What I hate and like in Britain.

Cold,  cold  and puffs of  cold  

 and smoke   which  I deter,

let  them  go  as tizzy    lather.

But , Britain’s language  and Literature

My ambition, my  Love , degree    and  Life’s   nurture,

The  white   Doves   and  chirping   birds,

Potential  , innumerable   take   off 

and   landing  planes,  make  you

wonder  how  small  we are

before  Nature’s Flight.

The  coffee  aroma , takes

You   far off  the  boundary

For   writing   verse.

England’s pride   is its 

Treasure  of poetry

Which  I cherish 

Unto  my  last  Breath.

My Favourite Crow

My Favourite   Crow.

 PETISH  In   endearing  looks,

It  comes  in the appointed  hour 

Of    each  day, sits  in its own 

Selected corner,   right  side of

The  curved  balcony. I wait  for

the  affectionate  swoop  and   its

Cawing,    cawing. Pecking   the 

Small  rice  balls, looking  askance

Checking every now  and then,

 If   I am there. As  a   child 

How  often, I used   to  play

With  the fallen  feathers,

In my  grown  up  stage,  they

were  my  book marks,

now   I pray  the  feathers 

should  not   drop. Delighted

Crow  goes  back  to  its   abode

On the  green tree, clustered

With orange boughs. Tomorrow

Comes  for  both .

Autumn Takes A Hand In Our Lives.

            Autumn  takes  a  hand in our  lives.

              

     That  was  a  special   Tree, unusually

    A   special   year, Summer  still  hanging  on,

    Sidelining  AUTUMN, tree

   wears   the  dual  look  of   amber 

   and   pristine   green .

What if  cedar or pine?

 Under the mist,  sunshine,   yellow:   longing   years

have gone by. Eve   waited  for years

Yearning  for  Adam, her  soul mate.

Who hath not seen    her  under The  Special TREE?

What  if  cedar or pine?

Daily brewing  a  ritual  she sees ,

Eagerly waiting  for  her  special , Adam.  

Slowly  Autumn  not steals , but

Steady   occupies  her predominance,

At last Adam  came there,

With  a   Modern Book  of   Psalms,

Preaches  Eve, don’t  trespass

The  philosophy of  Life,

Let  us    RUE  not  the  BYGONE  years.

Allowing  the  forbidden  fruit

To   rot  in the stem

and  fall  to  the  ground

of  pale  stricken  leaves ,

Autumn   gleams   a Victories   smile.

This Autumnal sway On The Plant.

This   Autumnal  Sway On The Plant.

The  tawny,  sturdy  stalks  of  the   plant

already     Started      crying   a   sylvan   dirge .

The  slow  weaning   eco  cells

Send  out    an  urgent    note of  SOS

to  its  surroundings.

Blowing  winds  are not

Harbingers   of  Peace  or  Growth.

The  purple  flowers  ,fragranced   sweet,

are   unhappy to  leave  their  homes.

The  thinned   leaves  almost

powdered ,ready to  undergo

Crucifixion    on the  ground.

The  accustomed ,seasoned birds

Still   come  and  go  on this  lone tree.

After  all   they  are different

 from  human beings. 

Peace in A Cave.

Peace   in   A  Cave   

Knit   and   crochet  the  cute 

Handkerchief , the  embroidered  

edges , decor  and  shine,

 the  thread of   PEACE, The Message

runs   across, pass  it  on,

it  finds  its  place  in  a

 crushed  corner: thread is  cut.

Peace  is  in   coffers.

Doves   are  daggers  now,

Trampled    by  the  mad  rush ,

You  search  for  the  cream  of 

Human  love  and  care. Only to

  See  Sheepish  or  woolly   smile,

Enough  is  enough,

Trudging    along, climb  up

The  echoing   cave of  the

Mountain  top, close  eyes,

Find  the  radiance of

Peace   from   within.

Wrinkles

                    Wrinkles

She   just   returns from   beauty   parlour.

Facial    by   expert is done.

Patient   sitting, mind  takes

 her  Far   off   times.

Exfoliation   by  expert  hands .

The  Show  is  for  a  good  SHOW

Of    family  get  together.

