I think You have taken me,

I think
You have taken me,
Surely,
For in every word I see
You
As poetry.

Come, drink with me,

'Come,
Drink with me,'
I told my heart,
One day,
Quoting Rumi,

Come drink with me
The Potion Holy
Of Happiness
And life,
Come drink with me,
Life to the last.

'City' / 'Shahar'

Heart, you have seen big cities smart,
And all those citizens' accounts,
Their bricks and mortars,
And endless talks ,hurrried steps,
Hopes, despairs
- perilous,
They had burnt them down in my own agonies,
But still at the fringe of those huge burning orange clouds I have seen
The birth of Sun;
Have seen Him at the port,
How He carried burdens, loads,
Like a love seeped farmer,through the saffronic clouds;
Have seen those stars sparkling too,
Beyond the glare of gaslights and towering heights,
Seen those stars towards
the southern sea taking a flight,

Like wild ducks.

( Note: it is a transliteration of a poem called 'Shahar', by Jibanananda Das. The picture attached is of  the original bengali poem, written by J.Das, taken from his book of poems)

Old neighbourhood

The old neighbourhood,
Still has all those things,
I think,
Associated strongly
With our memory,
That lane
Through which
We ran our bicycles,
It is still there I presume,
And that long boundary wall
Of Mr. Robinson,
White one, running for yards,
Upon which we stuck posters
Of our favourite cricket players,
Kirmani, Kapil Dev, Shastri and Vengsarkar,
That wall has stayed there too I think,
And that beautiful road with palm trees
On both sides, running like a dream
To reach the end of sky behind those hedges and bushes,
That is still there, I guess,
And that watch tower
From where we could see miles of green cover,
That is still there, I guess,
With its iron staircase,
Spiralling up,

The old neighbourhood ,
It is there somewhere
I think.

Once thought to leave, a bunch of Emily,

Once thought to leave, a bunch
Of Emily,
Right at your veranda,
Like a float of cloud,
A misty shape,
Spread,
Right at your veranda.

With winged sunshine,

With winged sunshine,
You, love mine,
How in my heart pour
Your winged soar,
With kindness divine,
Untiring and endless
How You touch me
Both in birth and death,
With winged dreams
Ceaseless as it seems
How You make me see
Ambrosaic music of measureless seas,
And here I sit, quiet, and listless
Getting colored by Your Holy Embrace,
While waves of poetry drown me,
While morning dews own me,
Simply.

As the sparrows return,

As the sparrows return
Chirping their ways,
Carrying corns
For their little nestlings,
And as the sky
Kissing cow hoof dust
Turn gradually dark
From pinkish west,
I my tired legs put to rest
On the stool,
I prepare to get bathed in songs
That soothe,

And I hear you
Reciting a verse from Bukowski,
I hear you telling me drowsy,
Bacchanalian,
Like a confession,
'I only did to you
What sparrows did,'
I hear chirpings of poems
From your throat,
I hear you telling me
Verses of love.

On first thanksgiving at Plymouth,

With prayers on lips
There stood the priest,
Thanking the Lord,
For food, for harvest,
For wine so blessed,

There at Plymouth,
Faces with hunger also stayed,
People starving, skeleton like,
With hands into their mouth,

The First Thanksgiving at Plymouth.

(Note: the painting attached was by the historical painter, Jennie Augusta Brownscombe, titled The First Thanksgiving at Plymouth, 1914)

Sometimes the morn comes, with such beauty,

Sometimes
The morn sweet
Comes with such beauty,
That I just look up
To the sky,
Draped by mist,
And dreams I feel
Quite impressionistic
Leaving indelible marks on my soul,

With eyes full of thirst
I savour this life
And pray for more golden drops...
I just pray
For more songs.

A pen sketch,

A sketch of a winter afternoon,
A song,
A guitar,
Gibson,
Acoustic,
A river,
An old music.

If life is not poetry, then what is it?

If life is not poetry,
Then what is it?
Say?
What is the value of living time static,
If life does not move one to write a few lines,
Love, then what is the meaning of life?

If can I not open windows and doors
To let in the breeze and the glorious sunshine
Of a splendid November, so graceful,
Then what is the reason to claim life
As the Most Beautiful?

If life can I not make to be charged with most blessed intakes
Like the pictures painted by Blake in his 'Marriage', a poem,
Phrases kept where he like underlying content of heart,
Cleansing doors of perceptions to get closer to the Infinite,
What is the import of being a lively thing, then? An animate?

Say?

A page from an old scrapbook,

A page
From an old scrapbook,
She upon discovering,
To me took,
A simple page
That withstood time,
A simple page
With simple lines...
A little yellow tinge it had,
And smell of eucalyptus
I think I had that too,
From that page with yellow old hue,

I read those lines,
Vernacular,
Simple,
A few lines just,
Honest, candid,
Reminding me of my teens,
My boyhood,
And of a city,
Which had so many telephone lines
Overhead, crisscrossing the sky,
And trees with branches spread
In winter making art on the landscape,
By their shadows,
And pavements,
The page from the scrapbook reminded me of them too,
Upon which we had walked, hopped,
Even danced,
Quite unashamed,

I just looked at that old page
From a scrapbook,
And images came dancing to me,
Images so full of fun,
Images so so young,

'Hey!
Where have you found this?'
I asked her,
'You guess!'
Was her answer,

'Please don't quiz me on this!'
I pleaded, helpless,

But she,
Being she,
Never gave me the definite clue,
'Read it?'
She asked,
'Yes...but...'
I was unwilling to part
With the old page,
Of my teens,

'It is mine!'
She asserted,
And took it ,
Almost sweeping away,

I looked at her,
From my desk,
I just looked at her,
Going away.

