When the air is so ripe
And berries when hung red
From those branches of our trees
Why not we go picking them
Tasting their goodness
So filled with the scent of the wild
Moist, juicy and sweet?
Do they not welcome us home
And tell us not our wanton pleasures
That we savoured for ages
In our hearts like the way
We fell in love ?
Have I ever told you
My granny had been a wonderful cook?
And how much we longed to go
Our vilage home where she had stayed
All the summers and rains and winters
Only to savour dishes she us served
And her lipsmacking delicacies;
When in the afternoon we got tired and hungry
Playing around, sweating and out of breath,
She would just give us a call
And we would run, scampering,
On brass plates came piping hot
Food made by her,
As we started gobbling hungry as we had been
She would sit beside us right on the floor
Sometimes fanning us if it were summer months,
I would try to sit near her
To get some extra helpings
A bit more than others,
A spoonful of pickle or a larger piece of fish,
She knew perhaps my hidden thoughts
And always remained so condescending,
Dropping a big dollop of tamarind sauce
As if by mistake on my plate,
And I would just smile at her
While she pressed her lips and winked at me,
Her kitchen was her place to pour
All her love and affection for us
Through her tireless works, her foods,
Her kitchen was her very own world
Filled with aroma of spices and dry fruits,
How many times we tried to steal
Cashew and nuts from containers there
And how many times were we caught
By her (for she would get the noise of utensils or jars moving in her kitchen
Even if she would be yards away),
Granny's kitchen was our place to be
At the evening too,
When we would gather there
To listen from her stories and tales
As she would spread a mat there
On the earthern floor for us to sit,
How many evenings had we spent there
Dozing off to sleep while listening to the adventures of the princes and kings,
She would then perhaps call our parents
To carry us off to bed,
And even while we were fast asleep
We would be dreaming of the kings and queens
And would be thinking that everything happened before us
Right there at the kitchen,
Sometimes in our sleep
We even got the smell of spices
And that unmistakable scent of granny-
Her betel leaves.
Come friend, lets go there once again
Where once we haply went
After a long unending summer-
That summer which us scorched and burnt
And brought the sultry heat right into our souls
Drying them, almost making us parched,
Out of that, remember mate?
How we went away like leaves
Blown away,torn away almost from all those things
That brought us down,
O how we flew
Carried like birds ,
Feathered things
Borne by the light
To that place
Where silence talked to us like our forgotten selves
Whispering us to remain awake all the day
Only to grasp the meaning of our journey
So made ;
Come friend, lets go there once again.
To that place where the river
Slows her speed to take rest
Once in morning's wintry light
There caught the misty sight
Few birds which caught the morning's hue
Woke up from their sleep with moist dew,
And feeling the light upon their wings
They perhaps for the beauty did sing
And the river as quiet as an enchanted lass
Held her breath for a while as she passed
With soft, slow and silent steps
Morning as her with charm so draped.
Let there be, Lord
That freedom from want
Which would make not
Discrimination betwixt us
Based on our color of skin
Or find divisions , in between
Us, negating all that uphold
Feelings that are human,
Let there be Lord
No strife, no curse,
No carnage , no bath of blood,
No death due to hunger and pain
And unmitigated love,
Let there be, Lord
Freedom from want
And nothing in between
Let there be
Only that joy pristine
Of thanksgiving.
(*Note: the painting attached is titled "freedom from want" , done by N.Rockwell, 1942, based upon a speech by U S President F.D.Roosevelt)
One November evening
It had been a November evening
When he arrived at the town
Only to meet her, one last time
Before leaving forever... She told him she would be there
Right at the Strand near that big
Colonial facade of that century and half old building
The distinct landmark of the town,
He there waited for her
To turn up
And she kept her words
The dame of his heart
Wearing a red skirt and black top
She there came,
The air had smell of rains
Somewhere it might have poured,
When she came near
He just looked at her face
Glistened as it appeared
By drops of water...
He felt the drizzle in his heart
Somewhere very deep inside
She gave her hands for him to hold
Her hair smelt so much of lavender
And her palms were soft like cotton
He muttered his undying love to her
She told him that would perhaps not stay once he would go away... Time and distance take away everything
That what she told him,
Many summers and winters and springs
Have gone by since then... Still that building colonial stands
And November comes with
Smell of lavender,
Still he can her see
In red skirt and black top
Looking at him,
Her face glistening
Drops of rain
Like little beads of pearls
Hanging from the end of her hair.
