My quill smacks at me
Those white, splashy, frothy, surging waters
like battalions with iron-willed prowess,
dash against the seemingly timeless
Craggy rocks undiluted, firm and unshaken,
Rocky stones not yet corroded,
as if in a mood of defiance,
like a sage in penance.
I see the receding waters,
Now the roaring is gone
As in an aged lion, the valour is dead,
By the beach, my mood wanes,
My fingers criss-cross on the sands,
the pen which I throw in a fit of fury,
mocks at , the tiny bold bird
flaps its wings, back to me.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Praise be to the woman!
Praise be to that woman!
Praise be to that woman who bore the brutal brunt
of that man’s wrath and fury,
Praise be to that woman who was enslaved in her own roof,
that was plundered by preying wolves and confident
Intruders and tricksters who secured a base.
Praise be to that woman who fell a prey to hunger
and Starvation and menial task ,
while ease and luxury was extended
to the cheap and motivated,
woe and plague be to the woman
who wived the man who was to be her father.
Woe to the woman who husbanded the man
In stealth and fathered the man in public,
Curse be to the woman who cast aspersions
to the unseen and godly,
fortunate that she was who died premature,
for another killing was avoided.
Praise be to that woman who bore the brutal brunt
of that man’s wrath and fury,
Praise be to that woman who was enslaved in her own roof,
that was plundered by preying wolves and confident
Intruders and tricksters who secured a base.
Praise be to that woman who fell a prey to hunger
and Starvation and menial task ,
while ease and luxury was extended
to the cheap and motivated,
woe and plague be to the woman
who wived the man who was to be her father.
Woe to the woman who husbanded the man
In stealth and fathered the man in public,
Curse be to the woman who cast aspersions
to the unseen and godly,
fortunate that she was who died premature,
for another killing was avoided.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
One word is not enough or is theres any last word?
One word is not enough or is there any last word?
One word is not enough to describe
the mighty, vast ocean , the ultimate
excellence of the Creator’ crafty
design, the earth’s ruling monarchical monster,
the huge unfolable umbrella beneath which
microbes and engulfed lands and deluged cities,
in cyclical pattern roll on and roll down,
the beauty of the Blue is submerged by the
roaring, fearful ,thunderous, resurgent
looming waters gushing the shore and back
to the unseen throne,oh!the watery sublime,
Ceaseless and unaging, just as the creator,
You are the ultimate eternity,
eternity’s rummaging, Beauteous bounty.
He who has created the seed
He who has created the seed
He who has created the seed ,
As the creator of all things under His perview,
Protects it from being trampled upon,
the seed driven by the wind that sweeps it
to a safer place as the chic is nestled
upon by the caring mother ,its feathers
a complete coverage for the newborn,
He who has protected the seed, waters
the seed to germinate into a plant
which bears flowers ,flowers red, rose
those deck His altar Him Who has
infused life into living upon it.
He who has created the seed ,
As the creator of all things under His perview,
Protects it from being trampled upon,
the seed driven by the wind that sweeps it
to a safer place as the chic is nestled
upon by the caring mother ,its feathers
a complete coverage for the newborn,
He who has protected the seed, waters
the seed to germinate into a plant
which bears flowers ,flowers red, rose
those deck His altar Him Who has
infused life into living upon it.
The sweeper
The sweeper
The sweeper with a thin, frame of body,
With a packet of hurriedly baked breadfast,
tucked on the left of her sari frills beneath,
a sort of shrunken belly, her faded broom
mechanically sweeps, her thinking rocks
with the thought of her six months old baby
in the cloth cradle hung to the beams
across the thatched house, she sweeps,
the drunken husband stealing her
carefully hidden coffer, the awakened
idea suddenly sweeps her mind,
she sweeps or does her broom sweep?
Who knows, inwardly she weeps for her
Predicament, her broom sweeps the dust
On the floor, she weeps, she sweeps.
The sweeper with a thin, frame of body,
With a packet of hurriedly baked breadfast,
tucked on the left of her sari frills beneath,
a sort of shrunken belly, her faded broom
mechanically sweeps, her thinking rocks
with the thought of her six months old baby
in the cloth cradle hung to the beams
across the thatched house, she sweeps,
the drunken husband stealing her
carefully hidden coffer, the awakened
idea suddenly sweeps her mind,
she sweeps or does her broom sweep?
Who knows, inwardly she weeps for her
Predicament, her broom sweeps the dust
On the floor, she weeps, she sweeps.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
How he was beguiled
How he was beguiled
It was not the saliva dripping, tail wagging dog,
the faithful guardian who would snarl and growl
upon strange visitors, that he nourished and fondof,
for him the very name dog
Sounded anathema, he did not rear a dog,
to give biscuits and crumbs and a bowl of milk
To be fed, he was kind with vultures and prowling,
Wolfish in the form of humans, pillaging upon
every pie and poking and pricking upon the inmates,
the backdoor wolves chased away the inmates,
he who has nurtured the vile was snapped away
being poisoned to death.
It was not the saliva dripping, tail wagging dog,
the faithful guardian who would snarl and growl
upon strange visitors, that he nourished and fondof,
for him the very name dog
Sounded anathema, he did not rear a dog,
to give biscuits and crumbs and a bowl of milk
To be fed, he was kind with vultures and prowling,
Wolfish in the form of humans, pillaging upon
every pie and poking and pricking upon the inmates,
the backdoor wolves chased away the inmates,
he who has nurtured the vile was snapped away
being poisoned to death.
On thd dead grass
On the dead grass
On the recently unplugged bunch of grass,
Grass, green and still fresh smelling, retaining
Its aura, no, the grass is not dried or dead,
I could feel the kerb of the bunch,
for the gardener uprooted the stretch,
has unevened , the ground,
that ghostlike stories swell
one could weave and write lounging
Upon the topsy-turvy mound,
how often paramours would have
rested in even times to share their
ruffled up, anxiety ridden reflections,
how many inspirational writings
would have emanated from the
Constructive, creative minds of the
thinkers who think alike,
No,the people throng still,
The grass is not dead, it smells
Still Green and good.
On the recently unplugged bunch of grass,
Grass, green and still fresh smelling, retaining
Its aura, no, the grass is not dried or dead,
I could feel the kerb of the bunch,
for the gardener uprooted the stretch,
has unevened , the ground,
that ghostlike stories swell
one could weave and write lounging
Upon the topsy-turvy mound,
how often paramours would have
rested in even times to share their
ruffled up, anxiety ridden reflections,
how many inspirational writings
would have emanated from the
Constructive, creative minds of the
thinkers who think alike,
No,the people throng still,
The grass is not dead, it smells
Still Green and good.
Monday, October 22, 2007
war poem-what is to be negated
That which is to be negated
It is not the blood –oozing bodies,
in the battlefield, some of the slain
asundered parts of which are shaking
like a quiver, a struggle not for survival,
but to breathe their last,
Those are vowed to redeem their Nation’s
Honour pledged and some sold,
may be some to deepen their feud and fury,
to foreground their buried venom
In sharpened knifes and sounding bullets,
For the widowed wives and orphaned children,
to aggrieve the loss, it is the seed of malice ,
a maligned, negative approach to be negated.
It is not the blood –oozing bodies,
in the battlefield, some of the slain
asundered parts of which are shaking
like a quiver, a struggle not for survival,
but to breathe their last,
Those are vowed to redeem their Nation’s
Honour pledged and some sold,
may be some to deepen their feud and fury,
to foreground their buried venom
In sharpened knifes and sounding bullets,
For the widowed wives and orphaned children,
to aggrieve the loss, it is the seed of malice ,
a maligned, negative approach to be negated.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Is sky thse limit?---
Is sky the limit?
Standing on the ghat of the holy Ganges,
Ferrymen agile, rowing their boats up and down,
Convention bound families perform their rites
and the see-saw rhythm of chanting of ablutions ,
for the departed souls, I viewed the river not
in spate , the Sun –God from his orb
like a multi-millionaire’s treasure,
more for charity than for self, spreads his beams,
that morn I saw the blue merging with the blue,
I wished to have been a crab or sea-weed ,
to glide into the pitch of the sky.
Standing on the ghat of the holy Ganges,
Ferrymen agile, rowing their boats up and down,
Convention bound families perform their rites
and the see-saw rhythm of chanting of ablutions ,
for the departed souls, I viewed the river not
in spate , the Sun –God from his orb
like a multi-millionaire’s treasure,
more for charity than for self, spreads his beams,
that morn I saw the blue merging with the blue,
I wished to have been a crab or sea-weed ,
to glide into the pitch of the sky.
A tree in Bangor
A tree in Bangor
A tree in Bangor
Some rustling of the leaves and a good natured
Monkey like hop about in a tree emitting glow worm like
Sparks ensuring light for the passersby, throwing a jug of
Marmalade a deliberate drop seemingly a casual one,
For a hungry woman sheltering under the thin branched tree,
and a leather jacket too to fight the biting cold,
a rustling ,ruling to wrestle the dominant darkness,
I look up from my near apartment, nothing for my naked eye,
It skips to and fro, I infer, settles in corner,
Sees through the unseen, selects a new shapeless,
Here the AVATAR goes to make miracles.
A tree in Bangor
Some rustling of the leaves and a good natured
Monkey like hop about in a tree emitting glow worm like
Sparks ensuring light for the passersby, throwing a jug of
Marmalade a deliberate drop seemingly a casual one,
For a hungry woman sheltering under the thin branched tree,
and a leather jacket too to fight the biting cold,
a rustling ,ruling to wrestle the dominant darkness,
I look up from my near apartment, nothing for my naked eye,
It skips to and fro, I infer, settles in corner,
Sees through the unseen, selects a new shapeless,
Here the AVATAR goes to make miracles.
what is moresf about Time---
What is more about Time----
I would not say the repetitive
Time on its winged wheels,
Nor the a clock with its fast moving needles,
But Time is an ancient, versatile don’t care master,
also as a Stringent and rigour in his hand as a band
To make one knee l down or if His visionary
Wisdom ordains to heel the humble and hurt,
Time does not wallop or wail for he reigns supreme,
For Time is the crystallized compendium
And a case study of His Creation.
I would not say the repetitive
Time on its winged wheels,
Nor the a clock with its fast moving needles,
But Time is an ancient, versatile don’t care master,
also as a Stringent and rigour in his hand as a band
To make one knee l down or if His visionary
Wisdom ordains to heel the humble and hurt,
Time does not wallop or wail for he reigns supreme,
For Time is the crystallized compendium
And a case study of His Creation.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
The young buoyant urchins
The young buoyant urchins here---
The bubbling buoyant urchins
In Silsoe rich in heart and tout,
Like covey of birds on the blue
Sky clear and wavy,
from all over the globe here,
with a free hand and open mind,
more of a matured wisdom than of
corrugated ego corrupting
their growing minds, work and play
dine and chat in equal rhythm,
believe into growing their conscience,
like polished diamonds into perfection.