She  sees  opposite  her paternal  kin,

Slim  yet   stubborn   with  a Will    power,    

Age   shows its prowess on him,

His   staggering    walk, slowly

Climbing   up   the  staircase,

Banister  gives  him  support.

The  wrinkles   across , all over

  shrink  and  move, speak

Of   year long   suffering, toil,

Sacrifice , also  a  kind of

Exfoliation, surprisingly.

It is much expected Sunday.

      It is much expected  Sunday.

The  Sun  shines with  the  bridal  decor,

 Not Slow, surging  you  feel  the  warmth ,

On your brown skin,  as if  to  wean  you   

away  from  the   fear  of  procrastination,

the worst thief of all.

You  continue  with  the onward journey,

 It is much expected Sunday.

The small church stands for Peace and calm,

avidly  beckoning  those  agitated,

the twigs are cool and struck to the sacred spot,

The cross is   a Never Ending Page of Sacrifice,

Church  Bell  is  a  joyous  reminder,

 I too kneel down, along with  the   Mass,

 The catherising agent smiles invisible

I am blessed, a  moment of Thanksgiving,

Journey goes on and on.

Love and care springing up.

Love   and  care  springing up.

What if  you   are within  four   stony    walls,

Imprisoned   and  chained  to your  wailing ,

Fate  and   up swelling  tears   subduing    your

  Saddened    Passion, position,

 Your  longing  extending to the

Loved  and  caring ones ,outside ,

Your   craving  for  those  reckoning

Your  predicament, you write pages

And pages on , yet to be posted,

What if  you  are  a caged  bird ,

Your  song  within   reaches the  humanity,

What  if  the gardener’s pail  fails

to   water   the   slow upfront    grass,

the   donor  sky  ready with  the 

showers  to  wet  the  ground .

the   linnet   opposite,  pours.

Nature’s  Wonder  consoles  me.

ORIGINS --POSTER POEMS

ORIGINS   ---POSTER POEMS.

West  believes  majestically

The   Garden   of   Eden,  God’s

Testing  lab for   Adam   and  Eve,

The   luscious  forbidden  fruit

Of Apple ,  the  inevitable  lure,

Satan   and  Seduction  ;

 Hence   the  Fall,  Mankind,

 Progeny   Is  perpetuated.

God  once  in the primeval  stage, in East,

While creating  Universe  , Sun  and   Stars,

Sand  and  ocean  and  trees  and  plants,

Dropped   some    human    clay   or  flesh,

Infused    Sacred    Breath possibly,

Giving  shapes of   Nose  and  face,

Legs   and  life, allowing  free  play.

Thus  This  Questioning    today is  born.

Some  parts  of  glorious  ,pious,

EAST ( India),   once  the  pride

Of   ancient Vedas, scriptures,

Slowly  becoming   Agnostic ,                                                                               

Go  on  testing  Gods   and  Avatar,

Hence  Gods   and  Avatar, bear

The brunt   of  Man’s  Sins.  

 Man is  bossy, drinking   goblet

Of  assumed   authority.

East  or  West, we  come

 from   Mother’s womb,

go   to  dust,  dust .

Some titbits in the underground station.

      Some   titbits   in the underground station.

Wandering  aimlessly   around,

Pondering   a while, some philosophy,

Where do I come  from? Where   do I land?

They  come  like  a faithful  puppy

All the while, inescapable:

Moments  of   fleeting  doubts ,

Aroma  of  coffee, inspires you,

Your   tablet convinces , consoles,

 Soothingly  types your   parrot like

Speculations. Endlessly  go on,

Looking  out   now   and then,

Each  station  throbbing  with

Agile  commuters, automated

Shutters ,technology’s pin,  

You  go on, on  till  reach

Your  destination.

The Opening Up Of Copper Urn

The  Opening  Up  Of   Copper  Urn

Could  be  deforestation  is going  on:

The  flat promoters  in   frenzied   mood,

Occupied  the land, rituals     are  over.

