Poem of the week: Weep you no more, sad fountains by John DowlandAdoration of a gift of sleep

 

Poem of the week: Weep you no more, sad fountains by John Dowland

Adoration of a gift of sleep

************

How much her heart 

can withstand   painful flow

of fountains sad and blue

falling almost throughout 

despite her console sleep;

these sad fountains distract

her busy days schedule 

necessity for her daily bread

and share and care for fold 

 affection, loyalty bounteous rule. 

Mountains and fountains 

Rule and flow, yet care 

for me a little, for it sounds

what can they do to my mind

and soul perturbed of late strong;

yes beyond redemption,

though sleep hugs me

unsteady and bold, yet relieving

me at the call of those blow

 catching my weak pulse.

Now she sleeps, warm 

in hug of comfort and console,

yet she knows not where

her sails are set, how and when,

yet gently in sleep’s duvet.

Me  and  her sail

In the same boat.

 

A heap all around Radhamani sarma

 A heap all around

************

Broccoli’s sponge in summer,

will never be same with murmur,

 amidst all hands and touches, 

uncouth and hurried stitches;

visit in garden a pleasure sane,

no longer same midst rules bane,

when Nature wears   mask crude

in isolation and rapid waste accrued.

Your heart rudimentary loss,

Sees like seer envisions dross,

How long is question cross

Sounds now and often digress

for those life is a gambling,

catch and live and lure rambling,

you are struck in passivity,

in earnest full of objectivity.

Leaping high to catch yard of sun,

Your dream never knows it is fun,

Yet a mound of heap all around,

Propels non stop despite some home bound.

‘A Memory not desirable, yet trampling my senses’ After Guardian Radhamani sarma

 

‘A Memory not desirable, yet trampling my senses’

After Guardian

She ponders in wake of dawn

A painful pondering 

Her desire wrapped in a moment’s move,

But some Divine coil a preventive,

Protective encircles her being,

Sudden negation of all that goes round;

A swimmer in past, a lake of her choice,

Slow motion, slow move, not deep currents,

A steady dive safely coming out,

Merging into a calm, serene introspection,

No more lake, nor any swim,  

 

Dreams and more stories within.

The brute in her is dead already,

Waking her up into realms  sobering.

In a garb not your own

 In a  garb not your own

Days behind the bars,

 a caged bird with wings cross,  

not guilt in you bugging stride

for culprit outside loitering with pride;

for how long   and why so long,

every moment in you queries prolong,

family of stones and visiting birds,

outside world is full of noisy rides.

No proper definition for  Karma,

No acute definition for Dharma,

Only in  a mood to blame Brahma,

Unending garb worn for this Dharma.

Thronged by many going and coming

Their own attributes, reasons   of seeing,

 The Earth still rotates still on its axis,

 A witness to all these trauma of crisis.

Me counting my days of release,

for this vehicle of run and stop with grease,

not sufficient to propel further

for a journey replete with  heather.

Look up!  for Almighty is up,

and watching you down  with grip,

will never forsake us the honest,

dictum sure for ever  and near   earnest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A story still on its page… rADHAMANI SARMA

 

Poem of the week: Composition by Howard Altmann

 A story  still on its page…

 Now I am in bewildered state,

 A condition where from no console

nor reprieve for the moment 

of torment inward is beyond expression.

My life, my story, my sad tale

 No warp and weft at the moment

 except like that of my own and

 scribble and move in haste

drawing something sober 

beyond rectification.

Tides   and waves blow

Brimming with questions

unanswered and clueless,

akin to that of a poem,

or story or event, happening,

I did not take cognizance;

Yet withal, searching 

for happy ending, 

no villain, no morsel

to spoil  show in flow.

Let me gather the leaves

Not parched, but green 

and fresh to go into 

pages of story with smooth sail.

Women’s Day

 Women’s Day

Pumping water in taps,

streets and amidst queue,

 early stage of pregnancy no excuse,

rushing back home 

water titling at hips;

women’s Day glow at her heels!

women, dutiful mother,

caring housewife, home loving

in all onerous situation,

home work of her ward

lest he or she should bear cudgels;

Women’s Day at her heels!

 

After all she is a daughter in law,

Supposed to bear the brunt,

for decades for all pittance

Of property and claims

she owns by rightful law;

Women’s day at her heels!

A nonagenarian 

Mother-in-law recollects

her days then and now:

herself a flicker of lamp

with blinking eyes;

 Women’s Day its own rhythm.

woods my lovely companion A dark wood Radhamani sarma

 poem of the week: Woods, and Us by Alison Brackenbury

A dark wood my day companion.

Lovely wood where echoes and green

nourish your spirits doomed,

My wood, my spirit and companion.

Thrush and cuckoo visit my being.

Songs and air and rhythmic wind

blow salutary adding wood’s charm

My wood, my spirit and companion.

Dangling in the wood, in air

Growth like a fine background

Where  mud and stagnation 

don’t hamper the salutary grew.

All pieces of wooden furniture

Where children and grown

 Chat and play in tune

With a mellifluous spirit of own.

My wood, my spirit  and companion

can never be forgotten.