The bubbling buoyant urchins
In Silsoe rich in heart and tout,
Like covey of birds on the blue
Sky clear and wavy,
from all over the globe here,
with a free hand and open mind,
more of a matured wisdom than of
corrugated ego corrupting
their growing minds, work and play
dine and chat in equal rhythm,
believe into growing their conscience,
like polished diamonds into perfection.
Monday, October 08, 2007
The Devil's doing in the darkest hour
The Devil’s doing in the darkest hour
The Devil in the deadly dark hour,
Naked in its motive,
Springs, stings a naked lie of
reality that the god sent
Shrinkable, unseen, shapeless
does the job of the man in his sheet
a stark naked lie whet and cut
polished to be a truth,
that the love in the bed and bath tub,
an embryo in the barren no longer
fertile womb, yet the devil is naked,
naked in its wicked pursuit.
The Devil in the deadly dark hour,
Naked in its motive,
Springs, stings a naked lie of
reality that the god sent
Shrinkable, unseen, shapeless
does the job of the man in his sheet
a stark naked lie whet and cut
polished to be a truth,
that the love in the bed and bath tub,
an embryo in the barren no longer
fertile womb, yet the devil is naked,
naked in its wicked pursuit.
The inevitable
The inevitable
As the cupped hands cannot hold
All the gathered waters long,
just as this plastered building
of ephemeral body will not dare
to stilt and chase this soul,
as you cannot put all the embers
and fires in sealed containers,
just as the possibility of measuring
the ocean is a mere dream,
the suppressed facts and swearing
multiplied lies will only boomerang
with redoubled vigor and volume.
As the cupped hands cannot hold
All the gathered waters long,
just as this plastered building
of ephemeral body will not dare
to stilt and chase this soul,
as you cannot put all the embers
and fires in sealed containers,
just as the possibility of measuring
the ocean is a mere dream,
the suppressed facts and swearing
multiplied lies will only boomerang
with redoubled vigor and volume.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
The indoor plants
The indoor plants
The indoor plants like a filigree,
on the television set of my Silsoe house,
and the ones by the central heating
tender and fresh till yesterday,
slowly droop and wither,
I, basking in the sunlight
of my garden reason out
that the greenery popping out of the pots,
crave for the sunlight the rays
which are flashed through the window grills,
making all of us realize how much of Sun,
the universal prevalent essential
rudimentary for our sustenance.
The indoor plants like a filigree,
on the television set of my Silsoe house,
and the ones by the central heating
tender and fresh till yesterday,
slowly droop and wither,
I, basking in the sunlight
of my garden reason out
that the greenery popping out of the pots,
crave for the sunlight the rays
which are flashed through the window grills,
making all of us realize how much of Sun,
the universal prevalent essential
rudimentary for our sustenance.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
The one special fruit
The one special fruit ---
All the peaches and plums of England
Can not vie with that of a Pomegranate,
one in his garden, he being my best friend,
that one fruit hanging,full-blown,ruddy,
ruby like, the edges of which stroked even,
it reminds me of paintings of figures on
a china ware jar, the lines criss crossing,
on one side, the seeds are popping out
in a small cut, for a parrot has pecked at it,
still deft fingers would not pluck it away,
allowing more freedom for a fresh covey,
with a tweet and twitter, special guests
for the special fruit .
All the peaches and plums of England
Can not vie with that of a Pomegranate,
one in his garden, he being my best friend,
that one fruit hanging,full-blown,ruddy,
ruby like, the edges of which stroked even,
it reminds me of paintings of figures on
a china ware jar, the lines criss crossing,
on one side, the seeds are popping out
in a small cut, for a parrot has pecked at it,
still deft fingers would not pluck it away,
allowing more freedom for a fresh covey,
with a tweet and twitter, special guests
for the special fruit .
Thursday, October 04, 2007
The ash colored Dove to ashes.
The ash-colored Dove to ashes
It was the tender, sponge-like ash- colored
Dove inquisitive and freedom in its control
was moving about in the academic campus
as if to preach or to teach, I know not,
with a twitter in the lab and a sudden jump
on top of the table to pry about,
it was the same Dove with a wounded leg
limping in my garden yet to peck at the
newly blossomed yellow flowers,
it was the same tender Dove cornered
in a corner of my garden at Silsoe,
with wings strewn apart, and the neck
pounded to mere nothing----.
I wake up from my sleep with a sigh,
Sigh of lost love to be tapped by my Dove.
A rejuvenation beyond imprint.
It was the tender, sponge-like ash- colored
Dove inquisitive and freedom in its control
was moving about in the academic campus
as if to preach or to teach, I know not,
with a twitter in the lab and a sudden jump
on top of the table to pry about,
it was the same Dove with a wounded leg
limping in my garden yet to peck at the
newly blossomed yellow flowers,
it was the same tender Dove cornered
in a corner of my garden at Silsoe,
with wings strewn apart, and the neck
pounded to mere nothing----.
I wake up from my sleep with a sigh,
Sigh of lost love to be tapped by my Dove.
A rejuvenation beyond imprint.
Monday, October 01, 2007
My dream comes true.
MY dream comes true.
My dream has come true,
my dream inextricably woven into
The vortex of my blood,
has come miraculously
True when I visit England for
the second time just as the
blossoming of a flower in my garden,
a beautiful sunflower serenade to and fro,
just as the birth of a calf in my
grandmother’s ancient house of
pillars high vaulted, the birth pangs
of the mother cow ….maaa maaa---
still ringing into my ears,
just as the landing of the aircraft,
as a bird takes off , widespread
its wings in the opposite direction,
the enriched land of Shelly
and Shakespeare, Lamb and Wordsmith,
I drive on from Silsoe a calm countryside,
The queen moon shines in its full ambit,
The isolated road sides and tree tops
Completely besmeared with the thick green aura,
I am Overwhelmed with the quill scribbling
in my mind’s eye,infront of me the dining table
filled with products from Tescoe,
I wide open my eyes to see how much more
To explore, to achieve and my dream comes true.
My dream has come true,
my dream inextricably woven into
The vortex of my blood,
has come miraculously
True when I visit England for
the second time just as the
blossoming of a flower in my garden,
a beautiful sunflower serenade to and fro,
just as the birth of a calf in my
grandmother’s ancient house of
pillars high vaulted, the birth pangs
of the mother cow ….maaa maaa---
still ringing into my ears,
just as the landing of the aircraft,
as a bird takes off , widespread
its wings in the opposite direction,
the enriched land of Shelly
and Shakespeare, Lamb and Wordsmith,
I drive on from Silsoe a calm countryside,
The queen moon shines in its full ambit,
The isolated road sides and tree tops
Completely besmeared with the thick green aura,
I am Overwhelmed with the quill scribbling
in my mind’s eye,infront of me the dining table
filled with products from Tescoe,
I wide open my eyes to see how much more
To explore, to achieve and my dream comes true.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
who bothers and what---
Who bothers and what----
Who is bothered about the dead and deceased?
when more and more meticulous poisoned,
care to gore the living to tear,
to strangle and to push into a corner,
who repents for the mishap?
when so many are there to misshape,
like the layers of the onion to peel,
they spin stories to whirl, wheel,
who is bothered about the wronged?
while more and more are warred
to settle their state and save the face s
The Supreme alone can rule the interface.
will the dead and smothered come back?
to cull out truth from the hackneyed rack?
Who is bothered about the dead and deceased?
when more and more meticulous poisoned,
care to gore the living to tear,
to strangle and to push into a corner,
who repents for the mishap?
when so many are there to misshape,
like the layers of the onion to peel,
they spin stories to whirl, wheel,
who is bothered about the wronged?
while more and more are warred
to settle their state and save the face s
The Supreme alone can rule the interface.
will the dead and smothered come back?
to cull out truth from the hackneyed rack?
feeling the stage----
Feeling the stage----
Sitting on the pyal stone like,
stretched my imagination to a hike,
on experiences of the hoary past,
how much of deception at last,
had gone to make the strings fast,
you are alone in the participating
audience, simply sitting and suffering,
laughing at the folly of man selfish,
who extends as far as time’s edge boorish,
who can go against the current of times,
which is the doing and undoing of God’s tricks,
until man realizes to come out of orb of this,
his dogmatism and arrogance woud cause amiss.
Sitting on the pyal stone like,
stretched my imagination to a hike,
on experiences of the hoary past,
how much of deception at last,
had gone to make the strings fast,
you are alone in the participating
audience, simply sitting and suffering,
laughing at the folly of man selfish,
who extends as far as time’s edge boorish,
who can go against the current of times,
which is the doing and undoing of God’s tricks,
until man realizes to come out of orb of this,
his dogmatism and arrogance woud cause amiss.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
(176) strange
( 176) Strange
It is strange to see sex and search sestina
in the eyes of sacred and celestial ,
just as to see the essence of the Vedas
in the welter of the loitering pig,
Isn’t it strange and cynical to expect
the rhythm and speed of the violin
on the saxophone and sit back
to comment with authority
upon the artifact with the lack
of even basic knowledge?
Is n’t it strange that Lost Paradise
was redeemed by the blind Bard
with a unique poetic vision
to be restored to the skeptical
humanity? Isn’t it strange that
a long uncertain rope walking
with not closed eyes leads to an
extended land of Faith and miracle?
Is n’t it strange that things are
happening and happening
much to the chagrin of the people
who denigrate and dampen your
Spirit? Isn’t it strange that the
Unbending question and question
many -----already designed by the
the unseen, only to be passed off
as a question mark.
It is strange to see sex and search sestina
in the eyes of sacred and celestial ,
just as to see the essence of the Vedas
in the welter of the loitering pig,
Isn’t it strange and cynical to expect
the rhythm and speed of the violin
on the saxophone and sit back
to comment with authority
upon the artifact with the lack
of even basic knowledge?
Is n’t it strange that Lost Paradise
was redeemed by the blind Bard
with a unique poetic vision
to be restored to the skeptical
humanity? Isn’t it strange that
a long uncertain rope walking
with not closed eyes leads to an
extended land of Faith and miracle?
