Saturday, January 16, 2021

After Guardian’s Poem of the week: Under the Light, yet under by Emily Dickinson

 

 

 After  Guardian’s  Poem of the week: Under the Light, yet under by Emily Dickinson

 

Under  the light, under  rumination

and  calm through journey amidst stress,

under  green and tall growth of wood

where birds sing and serenade, all under

 

the surveillance of Supreme  and One only,

clover and beans and banana for feast,

 day passes  and night shifts into focus

of another day of prosperity, and puzzle

 

of where is end  and where does all chaos go;

measuring distance is not always the matter

how fast and  how agile  and smart the wonder

in the workshop of brain all the while to go;

 

Between introspection and stumble

 Riddle  and clear qualm  dominating

Dead  and life  always go beyond

Our calculations and   master minds.

 

Wednesday, January 13, 2021

Traffic on road:

 

 

Traffic on road:

 

Speeding vehicles, two wheelers

and bikes some with horns rule-bound,

mostly siren less, as if capturing some fort,

taking some to remote village of rickshaws

 

pulled by hard workers, carrying some

heart hardened by money and calculation

with scant respect for human  fellow feelings

and bargaining not knowing  labor of legs ;

 

cars  and share  autos plying slow

giving and waiting for passengers,

mutual give and take in policy and practice.

 Elsewhere mechanical life  plundering peace .

 

In the middle of narrow road, zig zag

and meandering, bent downward cow,

unmindful of anger and gesture hurled

still eating a piece of paper,  who knows

 

some unpublished poem or published

now torn into pieces, by housewives,

why cattle and cow should know your

creativity when belly pinches hard;

 

life’s fulcrum on the move, move,

city’s risk and rig morale, a challenge

to face despite motors and mindless

on the heels when you still wait.

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday, January 09, 2021

After Guardian’s Sibelius by John Greening

  After  Guardian’s   Sibelius by John Greening



A beginning, a new beginning

 with the advent  of  January,

circling above my roof, my head

wan with care, a crane, brooding


in its world hitting new and novel;

a reminder to my family, what year it was;

perhaps a nullification of all that is evil

a mystery terrific  veering round me ;


Behind me a strange with look of prediction

may be  ghost or embodiment of Time,

Running on its own,  beyond  our daring ventures

Time still is clairvoyant, you cannot chain it ;

 

For a sufferer, balanced, past and present

Tapping on equal terms at all tides

Silence  stands knocking impartial

Only message endure till the best of times!


After Guardian’s Sibelius by John Greening

 


After Guardian’s Sibelius by John Greening

Saturday, January 02, 2021

MY terroir, my companion

 

 

MY terroir, my  companion

 

 

My terroir, my companion, your well observant eyes,

wagging tail, running atter me, when man fails,

you seem to be more  dependable and loyal,

with cutely curled brown ears,  each day passes

with your friendly wag, sip of milk from plates;

the best  comrade for man in  times of distress

and desolate mood beyond articulation.

In desolate  winter, shrinking like foliage

In corner, snooze till a pat comes to you;

Whether by a stone or a  mound, your wary

Looks when cautious , a curiosity and check;

All the  passersby  mutually nodding and go,

A philosopher hiding behind the skin.

 

 

 

 

Saturday, December 26, 2020

A poem after “Towards the End of the Feast” ( guardian

 

 

    


 

  

   

   

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 


  

 

 


 

 

 A poem after  “Towards the End of the Feast” ( guardian

 

   That one star, his nativity, his advent

   with  bright light  to redeem humanity,

    cakes  and candles and puddings

   full on plates, a feast for visitors

    best way to show aunt’s house

  replete with content and happiness.

 

 Cups full of  full of creams enhanced

By endearing smile, with a lesson

Of endurance in times of dire necessity,

 Grandma touches children, grandchildren

 Extended palm of  blessings  and grace

Nothing can gainsay her move of  patience.

 

More  and more in letting things

in munificence and multiple offering

to needy and caring,  all the floors

and corners of hall with designs

spoiling scattered bits of edibles.

This one day of pride  and Blessing

 

Echoes of lullaby for  newborn

A celebration of  Nativity not

In one place, but hospitals and wards

Booming with cries of innocence.

