Visage of a twilight

Floating across the horizon
The visage of the twilight
Brought silhouettes ephemeral,
Wrought in hues emblematic,
As far as the eyes could behold
There was an expanse of a country
Getting slowly merged with the mist,
Apparently blurry the sight had the evocation
Of an evening unmistakably benign,
Adding to the tenderness of the air,
There was a descent of silence
Befitting gothic semblance.

Pictorial...

Just like a scene bound by frame
The tramline crisscossing the lane
Had gone away till it had bent
Near the single file seemingly of an apartment,

People of the town could be discovered
In shawls, sweatshirts, pullovers,
Some were walking to the bazaar,
Some had the resting indolence,

The roadside benches had their fill
Old age had come there to kill
All the time that had been left spare,
With wrinkled faces and webbed brows,

A row of trees dotting the pavement
Company to the electric posts lent,
Just where a tibetan shop newly opened
Had queue of connoisseurs for exotic items,

The park nearby seemed like a fair,
Panipuri stalls having business brisk,
And candyfloss were held by little hands
Like cotton balls at the end of sticks,

Just like a picture, bound by frame...

At the day's end...

'Corns brought home for poppin'
And the cold outside is just not stoppin'
Ain't it good to be at home this night?'
The father asked his kid, smiling still alright,

The kid had just from a sweet short nap awakened,
His smile had lit the night that broadened,
'But the cold is what made us cozy here,
Can't you get the mild wintry flow in the air?'

The kid made a revert, his eyes full of innocence fair,
'Yes,' the father put his hands on the little one's head,
And then he put the bridge's pin on the disc's lead,
To make an unwinding return for both of them,

To find a meaning at the day's end
Much like a prayer they a song gained.

Night train

Like a long sentence slipping off sluggish
The train whistled through the mist,
And smell of coca piping warmth
Came and sat on lips,

The window glass had gathered
Dewy existence lucid,
And songs and verses
Played through ribs,

The swinging motion
Had caught a rhythm
By then, the rattling
Sound made a poem,

And the world it seemed
Had gone to sleep.

Till then,

Soon there would be fabulous
nip in the air and mist would soon
Envelope empty spaces betwixt us,
Till then come we commemorate
The Fall with our songs and masquerades.

a spell of rain and twilight

after a spell of rain
twilight came,

surfeiting so
that a poem
thought I
made a surge,

across the indefinite
October sky,

knowing the moment
would soon away fly,

dipped the self and the eye
into the grandeur of life,

it was no doubt a deliberate act
to getaway from all oft beaten tracks,

it was no doubt a formidable task
to catch the colors of a sobered dusk,

the same colors that had made several
to sing with ease for the long lost grail,

the same feeling that had made one too many
to find in prosaic things forgotten epiphanies,

after a spell of rain
the twilight came
surfeiting so.

Who can more blessed be?

Who can more blessed be than us, mate?
The morn hath broken free in us, of late,
Through the mist of the city that sleeps embowered
Into timeless elegance of Love that took over
Us all the time, this season of wonderous spectacle,
Who can more blessed be than us, tell?
We can rise to the morrow of our own wanderings
We can with throatful ease cause the spring's second coming,
We can sing as sings the nightingale within us,
We can hold the fabulous time and let it not pass,
Who can more blessed be than us?
Whence we can pour inkful hearts by music thus?

Colloque

Can't give away anything
Other than those simple colloquial things,

A tranquil presence of unstirred hope,
A garden green, a mountain slope,
A bunch of nameless wild flowers,
A flight of birds through lighted showers,
A stream murmuring its way through a forest
A spectacle serene by calm of heart blessed,

Can't give away anything
Other than those simple colloquial things.

On leaves and dews

To that hues of leaves
Take me once,
Just for once
Let me there ruminate
For every leaf I wish to see
Turned flowery,
For on every leaf
I wish to see
Drops of dew
Emerald.

Sing the song of mirth*

Sing the song of mirth, heart
For the autumn has brought home the guest;
The silent words of sky azure
The dewy longing which lures
Today in strings thine sing so pure;

Come take part in songs
Of fields filled with corns,
Be afloat in the rivery flow
Of tuneful water so;

Take a look at autumn's face
And let that keep you blessed
And then keeping the door open
Go out and life embrace.

(* transliteration of song number 38, Gitanjali,)

Come away to the wish of Aedh

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 )

Sillary

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 that pilgrim soul

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.

By Catullus

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.

revasseries, autumnal

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,

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

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.

The song of the world *

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)
                  

upon grains of sand

'con amore...'
nimble fingers wrote
on white sands,
knowing the ocean would upon them land
and take'em away
in the name of transience.

Such a humbling morn

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.