Is n’t it strange that things are
happening and happening
much to the chagrin of the people
who denigrate and dampen your
Spirit? Isn’t it strange that the
Unbending question and question
many -----already designed by the
the unseen, only to be passed off
as a question mark.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
I am
I am I am what Iam and what is expected of me, I cannot be what I am not, I can see everything unseen, I can fly and view on the winged wings viewless, for those with unflinching loyalty and unquestioning faith I am the life-safer and life boat, Why, I am the life extended in my devotees’ being. The unreasonable, unthinking remorseless, attributes sex and Shape to me, Ariel windy, fire and water uncontrollable and the cheap get crestfallen to get stored in the slot of sinners tainted with stigma, Benign and Blessed are those who crave for my Graced Love with everlasting devotion. |
Thursday, July 12, 2007
It was a sleepless night
It was a sleepless night It was a memorable sleepless night indeed, Not with those of eyes of searching looks, not craving for the embalmed love of bygone days, nor for those embraces of missed romance, but many a nights’ similar plights of lost love, truth cupped into twisted tales, tears wetting those cheeks, those tears were not from mere eyes, but from the heart’s softest corner, love lost long, long ago, even displaced by diabolic dehumanized ones crept to shake the roof, A recollection of a sordid episode of a child Crying and battling with life, a severe bronchitis Somewhere a call from the God of Death, The child is heaving a sigh of relief from those dissatisfied devils, backdoor intruders for lifelong gain, you were only a mute witness to the drama of assertive argument and sin sickening pell-mell. It was a sleepless night when I had the feel of the dead innocent child embodied into my being asking for justice and it was the sleepless night that a call from the Above whispered ‘endure, endure, and endure.’ |
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The unguaded street
| The unguarded street These morning strolls in the main street, at the dawn, the rays of the sunbeams as if the seer through the magic wand measures the future of the curious, dispel the darkness with the zoom of the lorry laden with the vegetables from the garden of the village, to the fair, the serenity of the atmosphere paves the mood for the writer and the artist, the singer who hums the tune, the street is not guarded for no cops till nine when the traffic increases and the polluted, wind- laden dust raises mounds of misty clouts to blind the innocent passerby. Now the street is amply unguarded, for the swarm of flies from the litterbin buzz around to prove their agility, now the street is typically unguarded, for the roadside maker of dish and fast-food counts the snippets to be plundered by the seasoned hungry. |
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
The Bed
| The Bed When a severe backache pokes me like a pointed dagger which the smooth floor, wherein I lie resists, I take recourse to a bed, where my partner, my hardbound dictionary weighing heavy befriends my pillow, the ill improvised bed is more conspicuous by the absence of the master through out, the cover is besmeared by the ink marks, no flowers, no aroma, no incense, creativity, my Goddess, awaits me in belated hours, the quill flows on: This pain mocks at the quill for the intermittent distraction, tonight I am off with my master, the door is barred, lights are not off. Lights are not off, for the devil not far off, defeated, turns off. |
Friday, July 06, 2007
Why? why? why?
| Why? Why to probe into the ‘whyness’ of Select things you are eager to know, when you yourself do not know why is it you are doing so, The answer is that your why is followed by many ‘whys’ it is like seeing the origin of the name of God, who is the first inventor? Why probe into the question Who created God? Aren’t you aware that you are belied by your own eyes? Why do you probe why the woman only is gifted to carry the child and not the man, why? Why? why? Why is that that a child is born not of one single entity, but of union of man and woman, be it regal wedding, marriage legalized, or accidental Collocation or total surrender? why the sun rises in the East, that sets in the West, the ‘why’ of many things is not your concern, oh! Man, beware. |
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Every drop of blood--
| Every drop of blood --- With every drop of blood shed, be it from the black or white skin, or red Indian or mixed race, what is spilt is not the vegetation consumed by or the animal flesh raw or cooked, pounded or fried fish or chicken assimilated into colored essence or what we call blood, with every drop of blood shed is the milk of mother’s cared affection, flowing into thews and sinews carrying the ancestral heritage. |
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Nothing is more gruesome than---
| Nothing is more gruesome Nothing is more gruesome than to get the message try and try, to make your life insipid, nothing is more appalling, than to be powerless before the stark villainy masquerading that overpowers the reason, nothing is more horrendous than to see the truth hidden and allowing things to happen, nothing is more torturing than to be a slave in your own roof, the concubine of your husband reigning like a queen, nothing is more painful than to have the belated revelation that you were beguiled in the past, for ulterior motives, After all nothing is more sinful That God and God sent is the butt of ridicule and victim of man’s treason and treachery. |
Walking in the rain---
| Walking in the rain….. As I was walking in the rain, holding the umbrella with one hand, umbrella tilting and twitching, When the other hand a bunch of books, my treasure, my livelihood and my bread bereft of which my existence would have become a meager no better treatment than an ant, I feel the sprinkles of rain water on my face as if to rejuvenate my spirits lost and forlorn, taking me to the days of English summer, a lily by the pond, nods as if to preach the nuances of life, like the belching cow should you look back in anger the harsh realities around you, just as you trample upon the decayed leaves and peel of oranges and tomatoes thrown, tightening the grip of books, lest they should become one with them, I climb up, up the staircase, back to my study, back to my reading room. |
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
(171) somewhere far off...
(171) Somewhere far off…..
Somewhere in a far off local temple
when the bell chimes, moves to and fro,
also moving people alike in a mood of
mixed reverberation and piety
not in words of cacophony,
but rhythmic chantic of verses,
in tune with the devotees’ prayers
the incense of camphor and jasmine
with the sandal paste and coconut,
Somewhere in a far off open place
of many stone pillars bespeak of the
ancient existence of the local deity
worshipped with all neem leaved
dancers and rice ball offerings
sweetened by jaggery, to fulfill
their long pending vows
authenticated by age long beliefs,
Somewhere there, not in a far off place,
yet away from the humanity’s loud
interplay, there sits a woman wan with
Yesteryears of spring and winter in her life,
befriends a woman in the cloud, in the sky,
slowly passes off into sleep, eternal sleep.
Somewhere in a far off local temple
when the bell chimes, moves to and fro,
also moving people alike in a mood of
mixed reverberation and piety
not in words of cacophony,
but rhythmic chantic of verses,
in tune with the devotees’ prayers
the incense of camphor and jasmine
with the sandal paste and coconut,
Somewhere in a far off open place
of many stone pillars bespeak of the
ancient existence of the local deity
worshipped with all neem leaved
dancers and rice ball offerings
sweetened by jaggery, to fulfill
their long pending vows
authenticated by age long beliefs,
Somewhere there, not in a far off place,
yet away from the humanity’s loud
interplay, there sits a woman wan with
Yesteryears of spring and winter in her life,
befriends a woman in the cloud, in the sky,
slowly passes off into sleep, eternal sleep.
Friday, June 15, 2007
(170) silenced to what not....
(170) Silenced to what not….
when, what I think as my deft fingers
were cleaning those tartar and stain
on the white china teacups, by my sink,
shining and polished as one would be
tempted to store water as the tap is on,
my eyes were enamored by the paintings
of pairs of paramours dancing in their
native attires Rajastani, Gujarati, Bengali,
should I hold them or throw them?
I was silenced to what not.
The lazy mistress of the house,
accumulated dust and treasure alike,
fashion and fancy and cuisine comfort
blinded her civic sense,
she became obstreperous and fractious,
I was silenced to what not.
when clamor and clutter in a
high minded way suppressed facts
like gun powder wrecking families asunder,
posing the upper hand of honesty,
I was silenced to what not.
when, what I think as my deft fingers
were cleaning those tartar and stain
on the white china teacups, by my sink,
shining and polished as one would be
tempted to store water as the tap is on,
my eyes were enamored by the paintings
of pairs of paramours dancing in their
native attires Rajastani, Gujarati, Bengali,
should I hold them or throw them?
I was silenced to what not.
The lazy mistress of the house,
accumulated dust and treasure alike,
fashion and fancy and cuisine comfort
blinded her civic sense,
she became obstreperous and fractious,
I was silenced to what not.
when clamor and clutter in a
high minded way suppressed facts
like gun powder wrecking families asunder,
posing the upper hand of honesty,
I was silenced to what not.
Friday, June 08, 2007
(165) You
( 165) YOU
You are the spike at the center of the wheel,
the wheel of fortune governing the humans,
dumb, the devil and daring
the wheeled chariot, parading the vast,
that carries the lord Supreme who purveys
the universe, caring His loved and lost,
you are the keel of the wheeling chair,
You are the feather soft to fan for the child,
you are the god sent shelter to cover
abandoned and forlorn
You are the ashes in the urn to
remind the impermanence,
you are the being in the fairy,
you are the Faith for the avowed believer,
you are the filth and dirt and waste
for the nonbeliever,
like the chicken covered in the baskets,
you protect the innocent and needy,
You are the poem plain without imagery,
you are the poetic artifact replete
with pun and parody, simile and
You are the breath, lifeforce,
You are breathless and flat,
You the essay to attack the vile
and ribald, and robust,
You are the thread ruling the
kite and the boy propeller from
the flat ground below,
when you are misunderstood
and misconstrued for a zero
life is amiss and chaos.
You are the spike at the center of the wheel,
the wheel of fortune governing the humans,
dumb, the devil and daring
the wheeled chariot, parading the vast,
that carries the lord Supreme who purveys
the universe, caring His loved and lost,
you are the keel of the wheeling chair,
You are the feather soft to fan for the child,
you are the god sent shelter to cover
abandoned and forlorn
You are the ashes in the urn to
remind the impermanence,
you are the being in the fairy,
you are the Faith for the avowed believer,
you are the filth and dirt and waste
for the nonbeliever,
like the chicken covered in the baskets,
you protect the innocent and needy,
You are the poem plain without imagery,
you are the poetic artifact replete
with pun and parody, simile and
You are the breath, lifeforce,
You are breathless and flat,
You the essay to attack the vile
and ribald, and robust,
You are the thread ruling the
kite and the boy propeller from
the flat ground below,
when you are misunderstood
and misconstrued for a zero
life is amiss and chaos.
If life is like a bubble
If life is like a bubble--
It is the month of November,
sudden pale of gloom and gathering darkness
through my window amid the thunder and
lightning piercing the multistoried apartment,
I finish my culinary work without a finishing touch,
hurriedly climb down to catch the direct bus,
sharpened spike pokes my sandal wet, in the
downpour, my umbrella gets unfolded,
the poetic sentiments vie with the manifold
bubbles, bubbles form to break into fluids of
running water, I get stranded to watch
the running times get impounded in the
Running water, a mirage of letters getting
blown before my eyes in the computers,
we come under the category no work no pay
Scheme, can I say no work no food to my
aching body?
can I call my Creator, and
ask Him to amend all the governing laws?
a young boy puts a paper boat in the water,
for him bubbles forge into buoyancy,
the downpour of rain pulls me back home
to use my paper and quill
to convert of bubble of life into a perennial flow.