Let me wander through the mist
Of early winter months
When dew gather soft
At the fringe of leaves,
Like dreams of the night
Soothing and calm
Being awakened fresh by the morning's cool breeze,
Let me wander
And gather all the nascent things
And turn them into love of my soul
Only to make the world around us
More beautiful and pied
Let me pay my obeisance
To that kindred spirit
Which turns lives of us
So magnificent
Only by the grace of the eternal
The non transient form,
Let me be merged
With the silence of beauty .
(*Note: this poem is a tribute to a wondrous work of my friend, a poet and writer and publisher, Gopakumar Radhakrishnan)
Know not how but whenever she arrives
I can hear her from far,
Her silver anklets I hear
Ringing like a fascinating music,
Her smell can I get,
Sometimes jasmine, sometimes lavender,
Sandalwood too,
Know not how but whenever she comes
I can feel her arrival,
That night too,
Even before she came,
Thought I heard her footsteps,
Felt a sudden flow of breeze
Flowing into me, my heart,
Looked around,
The terrace was empty till then,
Barring me,
Under the enchanting sky
An enchanted self,
Then her did I see,
My object of so many words
Forming prose and poetry,
'So you came...after days so many...'
murmured I,
Looking at her eyes,
So curiously made
Like a pair of youthful vivacity,
Her eyebrows danced a bit,
Playful as she appeared,
'Thought of me? '
She asked,
'Yes...'
'How oft?'
She was definitely inquisitive,
'As oft as this life beckons me to
Look around me to feel your presence
In your absence...'
I said,
Without any pretensions,
She came closer,
Looked at me,
I found how the Starry Starry night
Wrote song of longing in her eyes,
Cloudless, clear, much like the night sky
That watched us over, like a witness.
Morning road, autumnal vines and that postcard from Provence
The morning had that sweetness of mellowed light
And breeze cool slowly flowing across the golden fields of ripened corns,
Much like that favoured postcard from Provence
It had all the colors of the wild
And shades interfusing lighted space,
The morning had memories of losing oneself to the beauty of life
As captured by the pristine country road,
Not faraway a loco perhaps chugged
Making whistle which only accentuated the lust of wandering in mortal souls,
Like a postcard from Provence
Blissful, serene , restive,
The morning how brought one
More close to colors, lores and free spirit of a day, blithe and Pure.
Still remember that day
Still remember that day,
When we stopped at the fringe
Of the city, descending from the car
You stood looking at the sky
Getting usually painted by the setting sun's glow,
An electric pole with crows hanging on wires
Only stood as an aberration to the otherwise beauteous composition of a sky as it appeared,
You were singing soft ,
If I may recollect,
A song of late seventies
Which narrated how pairs of lovers
Thronged in the city square
Braving odds of all kinds,
I , leaning against the bonnet of the car
Thought of taking a snapshot of your wonderous silhouette,
Your hair that you left unbound
Flew like a garment of silk,
How I again fell in love with you
Your songs, your silhouette,
Your silken hair smelling like lemon leaves,
O how again I fell in love with
The painted sky, the vast meadows,
And our youthful escapades!
Down the road
Down the road
Through the farm
At the end of summer
Happy and warm,
Would I go following you
Till the sky would catch
That festive bluish hue,
And till the birds would care to sing
Songs old wrapped in newer meanings,
Down the road
Through the farm
At the end of an autumn
Just before the beginning
Of a beautiful wintry setting,
Would I go following you
Till scenes would come to view
And till they would cause a rise in me
Words placed in rhyme, like a half forgotten tune ,
Like ringing shape of ancient Poetry.
Ode to the flutist
When the dusk descends soft
Lending the earth her superb inimitable grace,
How oft I think of you , Lord,
Your tune , your smiling face,
The homebound birds as to their nests fly
Chirping sweetly all the way,
How I think your flute I hear
Keeping me fully swayed,
When the dusk spreads the hue
Of orange and red so beautiful
How I think oft of you Lord,
As I get sublimated in the cool,
I think of you and praise Thee,
And your flute more I long to hear,
How then I find me merged
As my soul to Thee I with ease bare,
I think you and only you,
The one and the Potent one,
Your face how then mirrors the world
And with you how I get entwined.