Digging, digging, they went on  digging,

Small  rudimentary  stones, mud pieces,

Clay  roll  over  and  over, the sweat 

Of  the  labourers  also   touches the 

Weeping  ,disturbed  soil, to be

dethroned  to  a  corner . The  sharp

Crow bar   hit  my  rust laden sides,

I am  bemused, pained,

 The  eager , the  future ,proud occupants

Of  the storied  mansion ,

do  not  know the  underground 

Secrets, the  toils,  the  rigmarole :

It  was  some  decades  ago,

The owner ,  lay  me  in,

Hard  breath, or   struggling  for  breath,

Rust   envied me, covering  the

Copper   colour, inches  of  thick

Rust   and  coating ,belittling 

My  dignity, Coins   are safe 

In  my  womb, tomorrow                                                                                                                        

they  are going  to  hand me over

to  Government,  

do not  know  how  my

New abode would be.  

Trees, how generous they are!

Trees, how  generous  they  are!

In    your garden,

You  can  go  and  pluck  the   rightful,

Plump   fruits  prompted  by  taste  buds,

Or  hunger  pinches  your  belly,

 Those  verdurous   leaves, ooze ,

As  if  to  mourn  man’s  narrow attitude,

 Human kind’s   affliction  is  their  sorrow,

Trees’  yields  are mankind’s  happy  morrow,

Rightful   and   unquestioned ,unquestioning,

Tawny    stems   are  stable,

They  don’t  distinguish  if 

You  are poor   or   affluent,

You  shelter  under their  woody

Nooks   and  corners,

Those  dried  leaves  are

Embers    or  cinders  for

Boiling  water.

They  are the  sole,  

Caring  for  your  Soul.

Many propelling factors

Many  propelling   layers.

What  is it  that   weaves   the  cloth  of  life?

As    blue  firmament  is  universalised ,

 Common , endlessly    pervading , 

The  rain  and   water  as if 

Sprinklers  from  Heaven ,

To  the   drought ridden, also

Copious   to  the  drain,

 as  the  Pulsating   heart beat 

takes possession  of  its  being,

obeying     the  dictates  of  its  Maker,

the     rod of  sceptre  of  Destiny

runs  the  thread of  life.

the  rustling  wind  rules

the  kite ,flying  high,,

deliverance   from  the 

plotting , crumbling    Earth.

Accentuated   language  

From  our mouth  gains

 Eloquence,  reaching  the   audience.

They Are Going Great

 They Are Going Great.

Sand  and water  always  surpass  us,      

Yet ,we  undermine them  always,

As it is gathering  clouds,

The suddenness of  some

Eerie or fear   stultifies you,

It   grips   you  for   a  while,

Could  be uncertainty in the

Cavalcade  of  this   sojourn;

 the sky dons black ,

 the colour Blue for a while hides behind ,

 could be in a mood of teasing the vast,/

the Moon and neon lights make me look small for a while,

I see  the  hurrying  mass  ;

Multitude  of  Impatience.

They   are    the   speeding   mopeds,

Instilling fear  in you

If   dash against,

 still my car moves on,

with a question where are we going,

it is an unanswered question.

Parody Of Spenserian Dragon

Parody of   Spenserian   Dragon.

The  dragon  looks  downward ,bereft   of sword,        

Quenches the  burning   fire,             

Blemish less  and  bold,                  

Behold! In his eyes, no wrath  of  vengeful  ire        

Cool  composure   to face any situation   dire,          

As   though  on  a post modern  chair of  peace  ,      

  Nearly  thwarting  all   from   emboldened  pyre,    

Holds  a  Spenserian  tail  of  grease,                   

 Wags  subtle, to please  and  appease.               .

This defies Beauty

 This  defies  Beauty.

What a lovely sight!

The viewer BIRD and philosopher

speculates in a posture unique,

 which man fails to do,

rainbow touches down, she so close ,

on the  elevated  mount,

on the margin, so distinctly lovely,

the fragranced plants are silencing witness

 to this secret aesthetically exalted pair,

even the term BEAUTY envies this serene spot.

Passion for paintings.

Passion  for paintings.Cool , 
Black  pool, Orange  cliffs, 
Projection  of  elliptical
Green  savannah,
White  surf ,foaming , 
Whirling  around,
Ethereal  passion  for  
Paintings   catch  me,
My  brush  strokes
Dip  in  ash  canvas,
Delight  me.