It is the month of November,
sudden pale of gloom and gathering darkness
through my window amid the thunder and
lightning piercing the multistoried apartment,
I finish my culinary work without a finishing touch,
hurriedly climb down to catch the direct bus,
sharpened spike pokes my sandal wet, in the
downpour, my umbrella gets unfolded,
the poetic sentiments vie with the manifold
bubbles, bubbles form to break into fluids of
running water, I get stranded to watch
the running times get impounded in the
Running water, a mirage of letters getting
blown before my eyes in the computers,
we come under the category no work no pay
Scheme, can I say no work no food to my
aching body?
can I call my Creator, and
ask Him to amend all the governing laws?
a young boy puts a paper boat in the water,
for him bubbles forge into buoyancy,
the downpour of rain pulls me back home
to use my paper and quill
to convert of bubble of life into a perennial flow.
The black crow on the white window
The black crow on the white window
When I was looking at the window,
the white window before me,
of my personal computers, my friend,
my recent addiction, sudden warring shutters,
propelled by the wind and storm,
Struck by the sight of a bird with a bone,
A black crow swept past me, sat on the computers,
Pecking the strong bone perhaps
thrown away in the clutter,
Persistently clung with the beak,
bold and bravery is its motto,
It looked like that; the crow looked like that,
Pecking and looking at me reassuring
that I have no business to drive it away,
now coming down to have a look at the window,
A peep into the letters, as if to codify,
The piece of bone by the tender feathers now,
Still a look not deviated,
When I pressed the button enter,
it flew back no cawing, with
the same bone and brouhaha.
When I was looking at the window,
the white window before me,
of my personal computers, my friend,
my recent addiction, sudden warring shutters,
propelled by the wind and storm,
Struck by the sight of a bird with a bone,
A black crow swept past me, sat on the computers,
Pecking the strong bone perhaps
thrown away in the clutter,
Persistently clung with the beak,
bold and bravery is its motto,
It looked like that; the crow looked like that,
Pecking and looking at me reassuring
that I have no business to drive it away,
now coming down to have a look at the window,
A peep into the letters, as if to codify,
The piece of bone by the tender feathers now,
Still a look not deviated,
When I pressed the button enter,
it flew back no cawing, with
the same bone and brouhaha.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
What remains...
What remains...
What remains is not the poignant memory
of your sweet smile amidst taunts inflicted,
insults heaped like stones one after another,
for you did not want your siblings to know,
to share your predicament, servile at home
because of a nasty intruder, crafty and callous,
to share your prime possession, your happiness,
your conjugal love, an outcaste in your own house,
when the hungry, debaucheries, hawks ruled roost,
you helpless onlooker of the vile drama put up,
put up with the privations, none to console you,
at times fighting a loose battle with the deadly
venom of the cobras, counting your days to the grave
oh! When you were relieved, when death embraced
you, when your cruel husband reveled in the
embraces of his concubine, to whet her hunger
and fill her coffer she by backdoor entered,
a woe to mankind she is and a curse to womanhood,
oh!what remains is not the burnt ashes of you
kept in the urn to be immersed in the holy river,
what remains is not your saree, to be vied
by those ingrate wretches your daughters,
the shameless intruder’s daughter in the same
roof more dogmatically, claimed the only remnant,
what remains is not the memory of
earthenware utensils for the valuables were
embezzled by the pelican monsters,
what remains is not the old photo of yours
a semblance somewhat like you which
was hung by me on the wall,
oh!mother, what remains is the inerasable fact
none can equal you; none can compete with you,
what remains is the fact that the hungry pigs
continue to welter in the ditch until choked .
What remains is not the poignant memory
of your sweet smile amidst taunts inflicted,
insults heaped like stones one after another,
for you did not want your siblings to know,
to share your predicament, servile at home
because of a nasty intruder, crafty and callous,
to share your prime possession, your happiness,
your conjugal love, an outcaste in your own house,
when the hungry, debaucheries, hawks ruled roost,
you helpless onlooker of the vile drama put up,
put up with the privations, none to console you,
at times fighting a loose battle with the deadly
venom of the cobras, counting your days to the grave
oh! When you were relieved, when death embraced
you, when your cruel husband reveled in the
embraces of his concubine, to whet her hunger
and fill her coffer she by backdoor entered,
a woe to mankind she is and a curse to womanhood,
oh!what remains is not the burnt ashes of you
kept in the urn to be immersed in the holy river,
what remains is not your saree, to be vied
by those ingrate wretches your daughters,
the shameless intruder’s daughter in the same
roof more dogmatically, claimed the only remnant,
what remains is not the memory of
earthenware utensils for the valuables were
embezzled by the pelican monsters,
what remains is not the old photo of yours
a semblance somewhat like you which
was hung by me on the wall,
oh!mother, what remains is the inerasable fact
none can equal you; none can compete with you,
what remains is the fact that the hungry pigs
continue to welter in the ditch until choked .
(168) Run run run
(168) Run, run run
Run, run with sweat and gasping breadth,
Run with the goal of unceasing and untiring,
Run like an antelope in the wild, wooded,
chased by hunting dogs and growling hyenas,
run like the nonstop time and your destiny,
that follows to run after you despite the
bottleneck of your pursuits and balance,
we run though the maddening crowd
thronging the ration shop,
to be entitled for a ration card,
all for the rotten old rice with
wriggling worms predominately
surging just as the battalion,
run to the temple climb up the narrow
steps to reach atop, pray for the
Preyed upon,
We even tend to make the gods run
We the principled run, run until to
Reach our destination, yet not to run away,
Not to run away.
Run, run with sweat and gasping breadth,
Run with the goal of unceasing and untiring,
Run like an antelope in the wild, wooded,
chased by hunting dogs and growling hyenas,
run like the nonstop time and your destiny,
that follows to run after you despite the
bottleneck of your pursuits and balance,
we run though the maddening crowd
thronging the ration shop,
to be entitled for a ration card,
all for the rotten old rice with
wriggling worms predominately
surging just as the battalion,
run to the temple climb up the narrow
steps to reach atop, pray for the
Preyed upon,
We even tend to make the gods run
We the principled run, run until to
Reach our destination, yet not to run away,
Not to run away.
(169) Between this breath
169) Between this breath.....
Between this breath and the fragile body,
fragile for what is the barren frame
without the breath or life force
whatever you my call it,
that wears the indomitable soul
or the uncouth lazy verve less
human or entity whatever you call it,
the flesh which is embellished with
foppery coupled with fineness,
what passes on is only a vague
ephemeral show that blinds our
eyes that misleads our thinking,
Between this breath and the papers
on which flow the poignant sentiments
or the seasonal fecundity
ditty, at times gritty and granular,
what passes on is the imprint of
your alert mind inviting the double
readings of perverted thinking,
Between this breath and your existence
Surveyed by the vile and good,
balanced by patience and enduring,
what passes on is the life led or thrust,
but the life lived by you.
Between this breath and the fragile body,
fragile for what is the barren frame
without the breath or life force
whatever you my call it,
that wears the indomitable soul
or the uncouth lazy verve less
human or entity whatever you call it,
the flesh which is embellished with
foppery coupled with fineness,
what passes on is only a vague
ephemeral show that blinds our
eyes that misleads our thinking,
Between this breath and the papers
on which flow the poignant sentiments
or the seasonal fecundity
ditty, at times gritty and granular,
what passes on is the imprint of
your alert mind inviting the double
readings of perverted thinking,
Between this breath and your existence
Surveyed by the vile and good,
balanced by patience and enduring,
what passes on is the life led or thrust,
but the life lived by you.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
( 164) The God of all things.
(164) The God of all things
The God of all things, all pervading,
whether you sit on majestic throne,
with a rod of scepter, keeping the laws
like a regulator turning this left and right,
else things will be in a rust and crumble,
or beef or flesh of a fox gored by the lion,
be it in the form of green leaves sprouting
or stem shooting, or leaves withered like
dead bones to be powdered,
oh! The God of all things
creep under the sofa like a fairy,
or a merman fishing deep in the Blue,
be the form of fire emitting fire,
Fire destroying fire and livestock,
fire engulfing straw and crops,
Canonfodder and sugarcane,
Oh! The God of all things,
You hide in the hinges of the door,
or through the rills of banister,
You spread on the thatched roof,
hidden underneath like a proof,
God of all things, be you the life giving
Source of the embryo in the womb
of the mother,
oh! The God of all things, be thou the
Spirit of sanity, sensibility and sanctity,
in any man envenomed by
undue doubt and calumny
when poison in cup of wine,
poured by the mistress,
or a woman of close-knit bond,
The God of all things,
You are the ultimate
and things profound and Divine!
The God of all things, all pervading,
whether you sit on majestic throne,
with a rod of scepter, keeping the laws
like a regulator turning this left and right,
else things will be in a rust and crumble,
or beef or flesh of a fox gored by the lion,
be it in the form of green leaves sprouting
or stem shooting, or leaves withered like
dead bones to be powdered,
oh! The God of all things
creep under the sofa like a fairy,
or a merman fishing deep in the Blue,
be the form of fire emitting fire,
Fire destroying fire and livestock,
fire engulfing straw and crops,
Canonfodder and sugarcane,
Oh! The God of all things,
You hide in the hinges of the door,
or through the rills of banister,
You spread on the thatched roof,
hidden underneath like a proof,
God of all things, be you the life giving
Source of the embryo in the womb
of the mother,
oh! The God of all things, be thou the
Spirit of sanity, sensibility and sanctity,
in any man envenomed by
undue doubt and calumny
when poison in cup of wine,
poured by the mistress,
or a woman of close-knit bond,
The God of all things,
You are the ultimate
and things profound and Divine!
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Gobbulle gobbulle 158)
Gobbulle gobbulle 158
I want to gobble a bottle of plain soda,
To quench my thirst in the hot sun,
After rummaging the library in the city,
Sweat and sweat and sweat,
Search after a theme of fine humour,
Ran down to a shop of snacks
Gobbled and gulped a bottle of soda
In turns and twists,
of plain water, wet my skirt through my jacket,
the gulping sound of water down my throat,
the note of gobbulle, gobbulle,
the rhythm of fine humour,
fun in the gulp followed by many hiccoughs,
gobbulle and gobbulle.
I want to gobble a bottle of plain soda,
To quench my thirst in the hot sun,
After rummaging the library in the city,
Sweat and sweat and sweat,
Search after a theme of fine humour,
Ran down to a shop of snacks
Gobbled and gulped a bottle of soda
In turns and twists,
of plain water, wet my skirt through my jacket,
the gulping sound of water down my throat,
the note of gobbulle, gobbulle,
the rhythm of fine humour,
fun in the gulp followed by many hiccoughs,
gobbulle and gobbulle.
