What had made Brahm to compose
Such a tune, with such poise?
What comforting idea made him
To put music into such a rhythm?
What inexpressible thought
Had he tried to fathom?
What soothing calm, what solace
What intervention of musical grace
What pursuit? What search?
Into what restive state did he submerge?
If had i been gifted one millionth part
Of the idea that he had unearthed
I would have made one for you
And for all to have a better view
Of life and the world too.
Long long ago
There lived a shepherd
Just at the foot
Of the hill,
He had no worries
Or cares,
All he knew
That he would have to
Wake up and take
The sheep for grazing,
And his life had no other meaning,
He would do what every shepherd should,
And at the end of the day
When the shadow of the hills
Would be dancing down the slope,
He would return to his humble cottage,
There he would tend the flock,
And after having a meagre meal,
He would sit at the cottage door,
And watch the night sky,
Full of twinkling stars,
He would count them,
One, two, three, four, five, six...
Till sleep would come all over him,
The nimble soothing air
He would take to sleep,
Only to wake up the next day...
He had no aspirations,
All he believed was in living in peace,
And the square meal he had,
He thanked the lord for that,
Sometimes, early in the morn
When he would go out
He would watch the trees,
They looked sleepy and quiet,
The quietitude would then
Seep into him,
He would feel
That he had got merged
With the silence of the place,
Everything he felt
He got within him,
The distant murmur of the stream,
The calls of unknown birds and animals,
All he thought he got
As a part of his existence,
Thus living,
The shepherd boy
Almost became a part
Of the setting,
So much so
That he oneday realised
He had no wish other than living.
Have you heard of Tublu?
That boy curious,
Who would every afternoon
Come to my room
And if he would find me
With pens and pencils a bit busy,
He would say nothing,
But crane his neck to see
What I would be doing,
At occasions, he would stop
And on my works he would drop,
His comments, engaging,
'What do you mean when you say
Storms have taken buds away?'
I would just smile at him,
And indulge in his remarks knowing
Tublu only can make me feel
How wonderous is the world still,
If seen through his eyes,
Sometimes Tublu would ask me
Impossible queries,
'Who has created this world?
'Why are we here?'
I would think hard to find
Answers that could fit into his mind,
'God has created us,
And we are here
Because of Him'
'Who is this God?
Can I meet him?'
Tublu would ask,
'Sure, if you remain what you are,
Innocent and pure,'
I would tell him,
He would think for a while
And then suddenly runaway to bring
His box of toys, broken things,
A cart, a wheelbarrow, a telescope,
A drummer, a plastic soldier, a case of soap,
And I being guided by
Tublu, would play,
Till the afternoon would turn
Into evening
And the streetlights outside
Would glow,
Tublu would then
Wrap his things up
And before he would go,
He would flash his smile,
And tell me, he would again come,
The next day,
Keeping me
Waiting.
'Of some deaths,
If death I embrace,
Let that be,
Like the death
Of Icarus'-
Once read
In a man's chapbook,
Littered among many things,
From then on,
I took off,
The wings of poesy,
I passed on
To the next one,
And only prose
I chose.
Where all those songs gone?
Songs simple and without sarcasm,
Songs that can fill life with life
Instead of breaking things with strife,
Songs that can make one happy,
Songs that inspire, vibrant and sappy,
Full of colors, not grey and post modern
But those which can lead one
To believe there are still roads ahead
To traverse, without dread,
Where all those songs gone?
Songs of breaking morn?
Songs full of love and care,
Songs without hatred and fear?
Songs that can hold the world
And stop it from falling apart?
Where all those songs gone?
'It would be said so
For hundred days the land was not mowed'
Said the panch to the gathering
Who asked what could be done
To find grains in grains again,
'It would be a tough ask'
The panch replied,
'For it would be said so
For hundred days
The land was not mowed,'
'Call the farmer to the ground
He must be held and bound
For hundred days he did nothing
Only slept and did not till,'
What a waste, what a waste
Would be the cry from east to west,
He had left it high and dry
He had failed to properly comply
With the dictats that would've required
Courage more and something sagacious
And theories of everything rightly fitting there,
The farmer wished he could answer them all
With answers really long and really tall,
But how could he really tell
How hundred days he felt like being chopped and felled,
And it would be said so
For years to come and years to go,
For hundred days the land was not mowed.
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.
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...
'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.
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.
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.
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 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?
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.
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, 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*
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.
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...