We are bound by a vigilant RHYME

  We  are  bound  by  a  vigilant  RHYME.

In    my  palm  of   lines   criss-cross,

Karma  The  parrot   sits     steadfast,

Picks   up   the   tarot  card of  many,

We  are  eager   to  know  our  Future,

Wait! Wait!  Don’t   create  a  furore,

Parrot   cries in   tone    loquacious,

 We  are  bound    by  Vigilant  RHYME

  The  strict  Task master, Time .

Morning.

 Morning.

This  fresh  pristine  Morning,

Azure  sky . SUN’s   inquisitive

Beams  peep  out  to  have   a

World view   of humanity,

Boats   with  masts  as  if  on 

Coral   beds   stay : A  Dove 

  flies  of  the  wooden 

Blank,  holding   the  mast,

It  dangles    with  a   message:

This  morning   a   Blessed

  Morn  for  all .

Roughing

     Roughing .

It   is   a   ship  slow, wan

 with   barracuda , any time

might  swallow.

Amidst      roughing   and   torpedoes

Of    ghastly  sounds    and   wounds  ;

She is no  Belinda, no  Amanda,

Nor    Delilah .

Some  are  like  shoals

No   ways to  mend.

Cocooned,   and volley

Of  thunderous   clouds 

 Threatening    unsteady :

the  Lighthouse   from  The  Above                                                                        

Prevents from   drifting   away.             

                                    

                    

In the wake of grueling mist.

         In the wake of  gruelling  mist.

Gruelling mist,

 tame deer,

walking slow,

yet tutored by a Will power,

stubborn and slow,

focussing through the mist,

 a brutal and virtual philosophy for  me.

Quintet-- They don’t want their abode to miss.

          Quintet--   They  don’t  want   their   abode   to  miss.

To   lay   a   pipe     I dug    a   ground   on  the  road,

Rugged  stones, mud   and  clay   and  anthills

Inside    the  murky ,  dormant   they play   inroad;

Still   they  can  withstand    heavy    bore  and     goad,

Roll  and  roll, they  don’t  want their  abodes  to  miss.

The Motel.

   The    Motel. ( Modelled on inns, with a modern tinge).

The  politicised   Agnostic  platform

Throbs   with   debates   and wranglers

Full  throated    public  harangues,     

The  acoustics   tremble  of  trepidation .

Here, liveried worker in the motel

Meticulously  holds  the    cups  and dishes

For  there,  ekes  out   a   precarious

Living,   sustains    his   meagre  earning job.

There is also  the  modernised   maid

 Uplifted   hair, a  mobile  tucked up

In  her sari, every now  and then

Giving   instructions  to her  daughter.

It is  the doormat she shrugs gently

While  her new  broom   touches  the floor,

The  coloured  mat can   stand three  weeks

Before  it  craves for  washing in the bucket,

Tangibly   by   the  entrance    a  cat, a  puppy

Grimace   at  the  passes by. Hungry  visitors

throng   in , a  Mahatma  Gandhi,  Nehru

and   Mother   Teresa   on the wall  bless  the motel. 

Some contradictions ---quatrains

    Some  contradictions--  quatrains 

In   the squareness  of  this   Earth,  

We  come rounding, rounded  up. 

Nowhere, there is    mound of   Dearth 

Of  spiritual  and cultural   popping   up.

 pine  and cedar  turn  and  stand    opposite ,

grass  and  grass hopper  intertwine,

timber   and  smoke  seem   Apposite,

Satan    and    sardonic   negative    twain.  

Yet, somewhere  there is  a vehement voice .

Candle lamp    and  glow-worm  merge .

At   the  chapel,   there  the  priest   is,

Avowed    notions   Submerge .

In  the   squareness    of   this  Earth,

We   come   rounding, rounded  up.

Yet,  so much  of  tantrums  beneath ,

We come rounding, rounded up.

I

A memory, A Home, and piece of Fine writing

A   Memory,  a  Home,   and  a piece of   Fine  writing.