Graying into green 140
Graying into green 140
Upon the graying of my hair, the roots getting weakened
I am inclined not towards dying, scratch the cerebellum
to get dragged into the past of agitation and anxiety,
of mixed ignorance, desperate roving and curiosity,
like a bewildered pilot in the sky, in the mid air,
Can’t afford to get stuckup, surfacing neither,
yet diving, delving, into the past, the green memory
Is bitter and painful, takes the crushed bittergauard?
an inevitable therapy, gulping the stigma at one stroke,
keep counting the unaccounted devils’ disciples,
dismayed at my folly believing every nonbeliever of
the conscience, I log off from my computer to
make a trip towards my counter side, how heartening
to see the fields of sugarcane and plantain leaves,
the farmer’s wife offers the curd rice with the mango pickle,
the speeding squirrels and the rats from their improvised moles,
is it a fear of survival or a free play in the interface
of the paddy mounds, I know not,
At times we too crave to escape from the inevitable rut.
Upon the graying of my hair, the roots getting weakened
I am inclined not towards dying, scratch the cerebellum
to get dragged into the past of agitation and anxiety,
of mixed ignorance, desperate roving and curiosity,
like a bewildered pilot in the sky, in the mid air,
Can’t afford to get stuckup, surfacing neither,
yet diving, delving, into the past, the green memory
Is bitter and painful, takes the crushed bittergauard?
an inevitable therapy, gulping the stigma at one stroke,
keep counting the unaccounted devils’ disciples,
dismayed at my folly believing every nonbeliever of
the conscience, I log off from my computer to
make a trip towards my counter side, how heartening
to see the fields of sugarcane and plantain leaves,
the farmer’s wife offers the curd rice with the mango pickle,
the speeding squirrels and the rats from their improvised moles,
is it a fear of survival or a free play in the interface
of the paddy mounds, I know not,
At times we too crave to escape from the inevitable rut.
Will you come tonight?
Will you come tonight?
will you come tonight?
like an ethereal minstrel
to pour the melody of oaken flute
of solace and soothing words
into our distressed soul,
and the tired bodies- me and my son,
lurk in a corner, need
your feather touch of comfort,
will you come tonight?
will you come tonight?
like a piercing gush of wind
blowing the tin plate on the
open terrace of the flat,
will you come tonight to make
love and romping romance?
as scandalized by them, when
truly you are unseen and
Shapeless and devoid of sex,
Will you come tonight to gore
the horrendous and view the weird?
Will you come tonight?
to watch the shutters of the
departmental store down but
still the humanity rush to make
the last minute purchase of curd and
cucumber for the next day,
for the salad on the plates,
to counteract the heat and sweat,
will you come tonight?
to sing lullaby
to many unborn babies,
in and around the environment.
Yes, you will come tonight,
And many nights to come
to protect the inmates of the house.
will you come tonight?
like an ethereal minstrel
to pour the melody of oaken flute
of solace and soothing words
into our distressed soul,
and the tired bodies- me and my son,
lurk in a corner, need
your feather touch of comfort,
will you come tonight?
will you come tonight?
like a piercing gush of wind
blowing the tin plate on the
open terrace of the flat,
will you come tonight to make
love and romping romance?
as scandalized by them, when
truly you are unseen and
Shapeless and devoid of sex,
Will you come tonight to gore
the horrendous and view the weird?
Will you come tonight?
to watch the shutters of the
departmental store down but
still the humanity rush to make
the last minute purchase of curd and
cucumber for the next day,
for the salad on the plates,
to counteract the heat and sweat,
will you come tonight?
to sing lullaby
to many unborn babies,
in and around the environment.
Yes, you will come tonight,
And many nights to come
to protect the inmates of the house.
The night is tough
The night is tough
The night is tough,
the night is indeed to-u-gh,
the cool breeze through my window
Through the embroidered curtain,
also fails for the trees fail,
the cute little friend,
my pc does not cooperate
for my fingers refuse to ply
on the pure white keyboard,
a timely gift by my uncle,
as sensible people are wont to react
keeping in tune with the times,
The white majestic key-board,
Neatly truncated with black letters,
just as a beautiful white neck,
ornate with black crystal necklace,
is momentarily idle on the table,
the usually roaring beach is calm
and the surrounding trees
are sedate and withhold the branches,
a sadism and cessation to keep
mankind in tantrum,
The night is tough
for only creatitivity and serenity
Pervades and anything pure and good
is tough and uncompromising,
the night is tough,
for there is no uncouth flavor of mundane
distraction and there is no bestial
for there is no man in the house,
The night is not tough,
for my inspirational thoughts
fly back on the wheels
for I am drowsy and fall into sleep.
The night is tough,
the night is indeed to-u-gh,
the cool breeze through my window
Through the embroidered curtain,
also fails for the trees fail,
the cute little friend,
my pc does not cooperate
for my fingers refuse to ply
on the pure white keyboard,
a timely gift by my uncle,
as sensible people are wont to react
keeping in tune with the times,
The white majestic key-board,
Neatly truncated with black letters,
just as a beautiful white neck,
ornate with black crystal necklace,
is momentarily idle on the table,
the usually roaring beach is calm
and the surrounding trees
are sedate and withhold the branches,
a sadism and cessation to keep
mankind in tantrum,
The night is tough
for only creatitivity and serenity
Pervades and anything pure and good
is tough and uncompromising,
the night is tough,
for there is no uncouth flavor of mundane
distraction and there is no bestial
for there is no man in the house,
The night is not tough,
for my inspirational thoughts
fly back on the wheels
for I am drowsy and fall into sleep.
160) The path
160) The path
When I am on the road grueling
on the prospect of a pathless journey,
sweat and struggle make me
run like a wounded elephant calf,
yes, the young calf, timid,
runs towards a pit
to fall to escape the wrath of the giants
of forest, such sights are familiar to me,
Me ,too the sight of a path is dim and distant,
in the thick forest of multi paths
negotiated by spiraling trees and fences,
the elephant the panther have
hidden behind some bushy plants,
peep out after rocky bombs stop pouring;
you counteract many a thorny bushy vile,
just as a knave wandering too many paths,
or a pig weltering in the slime,
too many paths ill suited,
you swoon to select a path ,
the business of path finding is
laborious and eluding,
I go to the clear pond where
the swan sways boat like and the
grazing cows by the green border
clear my inhibitions,
the path of Nature is the path
Preferred and practiced.
When I am on the road grueling
on the prospect of a pathless journey,
sweat and struggle make me
run like a wounded elephant calf,
yes, the young calf, timid,
runs towards a pit
to fall to escape the wrath of the giants
of forest, such sights are familiar to me,
Me ,too the sight of a path is dim and distant,
in the thick forest of multi paths
negotiated by spiraling trees and fences,
the elephant the panther have
hidden behind some bushy plants,
peep out after rocky bombs stop pouring;
you counteract many a thorny bushy vile,
just as a knave wandering too many paths,
or a pig weltering in the slime,
too many paths ill suited,
you swoon to select a path ,
the business of path finding is
laborious and eluding,
I go to the clear pond where
the swan sways boat like and the
grazing cows by the green border
clear my inhibitions,
the path of Nature is the path
Preferred and practiced.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
It is not the road not taken - a transcreation
It is not the road not taken - a transcreation
It is not the road not taken,
I encounter the same madding crowd
on the same intriguing paths,
much traveled;
I feel the same hurried footsteps
of humdrum men, amidst the deep
Breadth of the blue,
the same food prints on
the sands of time's eternity.
Yet I miss your pearly laughter
tinged with vibration,
craving for a niche in heart's nest,
I am alone here pining and plodding,
devoid of celebration of life.
It is not the road not taken,
I encounter the same madding crowd
on the same intriguing paths,
much traveled;
I feel the same hurried footsteps
of humdrum men, amidst the deep
Breadth of the blue,
the same food prints on
the sands of time's eternity.
Yet I miss your pearly laughter
tinged with vibration,
craving for a niche in heart's nest,
I am alone here pining and plodding,
devoid of celebration of life.
Hunger, when I was only ten
Hunger, when I was only ten
I was, young, ten, tender, ten only,
Not old enough to know the travails of
Poverty,
Hunger ate me alive,
When I starved hunger ate me alive,
I ran home from the school,
Ran faster than my body could sustain,
gulping water from the street tap,
The speed was breathless, speechless,
Straight ran into the kitchen,
To see the firewood was drenched,
For the thatched roof was leaky,
As if to shed tears for the desperate,
I, helpless, curled up in a corner,
Cursing my existence,
Befriending the cute kitten.
I was, young, ten, tender, ten only,
Not old enough to know the travails of
Poverty,
Hunger ate me alive,
When I starved hunger ate me alive,
I ran home from the school,
Ran faster than my body could sustain,
gulping water from the street tap,
The speed was breathless, speechless,
Straight ran into the kitchen,
To see the firewood was drenched,
For the thatched roof was leaky,
As if to shed tears for the desperate,
I, helpless, curled up in a corner,
Cursing my existence,
Befriending the cute kitten.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Who was my best friend?
Who was my best friend?
When hunger ate me alive,
When like the mischievous group
Of orangutans jumping from
One tree to another,
My belly was pinching poked
By the insides, when food was
Available in scarce, when shops
Were closed due to blackout,
When I could not enjoy the merry go
Round in the park and the prattles of
The children for my utterance each
Minute was construed a prank
by many wiseacres,
when my frantic phone call
to a life long friend was
turned down with a cold nod,
his being away at once for an
urgent purpose,
when currency urges to turn a concubine
to the much coveted wife’s position,
when kith and kin looked askance
when I retired voluntary, in the
matrimonial markets money alone plays
a roll more effective than the
roll call of many factors,
when buttermilk suffice both my
hunger and anger, I kiss the jar
when the shady tree was felled down,
Unauthorized and untimely,
the axe of the cruel hand was to be
cut off in a scuffle,
Kidneys are purchased and
Bargained and sold it was a
Rude shock for the unexpected,
The negative factor and the
Realization of the reality
To open my eyes in the future
Is my best and lasting friend.
When hunger ate me alive,
When like the mischievous group
Of orangutans jumping from
One tree to another,
My belly was pinching poked
By the insides, when food was
Available in scarce, when shops
Were closed due to blackout,
When I could not enjoy the merry go
Round in the park and the prattles of
The children for my utterance each
Minute was construed a prank
by many wiseacres,
when my frantic phone call
to a life long friend was
turned down with a cold nod,
his being away at once for an
urgent purpose,
when currency urges to turn a concubine
to the much coveted wife’s position,
when kith and kin looked askance
when I retired voluntary, in the
matrimonial markets money alone plays
a roll more effective than the
roll call of many factors,
when buttermilk suffice both my
hunger and anger, I kiss the jar
when the shady tree was felled down,
Unauthorized and untimely,
the axe of the cruel hand was to be
cut off in a scuffle,
Kidneys are purchased and
Bargained and sold it was a
Rude shock for the unexpected,
The negative factor and the
Realization of the reality
To open my eyes in the future
Is my best and lasting friend.
