Come away
To the wish of Aedh*
Where the breeze of autumn
Would cares of the world
Like leaves drop and sway,
Come away
To the wish of the reeds
Where words take away
All the ills of the world
Like music of a day,
Come away.
(*a mythical persona, commonly associated with Irish poetry )
Left there a piece of me
Near somewhere Sillary,
Where the green slope of hill
Met a flowering valley,
Left there a piece of me
Near somewhere Sillary,
Where the trail disappeared
Into the woods foggy.
For the pilgrim soul
Once took a travel
To that road trodden
By men taking the flint
Of a burn,
The road was winding,
Long and to glowing heart it turned,
The visage of mossy trees
And smell of rhododendron
Filled the misty breeze
And the stave helped the climb,
The dustless air and the oxygen
I took within through the veins,
And the faint sound of copper bells
Remained suspended onto the soul,
Much like a verse auspicious,
It perhaps was a freed state
Filled with a vigour to get near
The cliff where rested in the most tranquil shape
Godly sense of a merger with the benign Self,
And what strange occupancy
Took hold
Could never in any words written or told
Only a glimpse of finding presence
Of serenity overwhelming
Took refuge in me.
Could not go to Libyan sands,
In search of time's hands,
But in nightly dews
I find you, Catullus,
In countless stars,too,
Sacred as they are,
Twinkling from far,
several light years,
And in ancient words,
Which tend to crawl, inwards.
Thou art such a wonder
that thou can claim
all by thy name,
and I continue
to gather dews on palms,
mist on eyelids,
fleecy clouds on heart,
and kites soaring in mind,
and they all tell me
thou art here, deified.
be not at rest, heart
for there is more
that you can possibly unearth,
there is more
always like everytime
and staggering lines
are more there in you,
be not at rest, heart
for there is more
than you can mend,
there is more
always like everytime
and pentup lines
are more there in you,
be not at rest, heart
for there is more
till the road to horizon bends.
remembering Nanceylla
is like going to that place
where the morn sings peaceful chants
and the breeze tolls the bells,
and I remember catching the girl
standing on the staircase looking at me,
"Going out?" she would ask
Her eyes filled with curiosity,
"yes" I would have nodded,
And she would just yell
"I want to go out too!"
remembering Nanceylla
is like walking up a slope,
and the morning mist and fog
draping the hills, and life taking a sprint,
"yepee!" She would burst, exclaiming
finding a cone of pine amongst
fallen twines and twigs,
a wood nut tree dressed in algae and a sudden sighting of a monastery,
and smell of incensed leaves,
remembering Nanceylla
is like living another life,
free from cares and meeting
the children of a paradise.
Across the world in tune generous
Song of mirth soars
When will that song in
Depth of heart ring ,
Only the Lord knows,
The air, water, sky and the light
When will love them the best,
They will take seat on heart allright,
Wearing varied colored dress;
When will open eyes
To fill the mind glad
Will take path thine,
Leaving none sad,
That You art there
When in life that will sing,
Thy name will in every work
Only happiness bring.
(* a transliteration of song number fifteen, Gitanjali, by me, a tribute to R.Tagore)
'con amore...'
nimble fingers wrote
on white sands,
knowing the ocean would upon them land
and take'em away
in the name of transience.
And there are some morns,
So humbling,
That one has nothing to say,
Only wordless one stays ,
And watches how
Grace hath blessed
The awakening,
And one just prays.
That painting of an autumn morn
Where we were blown away borne
By the breeze of a day, I think we outdid,
You meditated upon the swirling waves
And I looked quiet sun grazing a street,
You told upon the season, by your truth,
I humbled by the silent song colored
All our times with ballads of country love,
You opened your palm to catch the nascent dreams
I enveloped my heart into the folds of clouds
And together we made the day panoramic,
That painting of an autumn morn
Where we were blown away borne
By the breeze of a day, I think we outdid.
The breeze of the morn
When swept through me,
I opened my sleepy eyes
And the rustling leaves I heard
And the sky I met only to see
How the Lord hath never failed
With us and our eternity.
I still miss that station stop,
The station where I had perhaps dropped
A few peals of laughter strong
And crystal watery forms,
That reddened streak on the clouds
Visible ,so heartwarming a thing,
Right from the platform vacated by the train
Puffing away, I still that miss, an enchanting scene,
And many more, countless moments, unworded,
Never to be put into any series of numerical expressions,
Nor into any language profaned by running of alphabets,
I miss them in blood, in veins,
I miss that station stop
Where I had perhaps dropped
My holdall on the dust of a few hundred years,
And sat quiet only to gather on heart the crimson light.
'Never losing thou'
Was the thought that i took
As a vow,
But it is a grinding time,
My words have taken the plough
And they do nothing to me,
They keep silent shape,
They are stilled,
'Where are they?
Those little children
Who with supreme innocence
Spent the day
Playing under the sky
With no cares of life?
Where are they?
Had they gone away
To another land?
Had they forgotten their jovial selves?'
Asked myself,
And answers i thought i had,
Long before the time arrived,
And then i did not look far,
I looked at the greenery around,
The godly presence of our ancestors,
Their works, their harvest,
And i at once put things at rest,
The unsettling thoughts,
I took plunge
Into silence,
For there resides
Thy providence.
Hope springs eternal
And so does everything
That's why we are here
To ring in us a meaning,
Otherwise it would've been
A blasted heath, a wasted course,
Hope springs eternal
And that is life's sole discourse.
We will forever sailors be
Till in us we will find the sea,
And the voyages will be our ways
From the sleepy nights to the wakeful days,
Storms will call us to rise
Gales will buttress our lives,
And we will forever sailors be
Till in us we will find the sea.
In absentia, by those molecules of water in the air
I think I get the smell of thy spatial frame,
The way you cross all borders, corridors, lanes,
The way you travel through all lands and seas,
The way you move, trespassing the fences ,
And those lands which had supernatural corns,
In absentia, I think I own thy presence.
(Based on 'simanta' , a bengali poem by Sankha Ghosh)
Stood he infront of the facade
Yellow was it with a pinch of green and red,
Got the old view of some trees,
They are there still after so many years,
And
Ah!
the sweeping breeze,
And
Ah!
the sweeping breeze...
Have a walkaway
To the rains, the cloud, the mist,
For the world is there as it is
The way it was formed, unperished,
Have a walkaway
To the saintly hills and salty seas,
For the world is out there as it is,
The way it was formed, unblemished,
Have a walkaway
To the sunshine glittering on leaves,
For the world is out there as it is,
The way it was made, like a bliss,
I remember distinct
The road to Pedong,
It had slopes of green
On one side and little huts
On the other, with glass windows
And flowerpots,
A basketball court,
A slanted ground,
A sculpted figure,
A fenced yard,
Olive four by fours
Motionless, part of the scape,
And then a bazaar
With smell of spices
And incense,
And little trinkets
Hanging loose in the air,
Copper armlets, ethnic wear,
A bend where stood a tree
Nameless with blossoms,
A manifestation of tranquil pleasure,
And soothing solitude
Unscrolled all over the dome of sky,
A visible top
Of a stupa glistening quiet,
I remember distinct
The road to Pedong.
At least they have given her The State Funeral With tongue cut, She could not have spoken for The rare award, The police have done the th...
