Would've called me
With tunes for a dance, to thee;

Without words how can I
Pay heed to calls thine,
so my words doth fly
Falling on the leaves that shine;

Thy light to my dewy drenched soul
Would have whispered and told
Upon, making me sing
A song of joy (perhaps
As it would bring);

Then I would have made
All my buds to bloom pure
As they would have said
All the words, dancing sure;

The shadow of thy cloud
Floating in from somewhere
Touching mine for a while
Would again go away like a feather;

It would then become
That fanciful tale
And story of that prince
Who had gone beyond
kingdoms several;

He would have told me
Where lied that vine
Where lived the sea monster
Where the princess with beauty
Did everything bind;

Would have seen
those teary eyes
Of the queen
Heaving a sigh
And my leaf would
Tremble too
Seeing that
Heart rending view;

Then all of a sudden
Whence the rain
Would catch
The breeze even,
The drops of water
Would then dance
On my leaves
All by rhythmic chance;

They would then become
Thy recitation
Of Ramayana , epical,
They would then turn
The rains that fall;

Mother, if Thou hath been
That blue colored one
And me, a child small,
Thou would have been
The smile of the light
And me would just be
A trembling leaf
at thy sight;

You would have
From the sky
Opened your eyes,
And stretching hands i
Would just sing (for eternity);

Thou would be then
The starry night
(Not a feign)
And would i
Just give a try
To make flowers
Bloom everyday
( in words , stories and lays)

(* note: it is a transliteration of a poem of Rabindranath Tagore as can be found in page 609, vol.two, collected works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি , birth centenary edition.
The transliteration is my humble tribute to Tagore)

Onto white and pristine sails*

Onto white and pristine sails
whence the mild breeze touch,
Never seen rowing of the Boat such;
From which land beyond the seas
Which treasure it brings never ceased,
With it the mind wishes to float,
And wishes to leave all desires and wants,
(Singing perhaps Thy songs with ease
As they come out from throat)

How the stream keeps on falling,
How the rumble can be heard,
How the ray of lighted beams
Comes through the clouds unbarred;

O Thou the Boatman, who art Thou, whose laughter and tears
by thy boat You tow,
How mind mine thinks of thee-
With which tune You  would string
the day's song ( giving it a meaning)
Which prayer would be sung (for long).

(* note: it is a transliteration of a song/ poem of Rabindranath Tagore, as can be found in collected works/ রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি,
song number 145, volume four, birth centenary edition. The transliteration is my humble tribute to Tagore).

Never tried to know *

Never tried to know Thou still mind mine moves to thee
Never knowing Thou the  World still rests in Thee,
Thy immense Beauty who had felt true
That sweetness eternal and new-
How have I given my soul to thee
So unknowingly,
Thou art the light of luminosity,
I am blinded in the darkness,
Thou art free , epitome of liberty,
I am immersed in that shoreless sea,
Thou art endless, I am so tiny, beggarly-
How we meet by wonder , You and me.

( * note: it is a transliteration of a poem of Rabindranath Tagore , as can be found in  collected works / রবীন্দ্ররচনাবলি , volume four, page 650, song/poem number 48. This transliteration is a humble tribute to Tagore, from me)