Tonight is an unusual night 136
Tonight is an unusual night 136
Tonight is an unusual night,
for after the day’s hard labor
and the mute witness of the mindless
actions of men over many dumb and
desperate, deviled, my mind questions
my self, why should I be silent?
It results only in the thanksgiving,
to God for this.
Tonight is an unusual night,
for a view from my balcony
takes me on to many sights
when on the other side many
Sightless sigh for the depravity.
Tonight is an unusual night
for the land is wet and the
breeze carries the dampening
aura of the soil and pleasant
augury for the passersby.
Tonight is an unusual night
for I could view the aircraft
playing hide and seek and the
wink by the wheels, make me merry.
Tonight is an unusual night
for my pen records how the
Small and silly think they are
Good and wise in this generous land,
for the land which they tread upon
bears them too with patience
Tonight is an unusual night,
for after the day’s hard labor
and the mute witness of the mindless
actions of men over many dumb and
desperate, deviled, my mind questions
my self, why should I be silent?
It results only in the thanksgiving,
to God for this.
Tonight is an unusual night,
for a view from my balcony
takes me on to many sights
when on the other side many
Sightless sigh for the depravity.
Tonight is an unusual night
for the land is wet and the
breeze carries the dampening
aura of the soil and pleasant
augury for the passersby.
Tonight is an unusual night
for I could view the aircraft
playing hide and seek and the
wink by the wheels, make me merry.
Tonight is an unusual night
for my pen records how the
Small and silly think they are
Good and wise in this generous land,
for the land which they tread upon
bears them too with patience
Sunday, November 12, 2006
My glasses
My glasses
When I see through my dust-laden looking glasses
For want of a soft, hand kerchief, handy and embroidered,
Not the libidinous one playing havoc in cherub like Desdemona,
This cloth was dropped in the moving bus, how much of wants
and wishes to be fulfilled, I see, men and matter are
Sandwiched between what not and where;
Nearby a bunk a lanky boy in rags selling a lottery ticket
To recharge the battery of his living, lacking the education
even minimal to blame the society or discreet enough to
convert his birth to his advantage, not vile enough to
blame his parents to have brought him to this soil
of adversity and bonded lab our, cannot but think of his
sister with myriad dreams of her future but scratching her
hair domineered by lice and dandruff, soon a stern call
from her step- mother to fetch a pail of water from the
adjoining well, failing which not a drop of tea to quench her
thirst, I bend down to pick up my spectacles, fallen on the
mound, only to see the scratches, so much more to see through
the distorted lines, somuch to see through humanity
so profound to understand the living space.
When I see through my dust-laden looking glasses
For want of a soft, hand kerchief, handy and embroidered,
Not the libidinous one playing havoc in cherub like Desdemona,
This cloth was dropped in the moving bus, how much of wants
and wishes to be fulfilled, I see, men and matter are
Sandwiched between what not and where;
Nearby a bunk a lanky boy in rags selling a lottery ticket
To recharge the battery of his living, lacking the education
even minimal to blame the society or discreet enough to
convert his birth to his advantage, not vile enough to
blame his parents to have brought him to this soil
of adversity and bonded lab our, cannot but think of his
sister with myriad dreams of her future but scratching her
hair domineered by lice and dandruff, soon a stern call
from her step- mother to fetch a pail of water from the
adjoining well, failing which not a drop of tea to quench her
thirst, I bend down to pick up my spectacles, fallen on the
mound, only to see the scratches, so much more to see through
the distorted lines, somuch to see through humanity
so profound to understand the living space.
What mythological creature are you?
What mythological creature are you?
What mythological creature are you?
Are you born with siblings, meant to
lead an ordinary life of marry and tarry,
or preordained to be a sage to preach and protect
the prurient and purblind and purvey many,
unseen, yet seeing and shelving,
just as the roaring waterfalls you are
Uncontrollable and warring and curing,
Is your birth ordained by the divine?
or disdained by the growing, numberless,
or the summing up of all heaven’s blessings
slated for this earth, you can be roped by the fire,
Unaffected, unscathed, dive deep into the water,
Redeem the one from sinking and submerge,
Sing the songs and shrink and shrivel
Yet move less as a stone, making miracles,
Like the revolving flower of rose petals
On the God head are you the trinity
The creator, protector and destroyer.
What mythological creature are you?
Are you born with siblings, meant to
lead an ordinary life of marry and tarry,
or preordained to be a sage to preach and protect
the prurient and purblind and purvey many,
unseen, yet seeing and shelving,
just as the roaring waterfalls you are
Uncontrollable and warring and curing,
Is your birth ordained by the divine?
or disdained by the growing, numberless,
or the summing up of all heaven’s blessings
slated for this earth, you can be roped by the fire,
Unaffected, unscathed, dive deep into the water,
Redeem the one from sinking and submerge,
Sing the songs and shrink and shrivel
Yet move less as a stone, making miracles,
Like the revolving flower of rose petals
On the God head are you the trinity
The creator, protector and destroyer.
(135) In the stillness of the night
In the still of the night 135
In the still of the night, when the stars twinkle,
In the permanent residency of the blue horizon,
when the moonlit rays come through the balcony,
as if to spy if the madam is fast asleep,
to steal her ravishing beauty,
or like a good sentry to prevent any seasoned
Conman with a mega plan,
In the still of the night when the college student
closes his books after being hugged by mother sleep,
The cat with its paw soft and silent comes
To prey upon the rat, rattling in the kitchen,
In the still of the night romance is at peak
In the not nearby cinema theatre when the hero
confesses his avowed affinity for his partner,
in the still of the night, when the concubine
to give vent to her disturbed moods disturbs her man,
to be away from his wife, a sadism and urgency,
in the stillness of the night, when the two figures
in dark, covered robes to cover their sinister plan
of runaway marriage in a far-off cottage,
in the stillness of the same night, don’t get to
Sleep only to remind myself how all seeing God
was good enough to wake me to see the life of
fake and fraud -- soon would have engulfed me!
In the stillness of the same night I close my eyes
Timely opened to thank God for ever and forever.
In the still of the night, when the stars twinkle,
In the permanent residency of the blue horizon,
when the moonlit rays come through the balcony,
as if to spy if the madam is fast asleep,
to steal her ravishing beauty,
or like a good sentry to prevent any seasoned
Conman with a mega plan,
In the still of the night when the college student
closes his books after being hugged by mother sleep,
The cat with its paw soft and silent comes
To prey upon the rat, rattling in the kitchen,
In the still of the night romance is at peak
In the not nearby cinema theatre when the hero
confesses his avowed affinity for his partner,
in the still of the night, when the concubine
to give vent to her disturbed moods disturbs her man,
to be away from his wife, a sadism and urgency,
in the stillness of the night, when the two figures
in dark, covered robes to cover their sinister plan
of runaway marriage in a far-off cottage,
in the stillness of the same night, don’t get to
Sleep only to remind myself how all seeing God
was good enough to wake me to see the life of
fake and fraud -- soon would have engulfed me!
In the stillness of the same night I close my eyes
Timely opened to thank God for ever and forever.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Togetherness (119)
Togetherness 119
We are together in the self same house, for years
not rolling in the dunlap bed,nor jumping on those
pillows,colorful,cushioned comfort of seeming Paradise,
neither living a physical life of mundane happiness,
nor loving a physical life of mundane happiness.
In total pitch dark and long power failure sudden,
our eyes are closed, praying to the God and chanting the divine
the darkness is light enough surrounding,
the knowledge of Vedic discipline is encircling,
unyielding even to the mean desire of punishing,
punishing those pugnacious,petty and puerile
putting into fixture those gritty and vile,
is not in our blood, our mental plane coagulate,
though the salacious determined to operate,
we will not our principles deny and negate.
We are together in the self same house, for years
not rolling in the dunlap bed,nor jumping on those
pillows,colorful,cushioned comfort of seeming Paradise,
neither living a physical life of mundane happiness,
nor loving a physical life of mundane happiness.
In total pitch dark and long power failure sudden,
our eyes are closed, praying to the God and chanting the divine
the darkness is light enough surrounding,
the knowledge of Vedic discipline is encircling,
unyielding even to the mean desire of punishing,
punishing those pugnacious,petty and puerile
putting into fixture those gritty and vile,
is not in our blood, our mental plane coagulate,
though the salacious determined to operate,
we will not our principles deny and negate.
What is special about her?
What is special about her?
It is not the salad she meticulous, prepared for the kids
for the lunch, nor her hurriedly packed food
devoid of salt: how often she feels the life is without
pepper and salt, swallow the salad, she tells her ward,
she swallows many an injustice yet to digest,
there is a knock at the door by the gaunt man
fetches the cylinder,
the full weight on his shoulder,
he is overwhelmed by the reward for his
burden and service for he is used to
only pittance, she places herself in his position,
in the Almighty’s creation, the business about this
disparity and dignity is a continuous conundrum,
in her kitchen the milk cooker whistles beyond
the boiling point, pitying the enslaved,
what is the thud in the bedroom?
the wardrobe as if with a warring note pushes
the garments to be rearranged, with the same folds,
the deafening noise of the crackers
getting on her nerves, the mismanaged accounts
beckoning her calculating brain, the food particles,
on the teakwood table strewn, inviting insects
the flawed milk satchel to be replaced,
the reprimanding school reports of her ward,
it is too much for the little brain to assimilate
the listless list, yet her thinking self reassert
“thank God! You have given me a roof,
think of the roofless who mourn their grief in public”.
It is not the salad she meticulous, prepared for the kids
for the lunch, nor her hurriedly packed food
devoid of salt: how often she feels the life is without
pepper and salt, swallow the salad, she tells her ward,
she swallows many an injustice yet to digest,
there is a knock at the door by the gaunt man
fetches the cylinder,
the full weight on his shoulder,
he is overwhelmed by the reward for his
burden and service for he is used to
only pittance, she places herself in his position,
in the Almighty’s creation, the business about this
disparity and dignity is a continuous conundrum,
in her kitchen the milk cooker whistles beyond
the boiling point, pitying the enslaved,
what is the thud in the bedroom?
the wardrobe as if with a warring note pushes
the garments to be rearranged, with the same folds,
the deafening noise of the crackers
getting on her nerves, the mismanaged accounts
beckoning her calculating brain, the food particles,
on the teakwood table strewn, inviting insects
the flawed milk satchel to be replaced,
the reprimanding school reports of her ward,
it is too much for the little brain to assimilate
the listless list, yet her thinking self reassert
“thank God! You have given me a roof,
think of the roofless who mourn their grief in public”.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
slow poisoning
slow poisoning
When she came to me with a secret quite casual,
tantalising and provoking my curiosity,she poisined
me heart, my faith and conviction,it was a slow and
steady manouvre,more venemous than that of Hamlet's
mother for the king was done for gain. The news was
itching and and she saw me dying everyday,yet
nourished me with her flavour,her flesh, just a mutual caring,
unseated my heart and secured she was,
her heart more and more willed by tenacity,
stony and stubble :
the secret was to be a secret the wretch amd wreck she was,
for the gnawing secret was a sin falsified,concocted,
she is just happy, doubly happy, remorseless,
the leaves in my tree are gone,she offered to water
the tree,still the roots are gone,
waiting to be strengethened by the
waters of the heaven.
