Thursday, February 27, 2014

A City of Gold.

         A city of Gold.
 If   be  a  crock of porridge,
A melamine  of   crispy  snacks,
For  good   Ingestion
croquet or sandwiches,
Whether Jamaica  or America,
Caribbean seaside  village
Or  Indian  tillage,
Run not after  ill gotten
Gold   and  fill your coffers.
Let us  taste    the  drink the victuals
 Of contentment ,void of perjury
but not  absinthe,
To the passing of gods.
This is  the  city of Gold,
A  pleasure of  Marigold.





Tuesday, February 25, 2014

How Patient Gods Are!


5) How  patient Gods  are!

The   Avatar sits   on  a  seamlessly
Perfect   and poised Chair,
to  have  a  fair  view of  humanity.
But  the unfair   and  crude
Topple , at least  contented 
To have  thwarted God’s plans.
Avatar    pulls  the thread of  patience
As  far  as  He can, Every pull emits
New   Revelations much to
Their   chagrin and dismay.





Rolling In Unrest.

  Rolling  in  Unrest.                                                           
We, the grand Persian carpets,
are  used for welcome  feasts.
Today, they unroll, a day of  unrest,
Like many days, many moments,
We  are  seasoned  and accustomed ,
When they come to  roll,

 For us   It is  a  mood of  zest.

In The Sleepless Night..

      In the  sleepless night..

Barbeque outside, convenient improvisation,
Rescued many, toasts   for the   privileged,
Bread   crumbs for the lowly ,underpinned.
Wind  mildly  fans  the  fire, brewing  goes on.   
Rumbling  continues , for the jaywalkers,
Theatre revellers, relief outside.
 Eyelids refuse   your rightful  quota of sleep.
Mustering  curiosity , You view  through the
Window, the wavy curtains, looking askance,
The moon shines, moving dark
Patches remain, bemused  I am.
Moon   shines as if replying ,
‘The dent   is in  you, the  mankind,
From  ages, from   the  Days   of
 Creation, from  Shristi, he is erring,
You  always  view  with  a
Soiled  telescope. Else   The  Fall
Would  have  been  averted.’
Slow, the  sleep  embraces me.


Troubadour

        Troubadour
We   are  a troubadour like
donned   by   the  Muse,
tapping  our  beloved  tents,
sharing  favourite  food,
we  avidly practise
and perform   in the nights,
exchanging our  poems
their  thirst  for knowledge,           
Timbre  vibrates  in us.
We move on to another village.




A Birthday Gift.

)             A  Birthday  Gift.                   
A    Lovely full  blown Rose   on your buttonhole,
Fragrance   permeating   the whole surrounding,
Smiles  are  nothing  before   the  flowers,
Flowers   are soothing  and  sacred  and sincere for  ever.
I   put  this  on your  ash  coloured   suit,,
But   your look  of  Demure ,makes  me  deter.      

I took you to the  dining ,Mahogany beckons
With  a  glimmer and  warmth of
Dishes in  china ware  and   Melarmine.        
Eggless   cake  with   a   cup  of  coke
Would   in   certitude please you,
Me   thought and    joined  you  in  cheers.

Polished  sink   and  the  towel
The   white flowing  water,
The   foamy  soap  to  wipe
Your  hands  and   the   reflecting 
Mirror  as  if  says:   look! Something
Is  wanting , he  looks  dissatisfied.                              

A soft, laminated book  pops out
Of  my  NOT VANITY  but multipurpose bag,                     
This  is what I want!
This   is  what  my passion.
A  Book  of Poems,
A   Gift  of  All  Times!        




Friday, February 21, 2014

A humble take on Solar Microscope from - The Guardian.

      Yeats’ "The only thing certain about us is that we are too  many
 Yes. We are too many, many  with different genres,
avocations, ambitions,  animadversions, critical theories,
more  poets with  distinctions, publications,
with  a  motto,  ‘’publish or perish’’.
We   have our own problems, polarised views,
Poets!  The  warring  world of Land is ours
Where  Imagination  and aesthetic  beauty
Propel us, guide us, infuse enthusiasm in us.
The  land  we live in , is  a   land of
Acute   aridity,   Drought  and  denigration ,
also  overflowing  mass of  floods.
All  according  to seasonal  shifts.
We ,the poets ,attribute these
To Nature’s  Fury  and  ensemble
In our  writings and  poetic  codes.
We, the poets, quote lines of   repute
‘’water and water ,everywhere, not a
Drop ....’’ and so on.
 We propitiate  the   Rain  God
For  more   and more water.
We , the poets, congregate, aggregate,
Discuss   and dissect.
There are poetry haters and
Dissenters of   writers  and groups.
Strange paradox, we and they.



Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Her Unlimited Move.

                Her Unlimited  Move. 