Come Christmas bells, peeling

Out ignorance  and chaos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday, December 19, 2020

A day in the moving train

 


Sitting in the cosy, comfortable seat of the train,

Silent observation takes me back to years and past;,

I recall a  lady , jovial and   all the time in endearing talk,

with a peculiar hat,  she talks endless , a good company

for all  in the compartment; wintry chill does not seem

to impact, yet a confounding puzzle in her demeanor;

 

a man entering on the list of talk

 looks drunk, his dress  a mix of want

yet, mingling with the go getter,

 philosopher  and friend  on the upper hand

with a move and motive to keep people

all the time engaged; prays for better times

 

when all sundry and mean will get vanished;

a newcomer is she with a smile, endearing all

 hello on her lips, with a  look outside window,

trees  and lampposts  and cattle graze all

passing by in a quick move and taking

to  a  strange world all when train passes on,

you  and me are only stay with intropection;

 

 

 

 


This cool Evening

 

             This cool Evening

       This cool evening by the  pruned  lawn,

       by the  bunch of grass, like stars in between

        popping up in meadows and fields,

        a step into  the Nature opening up in you ;

 

           some time  for us, before destruction

           takes place,  before your sickle and bag

           bent upon gathering ,before  we get stacked

            in your dry, parched pages of heart; grass  wail;

 

            in the name of felling, weeding speedy,

           cleaning and deforestation, mind filled with

           heavy piled up clay and clutter, a move away;

             A  Return to Un Nature Move, gnawing us ever! 

 

             For me this cool evening turns

              Into  an  hour of questioning and qualm;

              Blue sky is a mute witness like me,

             Sudden showers – sort of questioning too!

                                                                

              Some discarded plastic bags eked out

             thrown long ago, crumbled into corners; 

              Recycling might be in its slow pace

              when,  only He knows and HE only knows.

                                

                                     

                                       

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘ What if the sun shines?’

 

       ‘ What if the  sun  shines?’

 

   Me born, denied  of   vision,

   my dark room  like x ray theatre;

    my living luxury with unbounded

   Forte. What if the seasons blossom

  with respective smiles, up swelling  like

  springs of water taps in corners of

  railway platforms, for me the dark

  is my ordained luxury.

 

   A gentle tap   going afore

  when compelled by necessity

  on the traffic ridden roads, sun beams

  glare at me impartial, jasmine and rose

  those captivating, nose drills    piercing     

   fragrance, foray that they belong to

   their category, for I see them not.

 

 All  these  for   the sense of my being,

 Flip for the skin and  flesh;

 But  my four walls, for my soul  attuned 

 ever since I came into this blessed soil!

for  it bears me still ,still and  silent. 

What  if the sun peeps out!

 

 


ON ABORTIVE KNIEF;

 

 

ON ABORTIVE KNIEF;

 

When embryo’s  soft bud

 blossoms  slow and  steady,

 spongy flesh   with a crave

  for fingers and peeling layers,

 

 before He fixes eyes and ears

 inside womb, the protective

warm cove,  cruel outside world

 with tongue doughty uncontrollable,             

 

could be  instinctive dictated  mother

or   doctor’s advice of lack  of stamina,

induces her for a game of negation,

what right she has to  suppress  the growing?

 

Cruel abortive instruments ,

twangs of  stubborn application

in moments of   thoughtless move

finish the  job of destruction.

 

One life, one  soul and  one moulid

to be thrown in a  mound or field

lifeless  not even breath,

may be for new  breath elsewhere;

 

woe to the metal or man or woman

who performed this ungodly deed .

l

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Year Eve

 

 


 

New  Year Eve,

End of December, New Year’s Eve,

Crackers  blow, majestic in front and back

of houses  and  multi storied apartments,

 Convivial mirth ringing aloud.

 

Joining hands with church peal.

Augury of undoing all  that

is abominably mad, painfully sad,

into  a lawn of greenery and opulent.

 

 All  faces hiding how much of sorrow

  Yet,  tapping the stick of optimism

  bold on the streets  of  angst and  tension             

 writ large  for years  not obliterated;

 

bright in the morn early and near

 all faces wishing with cakes and drinks

joy and smile welcoming all passersby

crackers sound and bound beyond walls.

 

Hope  beckons every household

Like babe’s smile when lullaby on air

betokens with an aura  of positive move.

December goes but  with a  nod

 

Weep no more, for in the rustle

Of wind and sweep, there is pot of luck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, December 13, 2020

After Guardian’s My Stranger by Maria Taylor

        

   

      All about the house, very ancient and dilapidated

      My memory steeped , leaking walls, and cracked cements

       The inmates, whereabouts still to be known;

      I cling to him  steadfast, my dad, my caretaker,

      Now hanging on the photo, I adore  and adhere to.    

      A t times, I wonder, where  are those souls, hanging around

      was my father an illusion or a real entity hanging around

      My mind re calls the care, the play, the cheer

      All through talks of imaginations of inmates,

       Again all illusion a nightmare; question remains,

       The gardener in him, the bill payments made

       Revealed how responsible  he was, yet, I never

      Knew  where is he hiding, behind the plasters of the wall?

       What I could see  is only a void, a void filling so much

        for us all,  how long this  misconceived euphoria, this puzzle

        God alone knows.