When she came to me with a secret quite casual,
tantalising and provoking my curiosity,she poisined
me heart, my faith and conviction,it was a slow and
steady manouvre,more venemous than that of Hamlet's
mother for the king was done for gain. The news was
itching and and she saw me dying everyday,yet
nourished me with her flavour,her flesh, just a mutual caring,
unseated my heart and secured she was,
her heart more and more willed by tenacity,
stony and stubble :
the secret was to be a secret the wretch amd wreck she was,
for the gnawing secret was a sin falsified,concocted,
she is just happy, doubly happy, remorseless,
the leaves in my tree are gone,she offered to water
the tree,still the roots are gone,
waiting to be strengethened by the
waters of the heaven.
A rumination in the platform
A rumination in the platform
A rumination in the platform
you sit your eyes closed in the busy platform
of the railway station viewing the busy humanity's
throb and bustle,dragging the children on the right,
along with the luggage,sometimes the pressure of
time bound programme is such,I cannot but wonder,
the luggaage and children as if baggage on equal platform,
nearby the weight machine is out of order,perhaps
somuch so, on the wornout stage,
so many sequential views on your mind stored as if
in a pen drive, automatic doors bar the passengers,
I recall the buses packed and half of the bus almost
on the ground touching,in India,amidst touching scenes,
a mendicant woman in rags on the road,near the signal
projecting her child with the uncouth calls,quick nod
from my memory if the gas cylinder is switched off,
if the greenleaves on the fry pan is overboiled to the black,
whether the windows have been closed:
the telephone bill is paid or to be cut,uncertain
queries like the failing monsoon throng me,
my train comes to take me unmindful of my situation.
A rumination in the platform
you sit your eyes closed in the busy platform
of the railway station viewing the busy humanity's
throb and bustle,dragging the children on the right,
along with the luggage,sometimes the pressure of
time bound programme is such,I cannot but wonder,
the luggaage and children as if baggage on equal platform,
nearby the weight machine is out of order,perhaps
somuch so, on the wornout stage,
so many sequential views on your mind stored as if
in a pen drive, automatic doors bar the passengers,
I recall the buses packed and half of the bus almost
on the ground touching,in India,amidst touching scenes,
a mendicant woman in rags on the road,near the signal
projecting her child with the uncouth calls,quick nod
from my memory if the gas cylinder is switched off,
if the greenleaves on the fry pan is overboiled to the black,
whether the windows have been closed:
the telephone bill is paid or to be cut,uncertain
queries like the failing monsoon throng me,
my train comes to take me unmindful of my situation.
Blue blue
Blue blue
I am bubbling blue in my buoyant,
walking by the beach,blue by the blue,
simply blued by the blue colour of the sky
touching the ocean,
like the magic wand of the supreme,
measured beat of the creator,
the mighty,uncontrolled waves of the deep
waves roll up and down and up and down,
I stand blooming blue by the blue,
stretching my imagination with a wide
ambience,my neatly tucked
blue bordered saree serenading
with my expectations,dispelling my
belligerent attitude surging on my baser instincts,
I sing along by the blue,blue,blue.
I am bubbling blue in my buoyant,
walking by the beach,blue by the blue,
simply blued by the blue colour of the sky
touching the ocean,
like the magic wand of the supreme,
measured beat of the creator,
the mighty,uncontrolled waves of the deep
waves roll up and down and up and down,
I stand blooming blue by the blue,
stretching my imagination with a wide
ambience,my neatly tucked
blue bordered saree serenading
with my expectations,dispelling my
belligerent attitude surging on my baser instincts,
I sing along by the blue,blue,blue.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Identity
Identity
Here I stand in my kitchen,the shelf ill arranged,
the rotten tomatoes and coriander inviting the tiny
insects a,mockery on my carelessness,I search for
the knief hidden in the bunch of green chillies slowly
changing the colour into red, half visible,like the woman, totally
in contrast with the deep and as changing as
the chameleon not visible to the plain and open,
the woman has many followers,
the water does not flow for the rust and mud blocks
in the pipeline, by the time the plumber decides to attend
I go berserk,
I prepare ' Whitsun Weddings' for the next class,
the bread crumbs in the pan go black,
a hurried jump from my table is only to remove
and empty the vessel, the sincerity I pay,
I learnt a lesson,the book and the pan
hardly ever go together.
Here I stand in my kitchen,the shelf ill arranged,
the rotten tomatoes and coriander inviting the tiny
insects a,mockery on my carelessness,I search for
the knief hidden in the bunch of green chillies slowly
changing the colour into red, half visible,like the woman, totally
in contrast with the deep and as changing as
the chameleon not visible to the plain and open,
the woman has many followers,
the water does not flow for the rust and mud blocks
in the pipeline, by the time the plumber decides to attend
I go berserk,
I prepare ' Whitsun Weddings' for the next class,
the bread crumbs in the pan go black,
a hurried jump from my table is only to remove
and empty the vessel, the sincerity I pay,
I learnt a lesson,the book and the pan
hardly ever go together.
Friday, September 15, 2006
why I was born?
I would be silly to ask
why I was born and
it would sound as
meaningless and dogmatic
to question the very
design of cosmic
mystery.why?I am
perfectly happy and proud
to counteract the people like
you,to pose a question why
you were born?like thorns to
be brushed aside,
I ask my mom who sings a
lullaby to my little brother
in a pram,the very same
question,she replies
with a smile that it is the will
of God that we are born
so that a few are torn out of
jealousy to sling arrows of poison
and calumny,to drive us more
mature and poised and more
pious and devout.
I would be silly to ask
why I was born and
it would sound as
meaningless and dogmatic
to question the very
design of cosmic
mystery.why?I am
perfectly happy and proud
to counteract the people like
you,to pose a question why
you were born?like thorns to
be brushed aside,
I ask my mom who sings a
lullaby to my little brother
in a pram,the very same
question,she replies
with a smile that it is the will
of God that we are born
so that a few are torn out of
jealousy to sling arrows of poison
and calumny,to drive us more
mature and poised and more
pious and devout.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
128) salt
Salt(128)
You cannot relish the sweetness of your life,
without the savor of pepper and salt of toil
and sweat after struggle and grinding,
you must wipe out the salted sweat
but the kitchen needs to start a pinch of
salt in every dish. The ancient habit was
to brush the teeth with salt and to
arrest the bleeding wound,
the doctor’s prescription salt less
is an inevitable punishment and remedy
you serve me the salt to kick start
the day with breakfast and boldness.
You cannot relish the sweetness of your life,
without the savor of pepper and salt of toil
and sweat after struggle and grinding,
you must wipe out the salted sweat
but the kitchen needs to start a pinch of
salt in every dish. The ancient habit was
to brush the teeth with salt and to
arrest the bleeding wound,
the doctor’s prescription salt less
is an inevitable punishment and remedy
you serve me the salt to kick start
the day with breakfast and boldness.
An appeasement by God (120)
An appeasement by God( 120)
My hasty, unthinking self
murmurs its predicament,
Why not shake the God
Who has granted the boon?
Who has given me the boon?
Taking those sins and salacious
Of those deliberate and calculated,
I wonder why the bestial in man
And woman, apart from
The sins primordial,
Passing calumny on the God and
Even the God sent
Perpetuate calumny countless,
Reason quells my angered tone
it is ancient and hierarchical
else how could you read the fall
of Adam and Eve and myths,
miracles in fables,
while the omnipotent watches
in silence, the all-knowing
heeds, stays as move less as stone;
Crucifixion need not be
Body chained and nailed;
Crucifixion could also be
Slings of arrows and scum
and mud of words of calumny
thrown and reviled,
the dictates of my conscience
rules like a prince crowned,
‘You are ignorant of the situation,
Those are ignorant of their of predicament,
it is not your predicament
Endurance is your treasure’
My hasty, unthinking self
murmurs its predicament,
Why not shake the God
Who has granted the boon?
Who has given me the boon?
Taking those sins and salacious
Of those deliberate and calculated,
I wonder why the bestial in man
And woman, apart from
The sins primordial,
Passing calumny on the God and
Even the God sent
Perpetuate calumny countless,
Reason quells my angered tone
it is ancient and hierarchical
else how could you read the fall
of Adam and Eve and myths,
miracles in fables,
while the omnipotent watches
in silence, the all-knowing
heeds, stays as move less as stone;
Crucifixion need not be
Body chained and nailed;
Crucifixion could also be
Slings of arrows and scum
and mud of words of calumny
thrown and reviled,
the dictates of my conscience
rules like a prince crowned,
‘You are ignorant of the situation,
Those are ignorant of their of predicament,
it is not your predicament
Endurance is your treasure’
The baby
He, cute and tender in the cradle moved,
when the wind rustled past as the music,
through the flute in the wooded forest
touching the innocent and fragile,
thought that the worldwas all too good
a place to live and in his sleep smiled,
that all his needs would be taken care of,
with an intermittent twitch of his lips
showing his desperate anger why he
was thrown out of his cozy protective orb
for the angel that lulled him to sleep
Sometime was away tending other infants
May be the wandering angels are also
Targeted by sinister looks and naughty, bestial.
He, cute and tender in the cradle moved,
when the wind rustled past as the music,
through the flute in the wooded forest
touching the innocent and fragile,
thought that the worldwas all too good
a place to live and in his sleep smiled,
that all his needs would be taken care of,
with an intermittent twitch of his lips
showing his desperate anger why he
was thrown out of his cozy protective orb
for the angel that lulled him to sleep
Sometime was away tending other infants
May be the wandering angels are also
Targeted by sinister looks and naughty, bestial.
I have hugged her –
I have hugged her slender, soft body in vain,
pouring hundreds of kisses of warmth,
promising all wealth and a life of luxury,
frequent flights and delicious food at
expensive restaurants, cuisines and comforts,
no perfumes nor make-ups nor any
artificial application of skin care,
kisses of regret and remorse on her
fragile body, regret for the loss of
Spring, sprightly days, tender, fragile
no responses, no movements,
no understanding, no romantic sentiments,
I have hugged her in vain, for her life
was made null and void,
vowed to whet my wounded pride in the
hug of a concubine, belief and faith falsified,
I have hugged her in vain, for what I hugged
and kissed was only a picture,
hung on the wall, my lady of the house,
no more.