Window

That window
Filtering in
The afternoon scene,
Talks so much about you,
You there sitting quiet,
Singing a song
Of love in winter,
And I looking at you
And simply thinking lines,

Your face getting lit by the afternoon gold,
And I writing on pages, songs and romance,
Dipped in you.

A scene from a park, one late evening,

'Tonight
Is the night,
I want to know you...'
She, looking a bit absentminded asked him,
'Why tonight?
What is special about this night?'
He asked her,
Feeling, no doubt, a bit down,
For he had kept nothing bound,
But she had those eyes,
So full of curiosity,
As curious only genuine care and love can cause,
As curious as a child,

'What are your queries, shoot,
Why like a silly girl, you brood,
When the night is so warm and up close,
Why, like a poet desolate, you appear so morose?'
He held her hands which were uncertain,
He tried to feel her unnecessary pains,

'Why are you so?
Why you every time by words bloom Rose
In my uncertain, suspicious heart?
Why you from me so often fall apart?'
She asked, her palms getting sweaty,

He looked at her face,
A girl so good, nonetheless,
Late evening written sad on her face,

'So, you are worried?
But why?
Don't you know where actually I do reside?
Where I wish to take a real plunge?
Where my favourite, my poems, often like golden times, emerge?
Don't you know how your eyebrows
Hold my ups and downs?'
He asked her back,
Afterall that was the way to show her the right path,
The beaten track,
To pull her out from clouded state,
To make her find her smile,
That could only egg him to walk a few more miles,
That could make him to weave stories and paint submarines,
That could make him to present for her a night warm and yet serene,

'Nothing,
Just sometimes,
I get worried by your shocking lines...'
She confessed, finally, looking really shy,

'Come'n!
You know...
You are looking what like?'
He asked,
His face full of suppressed laugh,

'What?'

She asked,
Naive her face,
Her eye brows twisted,

'Well,
Like a wine, fully spiked!'
Saying this,
He ran a few yards,
And she chased him.

Poetry and prose, a differential,

Consecrated my self to poetry,
Long before I learnt prose,
Enflamed my soul with poems,
Long before prosaic things made upon me claims,

And whence at the end
Of a day,
Like a poem evening happens,
I keep away a bit from prose,
For poetry has a burst in me,
For words in metrical arrangements I see,

However, prose I know is poetry's twin sister,
She is not, less imaginative,
Prose I find also rhythmic,
Prose I find like a never ending sea
Of words, so figurative and bright,
Prose I just keep in my writes
Where they are not momentous,
Where they are really vast,
Like a Pacific perhaps,
Words where play with words,
Words where marry images,
Words where carry metaphoric tune,

Prose is poetry's twin sister,
Who does not know that on this earth?
But when evening comes to life, to celebrate
Poetry's hand I just take.

The portrait of an artist, as a young woman,

Last month,
When she asked me
To pay a visit
To her studio thirteen,
I was not sure
What to expect,
For she usually does not make a call,
For her artworks keep her busy from morn to nightfall,

And God knows why,
She has a way of knowing my
Yes and no,
As if she has been residing in my mind and soul,
For years,

So
Last month,
When she asked me
To make a visit to her studio
Thirteen,
I was not amazed,
Not amused,
I thought she needed something,
And I would be her errand boy,

So,
I went
To her place,
Straight to her room,
Where canvases she kept, hanging, piled,
Abrupt sudden like
Her dreams burst,
Full of variety of colors,

Colors were on her face,
Colors were on her simple white dress,
Colors were there on her nails,
Colors hung loose from her cheeks and brows,

'What this time?'
I asked her,
Looking she a bit demurred,
'Well, thought of a project,
You might me into that help...'
Saying this she
Unraveled a canvas
Before me,
Full of abstract designs
Made out of lines,
Taken, I thought, from all those proses and poems
Which I had given her just for art's sake,

I stood there really amused,
Her paintbrushes how had made me her muse,
While my words all through
Searched her.

Debt and repayment,

'This one is for you'
Handing me
A bunch of roses,
She said,

'How can I this gift repay?'
I asked,
She looked at me,
Momentary
A glimpse,
But it was no less than eternity,

I murmured
A fragment of a poem,
As old as that Mahogany Tree,
Which grew in my garden,
A fragment of that poem, ancient,
I to her, recited,

Afterall, I had nothing to repay a debt,

So I read out those lines,
As ancient as that Mahogany Tree in my garden,

She heard those lines,
With attention, rapt,
The moment which deserved it, apt,
And causing wonderment
To me,
She replied:
'You made me an ivy vine,
Filled with blossoms,white,
Can I borrow those lines?'

I felt
An adornment
She had worn
For me,
To strike me
With her soulful beauty,
And debts
Of roses more
She had left for me.

My Princess is like a warrior,

My Princess
Is like a warrior,
Often I find Her in my dream,
My Princess
Stands on a cliff,
Her hair flowing down,
She the deity I find,
Leaving Her sword
On the mound,

My Princess
Stands there
Like a warrior
Of my dream,
Her face towards the Sun,
Her hair like a cascade down,
My Princess
Stands there alone,
Like a legend, a myth,
Like a deity,
A Goddess from a pagan folklore,
A warrior
True,
My Princess stands there
Drenched by the yellow and blue.

When morn breaks out,

When morn breaks out,
When buds with dreams of flowers sprout,
When the sun paints golden orange,
I just stand with hands like wings spread,
And,
I become a bird,
I become a song.

Had I been a Harry Houdini,

Had I been
A Harry Houdini,
I would have made a life
Filled with sunflowers and mustard fields,
And lilacs too,
Spread all over
This earth,
From one end to another,
wide like a vast field
for everyone to have a blessed view,
Had I been
A Harry Houdini,
I would have reshaped this world,
With my wand, only to make it
Beautiful.