Saturday, January 25, 2020

After Harlem



What is that grim night
in the grip of darkness;
desire  and   feet of  crave
move about in search of
something strange, cringing like.

Streets are busy, streets are illumined,
streets are  throbbing with energy.
 these girls in the dead of night
spring like ping pong ball, all through
the night,  irrespective of snow
on their feet  and head, raising like
 wild fever;

Rags  and  hand to mouth life,
pinching belly and parched headache
 thirsty tongues and   yielding
desires propelling to corners;
always   Harlem and dissatisfaction
of  fallen  race,  mixed with haste
and hunger,  yet  feel of  helplessness. 







Sunday, January 19, 2020

Myself ( after Guardian)



  Myself  ( after  Guardian)


Life is governed by laws, rudimentary rules,
how to live, what to abrogate, but we mostly
flout  so much only for belated realization;

home is the watchword, catchword,
rushing home after day’s ordeal
your conscience, your avowed commitment.

Some for sex, some for serenity, some
for both in equal proportions, you know
they follow balance is the word;

sometimes, pressure is  the tool for those
who fall a  prey, ignorant of consequences,
for some, it is in the skin, blood, to pressurize;

I am not in the game anyhow,
I  am monopolized for something new
Something novel and strange and unique;

All happening in their dream.



Wednesday, January 15, 2020

Ticking off the calendar



Ticking off  the calendar

With the advent of New year
a new born elm, a smile always
welcoming all in the household,

looking at the corners of every page
a calendar in each room, a visage
of Messiah,holding  numbers in wand;

some dates crossed for bringing tears
some dates marked  highlighting events
happening and harkening, soft touch

is  the heal. A new  face, new  laminated bulk
new  beckoning, yet effacing old memories
impossible; a straight horse  jumping into field

crossing all barriers, thistled  hoofs, high jumps
over  bush, speeding fast to an unknown
destination; fog clogging nose  and pathway;

wind across  window pane, calendars
fritter and  face ordeal of hands and push.
They  have   a special place on the wall.








Friday, January 10, 2020

My home, my own lock



My home, my own lock

 A house is a must for all,
To stay and be sheltered
with comforts and corners
each in an ambiance of cool;

From simple earning to this state,
Where  cobwebs and lizards
In safe mode, from corner to corner
Move about, like scenes in a movie camera.

All are welcome to this abode
Of self constructed and self designed,i
Where freedom and  choice of individual
Care rule in all quarters, pets and cats

Mew and move about, wagging,
Drinking from the plates  in  demure.

A house in alien land
where earthquake and war
I have seen often as common
as  smiles in dreams.

Still mahogany table  of carved edges,
And upholstery  of ancient realm
 Stayed for long, now  memory
Fading slow  and  I am stuck in my own,

Nothing can lock , nothing can prevail,
For my home, is my adoration and devotion.


Tuesday, January 07, 2020

peace ---


Peace

You cannot run like an avid sportsman   kicking   ball
from foot to pillar wiping your flowing sweat fondly
touching your shirt-wet with your skin hot hot.

Running after Peace, in marketplace of wear and tear,
amidst jostling crowd, do you see or  grab it?
Is it a sari decked on the super model

or  is it   spicy  birthday cake to be displayed
on  a Tanjore   plate of ancient carve of exquisite     
tradition criss cross overwhelming all our eyes of taste?

At the end of the day, go home searching
In the eyes of cute kids welcoming with smile
Cherubic and serene, sipping juice in tasty buds ooze;

Peace!  Can it be bought like a peanut  butter
for a momentary gulping with a coke or sprite:
spreading like a  banana jam on  whole wheat bread;

or brushing aside hundred lies for  one momentary survival
in fast moving like concord taking our breaths away.
Wheeling and wheeling leading us nowhere.

Peace! Peace! Under the bodhi tree in the past,
Now in closed corner, away from din and bustle.


Love towards have-nots - (human values)


Walking on the footpath

Walking on footpath, goggles on your eyes,
 your   decorated   eyeliner and sophistication
with foreign umbrella tilting   and exotic perfume
all around you, colorful handbag gentle 
on hand tucking away your silk  sari away lest
it should reach the beggar   with a touch
 of itch , you careful on the path, but least
caring for his dented vessel  for alms, to suffice
his hunger and day and night with his kids
in tattered rags dependent on him ;

you throw away  a  coin-   not out
of your urge for   fellow feeling or
concern for his precarious situation,
but your eight-year-old should not
chide you for ignoring and callousness.
The sensible bends down to remove the
half hearted coin; instead gently puts
below ten rupees note in his hands.
A  mockery for his  father and like minded.
A life bereft of gentle and understanding no use.



Saturday, December 28, 2019

Not for that city of Silence ( after Guardian


Not for  that  city of  Silence ( after  Guardian)

No, not for  that of orb of white,
without which globe will be dark upright,
 still, we are not in favor of that city,
 full of golden gates  and rays sharp
piercing to the dazzle  of our eyes,
eternity of heat swelling in summer
much to the chagrin of our delve,
soon wearied we become detriment
to our wholesome body and mood.
Yet, in winter dark and devouring,
When shiver  runs through, like
A tremor, when jerkins and fur coat
become hot commodities, this white
City missing for a while, taps your memory.

The  hot orb, we shun when dazzling,
its mild orange rays while descending
other side of hill eluding our grip
and visibility,till its wakes us in
respectable Dawn,all  Mantras
chanting veering round all,
we  clamoring for that Silence
celestial governing principle
of the Universe too.



Saturday, December 21, 2019

After Guardian’s The Corn-Stalk Fiddle



After Guardian’s    The Corn-Stalk Fiddle

The boon of a farmer is the day
of harvest when  his field is all
bloom and glow with shiny corn
enriching his  looks and mindset as well.
It is not like “burnished spears … of gold”
It is – mine of  gold coins all cut and set
For field mice  to ply and play unchecked.  

Your eyes catch corn stalks
That lie all around with yearning
Passion and care for you to pour;
 How many melody and songs
from the strings  and bow of the
fiddle of stalks lengthy after chisel !
it is  like collaborative birds in the
morn of greenery  clothed in sunny wisdom;

bow and fiddle from the same stalk
the proud owner is  happy  and ready
to improvise notes from his dainty tune.
It is slow  and low  for many wonder
wherefrom the sweet secret melody flows’

Then comes the dance of girls adorned -
Simple ornaments  dipped in beads
Of  bells    woven by grandma’s call
Preserved in chest of  oaken drawers.

My dream is well knit sleep-
Images of  colorful costumes
Shining  on corn stalk fiddle.