O Lisa! How you have been
Always rendered as some one inspiring,
Grand , opulent and in dressing gown
How you have been made the belle of the town,
Stylish, in vogue , always on shine
Not a renaissance painting but a newer design,
Poised, witty , fingers folded
Just for this age , perfectly moulded,
O Lisa! How you have been made and remade,
With paints morphed, reshaped, relaid,
No other dame could with you vie,
O Lisa! How looking at you , youths still heave sighs,
How you still not fail to ignite dreams
Of painters, artists, poets, it seems,
How they all still love to work on you,
You eyes, cheek, lips and your worldly view,
How still every day people try to explore
Your mystery, Myth and Beauty more,
As I once again look at you
I know by heart all these paintings few
Can only make you all the more enchanting,
Cause you've transcended the form of a mere painting.
How many times , love,
How many times, love,
Have I found the sombre feel
Of Himalayan range,
Upon you so beautifully sketched,
How many times, love,
Found I the fragrant blooms
In your garden shining
In early rain drenched morns,
How many times, love,
I lost my senses all
In thy Beauty so Divine,
In winters, summers and the Fall,
How many times, love,
Have I tried to adore you,
In paints, poems and lyrics,
In molten wax and honey dews.
People who came to the beach town
Had always searched that man with hair brown,
Martin as he was known to all
Had always listeners around him, big and small,
He would sit on a canvas chair
And strum a song in his guitar,
The songs sung were always full of tales,
Of yesterdays and also of modern Fables,
Of princes and kings and sailors,
Of politicians and men with valour,
He sang them fluid like a gust a wind
He sang them gaily only to bind
People around him who came from near and far,
He would sit just on a canvas chair
And shake his mane like brown brown hair,
Many years after had Martin gone
To another land perhaps in search of a song,
They put a chair of canvas on the beach right
To make him unforgettable , for days and nights,
And they had placed a guitar there too,
In name of Martin and his songs so true.
At the hut by the River,
At the hut by the River
Spent hours of lustful days
Till the dusk came sweeping cool
Amidst the songs of gnats,
Twas such a plentiful life
To get soaked into the pervading Bliss
Of nature's profound stillness
And it's soft soothing kiss;
At the hut by the River
Spent childhood and also youth
Watching oft how seasons came
Like moments of Love, Beauty and Truth,
Found there all that had been said
Years before my birth,
Found there what it meant to be
To get aligned with the Eternal Mirth,
That Mirth which people sought
The Myth which got ancient leaning,
That Joy which the Lord had planted
Into forms with inherent meanings,
Beauty is what the truth is
And so is what the Eternal one,
At that hut by the River's side
Got floated in waters like a white swan,
And poems came like ripples soft
Right onto my breast,
And words came like murmuring of
A cool flowing silvery cascade.
Autumn in the forest
Simply treading through
The greenish hue
Of autumn brought so many memories,
Of finding a glimpse of a stupa
Seen through the gaps of trees,
And hearing the gong of bells
Cutting through the mild mist,
All of them came , like a beautiful dream,
Sunlight falling through leaves,
Slight murmur of sweet breeze,
All had Autumn in them,
Distinct, known , felt afresh,
Simply walking through the thick foliage,
Oft how takes one back to days,
When fragrance of blossoms
Covered one's senses.
Every day , specially at dusk
She would come there, unasked,
Only to look at the wide spectacle
Of green slopes of hills as upon them fell
The rays of setting sun , making them wonderous
Every day, there she would come, to spend few hours,
Looking at those trees and listening to murmur
Perhaps of the flowing restless river,
She would with her senses devour
The beauty of hills and overwhelming Nature
And then when the sun would go hiding behind those hills
She would stand there still
And hear the songs of crickets too,
She would catch the evening's hue,
And after that when the night fell
And the moon would cast its silvery spell
She would let the beams come and caress her
Her face, her dreamy eyes, her limbs , her hair,
The window served as her companion true
As she would come there to have a view
Of the world around her, and also the world within
The window gave her always the perfect setting.
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...