     She  bounteously   blows
    on the transcient,uncared for,
    Slender bunch Of
    Grass  and  steep ;
    Touches   the  quay
    In a   gentler mood,                
    dives  beneath  a  stone,
    attempts  a  nobler
    whiff  of  violet flower,                   
   my car  stops,  cannot       
   steer  for the windscreen
   blurred   and  besmeared,
   for it is  a  massive  toll.
  Beneath  the  vast umbrella,
  She comes  and goes,
 Sweeps  and recedes,
Whoever  can   check her?
We  all can only bear  her.
 
  
  
   


Thursday, February 13, 2014

A Take on Black Beans, in the afternoon( Guardian)

A  Take on  Black Beans, in the afternoon( Guardian)

In the  Afternoon,
I sit before  my computers,
Tap  and type on the key board,
Delete  and control.
In the afternoon,  I  type  poems,
Copy and paste ,at times  ‘’ cut’’ too.
In the afternoon, I prepare
Coffee decoction, the aroma
Tempting me, again  take a break
In the afternoon,
Take  a hot  sip and taste,
Store  again  black beans
In the container for the morrow.
Switch off  the oven,
Go back, contemplate  again,
Will  this  coffee  remake
Your life’s  turns  and events?
Afternoon  also turns  its face,
Sun   goes down its  orb
To  make its  appearance
In the next day.




Tuesday, February 11, 2014

'Love' theme for Valentine's Day.

  LOVE 

I dip the ebullient  brush of
Expression,
my expression

In  the  water colour
 of  painting
in  a  diaphanous

bowl, 
Carried brush, stroke it
On the wall with  the

Decor of Love, 
Wall  stares   back .
Accepts it, resonates

With my perception 
‘love thyself, love humanity’.

Monday, February 10, 2014

A Take On Engram.

    A  Take  on  Engram

A  hurried  Bath
In my tiny bath room,
No showers, no sprinkles    
for  the  handle is rusted
because of  non –usage.
BY my  side, Dove
Gives  nice   aroma,
 It is  Dove, bubbles of  Dove,
No   humming   of  Love, love.
Even  two decades  ago
The same is  the scenario,
For  no time, but of reading,
Preparing for class room,
and   writing,  editing.
Now the  same , for  my time is
Spaced between kitchen, sink
and  my  adored   Guardian
for Dear  Carol  would  send
the signal of  deadline,
‘’comments  are  now   closed
For this   site.’’
I must hasten to comment
Else  my conscience would  

 prick with a feeling of guilt. 

Saturday, February 08, 2014

In The Temple of Human Body..

       In the Temple of Human Body...

In The  Temple  of  Human  Body,
The   Heart  is  the  Fulcrum,
Soul  sacred   Sanctorum,
Seated invisible, noble,
Ready to migrate  and
Transmigrate ,upon
The   Call   and  Will.
Don’t  deconstruct   the 
Residing  Deity, who
Presides over day- today
activity.   Practise   the
Silence, Mantra for
Most of The  Times,
Betimes, Divine  Succour
Will reach  your  Doors.



The Land's Telescopic vision

   1)    The Land’s   telescopic vision.                                                            

In its  verdant greenery, it 
Craves   not  for  more  rains,     
In  its ubiquitous   Mother-Earthly
View, it protects, feeds, the  fodder,
Cropper, breeder  and   fender.
It cares not  if you  are grateful,
But should   you be bountifully
Duty  conscious, a dictum  it
Gives, no   vintage  without   tillage.
In its   sardonic  execution of  destruction,
It   justifies  all parameters of reaction
Fury, and  finished, a  sort of Evolution.
It  echoes,  ‘’ oh! Man, be humbled,
Else ,sooner you will be  crumbled’’.





Wednesday, February 05, 2014

This Creepy Cold,,,

         This   creepy cold.
Six long hours of  wait and sit,
In the   now and   then crowded
Platform, cold   as   shreds of
Creepiness  that   might capture you.
You  watch  the red liveried  coolies
Who  load on their heads, to  unload
their  burden of family sustenance.                         
Why not trolleys instead of coolies?
If we can’t erase the word ‘coolie’
In the dictionary of our life,
there is no end of strife.
What is the use of our Independence?
our  free education?
Their   looks don’t bend down
On the narrow steps, their eyes
Positioned  straight. What cold
Bugs  them? Rubs the   hardened,
Seasoned   skin  that lifts those
Luggage/baggage?
By my side, another child,
Herself   a   small  child of  hardly
Seven, holding another ,hanging bony,
 itches,Criss cross each other.
I  am  saddened ,when will India
Improve? On to the train,
‘mind the gap’ ,yet another  nightmare,
I  go on  in the tilt.


Sunday, February 02, 2014

Soul's Agony.

     Soul’s  Agony.                                         
  I am coagulated  beyond  limit,
  break  the  barricade.
I   wear the accelerated  Wings,
The   flapping  and   craving
towards  a  silent  zone,
free   form toil  and  moil
of  reptiles   and  rigmaroles,
witnessing  puerile   motions  with 
little  constructive notions:
From  above  I  see,ply,
 many  crunch  the  feed
fodder,greenery, next day,
with  a  sickle to  uproot.
Earth  can  only  shake  and  tremble.