I have hugged her slender, soft body in vain,
pouring hundreds of kisses of warmth,
promising all wealth and a life of luxury,
frequent flights and delicious food at
expensive restaurants, cuisines and comforts,
no perfumes nor make-ups nor any
artificial application of skin care,
kisses of regret and remorse on her
fragile body, regret for the loss of
Spring, sprightly days, tender, fragile
no responses, no movements,
no understanding, no romantic sentiments,
I have hugged her in vain, for her life
was made null and void,
vowed to whet my wounded pride in the
hug of a concubine, belief and faith falsified,
I have hugged her in vain, for what I hugged
and kissed was only a picture,
hung on the wall, my lady of the house,
no more.
Brinjal not in my kitchen anymore
Gone were those innocent days when my grand mother
took great care to prepare spicy brinjal in deep fry,
stuffed by spicy coconut and dals pounded by her deft hands,
oil oozing out of the fried brinjal in fresh shining bowl
would my grandmother serve with affection and care,
chide me if I put my fingers into my mouth for full taste,
those were my innocent days when little did I realize,
if sufficient fried brinjal was left for her in the pan,
when she had fever one day my pride experimented
the brinjal in her well set kitchen, agog I began,
a sharp knife to cut the spongy brinjal into pieces,
first cut was the worst hit to my pride, for the sleek
knife cut not the vegetable but the wriggling worms inside,
it was an eyesore to me and I felt the worms inside my stomach
teasing my experiment, and vomiting sensation forthwith
my fingers nervous became and I held the brinjal by the tail
with a shriek, out I Came and threw it into the bin,
my grand mother in feeble voice queried, if the deep fry was
over.
I replied that the pan was dry for there was no oil to fry,
the glass container fell to the ground and broke
never again would I dare to relish the brinjal,
gone were those innocent days when my grandmother
took care to prepare spicy brinjal in deep fry.
Gone were those innocent days when my grand mother
took great care to prepare spicy brinjal in deep fry,
stuffed by spicy coconut and dals pounded by her deft hands,
oil oozing out of the fried brinjal in fresh shining bowl
would my grandmother serve with affection and care,
chide me if I put my fingers into my mouth for full taste,
those were my innocent days when little did I realize,
if sufficient fried brinjal was left for her in the pan,
when she had fever one day my pride experimented
the brinjal in her well set kitchen, agog I began,
a sharp knife to cut the spongy brinjal into pieces,
first cut was the worst hit to my pride, for the sleek
knife cut not the vegetable but the wriggling worms inside,
it was an eyesore to me and I felt the worms inside my stomach
teasing my experiment, and vomiting sensation forthwith
my fingers nervous became and I held the brinjal by the tail
with a shriek, out I Came and threw it into the bin,
my grand mother in feeble voice queried, if the deep fry was
over.
I replied that the pan was dry for there was no oil to fry,
the glass container fell to the ground and broke
never again would I dare to relish the brinjal,
gone were those innocent days when my grandmother
took care to prepare spicy brinjal in deep fry.
Google
To google every morn with eager eyes
is serendipity dawned on you,
each new item enthralls and fascinates
a pleasing exercise for your mind and eye,
a delightful delve into the river of information
and knowledge, a pastime and perfect
diapason with the computer:
I browse, talk, chat and sing
and sing along the music of cd
to ward off your melancholy,
I google, google with a gleeful gain.
To google every morn with eager eyes
is serendipity dawned on you,
each new item enthralls and fascinates
a pleasing exercise for your mind and eye,
a delightful delve into the river of information
and knowledge, a pastime and perfect
diapason with the computer:
I browse, talk, chat and sing
and sing along the music of cd
to ward off your melancholy,
I google, google with a gleeful gain.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Intrusion
When you made intrusion into my much
guarded garden of lovely roses and boughs of
Chrysanthemum, coupled with aromatic jasmine,
the parrot, the bejeweled queen
Pecks and pours in a note of clairvoyance,
the coming seasonal torrential rains flooding
the farmers and ferrets rising to the balconies,
the inundated roads with playing water reptiles,
agonizing the invested landlords,
I see a hooded snake in the corner,
out of sheer frustration and anger
lost even the last bit of venom,
biting the snake charmer chanced by,
To befriend the serene and sacred;
The prop up dancing rose buds
As if to nod, a welcoming yes,
Many a nod, many a nod of approval
for upcoming positive signs.
As if new born babies yet to open their eyes!
When your not deft, yet rugged fingers plucked
those colorful flowers, those smiling ones
I had the feel of the crude sickle in my hand,
to fell the roots and stemmed trees
I had been accustomed to play under,
near the wall somebody pours the peels of the yam,
the black colors of those discarded skins
try to steal into paradise,
amidst these creeping rummage ,
Those lovely flowers dance, those flowers,
embodiment of creator’s excellence,
dance, swing and swing.
When you made intrusion into my much
guarded garden of lovely roses and boughs of
Chrysanthemum, coupled with aromatic jasmine,
the parrot, the bejeweled queen
Pecks and pours in a note of clairvoyance,
the coming seasonal torrential rains flooding
the farmers and ferrets rising to the balconies,
the inundated roads with playing water reptiles,
agonizing the invested landlords,
I see a hooded snake in the corner,
out of sheer frustration and anger
lost even the last bit of venom,
biting the snake charmer chanced by,
To befriend the serene and sacred;
The prop up dancing rose buds
As if to nod, a welcoming yes,
Many a nod, many a nod of approval
for upcoming positive signs.
As if new born babies yet to open their eyes!
When your not deft, yet rugged fingers plucked
those colorful flowers, those smiling ones
I had the feel of the crude sickle in my hand,
to fell the roots and stemmed trees
I had been accustomed to play under,
near the wall somebody pours the peels of the yam,
the black colors of those discarded skins
try to steal into paradise,
amidst these creeping rummage ,
Those lovely flowers dance, those flowers,
embodiment of creator’s excellence,
dance, swing and swing.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Water is warm
In this hot summer when you aspire
near the computer at the loving dictates of
Your Muse, you abominably perspire,
wiping your cheeks on which not the
drops but rivers of sweat flow
Very very hot, you take a break
to take bath, the pipes too are hot to touch,
the waters are meant to cool you
your skin reddens, the color changes,
bubbles form, itch on on the skin
You wonder why this summer
it is extreme like this,
Creativity ponders, hot water
in hottest summer to arrest
your thinking and writing,
Nature’s wrath and fury
In pipelines and taps
tapping our patience.
may be it is a mockery
at his man's stony heart,
When he is cold and arrogant
The summer waters simmer
Showing their anger.
In this hot summer when you aspire
near the computer at the loving dictates of
Your Muse, you abominably perspire,
wiping your cheeks on which not the
drops but rivers of sweat flow
Very very hot, you take a break
to take bath, the pipes too are hot to touch,
the waters are meant to cool you
your skin reddens, the color changes,
bubbles form, itch on on the skin
You wonder why this summer
it is extreme like this,
Creativity ponders, hot water
in hottest summer to arrest
your thinking and writing,
Nature’s wrath and fury
In pipelines and taps
tapping our patience.
may be it is a mockery
at his man's stony heart,
When he is cold and arrogant
The summer waters simmer
Showing their anger.
To forget those days of dilemma and injustice,
to forget those days of excruciating pain,
to transform these cruel experiences into print
to greet yourself into the rose garden of flowers
and to imbibe the aura of peace and cheer to the
anguished soul and body, I log on to my computer,
to my personal computer, my friend in distress,
a prurient philosopher, a right palm to donate,
freely and immeasurably and even unasked,
I log on confidently, careless, due to custom,
my friend opens his window of warmth,
slow and steady, teasing my patience,
like the wavy curtains raised up for
the theatrical show for the audience eager,
My fingers are typing fast amidst
Sprouting spasms and pop-ups,
which dominate like the flies on neon lamps?
thoughts spontaneous overflow not only,
pent-up emotions, springing from acute
observations, getting converted from
Pigeon-holes to printed versions,
Suddenly stickiness, a slow movement
creeps on the key-board: I recline on my chair,
I resume a poetry website with a screen
embellishing cherry tree and a playing
child underneath enlivening me.
m fast fingers continue type to
Contribute to the site.
to forget those days of excruciating pain,
to transform these cruel experiences into print
to greet yourself into the rose garden of flowers
and to imbibe the aura of peace and cheer to the
anguished soul and body, I log on to my computer,
to my personal computer, my friend in distress,
a prurient philosopher, a right palm to donate,
freely and immeasurably and even unasked,
I log on confidently, careless, due to custom,
my friend opens his window of warmth,
slow and steady, teasing my patience,
like the wavy curtains raised up for
the theatrical show for the audience eager,
My fingers are typing fast amidst
Sprouting spasms and pop-ups,
which dominate like the flies on neon lamps?
thoughts spontaneous overflow not only,
pent-up emotions, springing from acute
observations, getting converted from
Pigeon-holes to printed versions,
Suddenly stickiness, a slow movement
creeps on the key-board: I recline on my chair,
I resume a poetry website with a screen
embellishing cherry tree and a playing
child underneath enlivening me.
m fast fingers continue type to
Contribute to the site.
A temptation
Yesterday you tempted me with a peculiar arrow
Not of Cupid’s but of ambition to reach to
Dizzy heights, loving the Muse,
Inhaling the aroma of knowledge
From books piled upon like pillows,
hugging with a warmth of knowledge,
Knowledge to learn many things
Of the world,
Suddenly an electric idea dawns upon me,
What gained by me in time
not only of books but also
observations, cautioning me further,
life is a rich tree with big branches,
this cannot be uprooted,
I get up and go to the balcony,
Still humanity is active even
at one’clock for the first show is over
Just now,a clandestine affair
behind the milk –booth
followed by the speeding water tanker
hitting the road side garbage slits
and frightened dogs runs barking by.
Iam not getting sleep and go back to
Andrew Motion and Gillian Clarke
Allen Ginnesberg and Walt Whitman
and Emily Dickenson to browse.
Yesterday you tempted me with a peculiar arrow
Not of Cupid’s but of ambition to reach to
Dizzy heights, loving the Muse,
Inhaling the aroma of knowledge
From books piled upon like pillows,
hugging with a warmth of knowledge,
Knowledge to learn many things
Of the world,
Suddenly an electric idea dawns upon me,
What gained by me in time
not only of books but also
observations, cautioning me further,
life is a rich tree with big branches,
this cannot be uprooted,
I get up and go to the balcony,
Still humanity is active even
at one’clock for the first show is over
Just now,a clandestine affair
behind the milk –booth
followed by the speeding water tanker
hitting the road side garbage slits
and frightened dogs runs barking by.
Iam not getting sleep and go back to
Andrew Motion and Gillian Clarke
Allen Ginnesberg and Walt Whitman
and Emily Dickenson to browse.
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