 A Memory, inerasable, lasting unto   the   last

Precious  moment   of   your  final  breath,

As   fresh  as Lavender,  as  pure ,pristine, holy

As  Altar  of   Vedic     rituals;

A  home   of  ancestral   pillared    conduction,   

With   a  provision  of  tiny  domes for

Sparrows  to  twitter  and   chat ,not  envying,                                

 Lesson  of  reprimand  for  those

Bickering    for   division of    land  and field,

Fiction  beyond  the  Thriller, crime  and

 romance , a  delectable   piece of  poetry,

Heart’s  mysterious   secret identity.

The after journey

  The  after  journey.

Karma    steers   the  chariot, in  slow  motion,

One  who  already  breathed out  is , without   motion

The charioteer ,gibberish  appears,

Every now  and then ,looks back, giggles,

It  is   a  long  way ,  again, to  find   a suitable

temperament   and   Body   to  fix  you amiable,

your   comrade the  SOUL ,already wanders along,

to   shake  hands   with one  to get  along.    

The Ganges is Eternal, Banaras is Eternal.

The  Ganges  is Eternal, Banaras is Eternal.

 Kasi   kshetram(  holy  city),or  Banaras

Gurgling  with  the  waters, Sun’s  rays

almost    horizontal , could  be

They    also   take    a   dip.

Now  to  CLEANSE  the    fossil,

Fulminated  by   the spooky,

Smell of  the  dead, burning   bodies ..

The  Ganges   is  holy, ETERNAL, purifying,

Established     Belief  runs.

I  visit  the  holy  city treading 

The  steps frequented , habituated  

By  the  hawkers,  vendors of

Idols, coppers  urns, sacred  idols

On the steps, in shops.

The  urn ,carrying my grand mother’s

ashes, travels  the cosy A/C coach ,

When  alive, she battling  with  logs

Of  fire wood, tending  cows,

Travels  now   to be immersed

In the  holy  river. She lived   a  life

Of  Dignity, Silent  suffering.

Yonder,  there are many dead bodies,

Many  urns of  ashes getting  immersed,

The  Ganges is Eternal,

Where   Life  and   Death

merge   and   get resuscitated ,

The  Ganges is  Eternal,

Pundits   are   still  chanting,

Vibration  goes  on.

Journeys

Journeys.

It  is  not  a  journey  across  space,

Commitment  and  dedication  involving

The   zone  factor of  risk too,

It is  a  journey   across  your

mental  plane , factual  rhythms

of   cerebellum  quickly  move along.    

That  was the  day , me  seated  in

The  corner  of  intercity express

From  Bangor  to Euston ,

Slowly  the  Sun   warms up,

gobbles  not   the  cloudy bouts, 

allowing  them  to go.

The   glossy  river  on my  left,

foamy  and  dogmatic too:

As  the  train  speed  past,

ancient    mystery is  repeatedly

unravelled.  Rivers  and  rocky

mountains , embodiments of

Eternity’s   monuments, nullifying

Our  dogma of scepticism

agnosticism  too. In Milton Keynes

I see  a traveller  chains  his  child,

 Dragging ,  know  not  why?

Discipline   reinforced this way,

Or  safety ensured,

to   assure  himself,

I recollected in  India,

Fire  engulfed  the

mentally   retarded ,charred  whose

 legs were chained, what more

cruel ,  barbarous , to  those

innocent  victims?

Would   homage  punctual

Every year  retrieve them, dumbfounded?

Watching through my kitchen window.

As   I was watching   through my kitchen   window
Criss   crossed  by  barbed wires   mesh,

Doves, sparrows    and    crows  visit   the

Sixth   storied    window  slabs , peck,

Walk  like  a  security  guard,

 Share  the  food  particles  offered

By  housewives, a ritualistic  process

To  remember and worship the dead 

and  gone.    Belief ,  grand  visitation 

through  these  birds.

 

Same time  a    flash in  my  memory

Newspaper   reports   somebody

Committed  suicide  due to debt

Jumping off   from  top  floor;

Else   where similar case due

to   failure  in  love.  

I   ponder  why  these  cowards

Have  scant  respects for  their  souls

Precious  life , only one

 we know  In this   Birth?   

In side  the  kitchen 

So  much happens,

 Milk boiler whistles,

Hot pellets  of  water

Through  the  whistle  gap,

Boiling  point   is over.

Metro  water  tap    which is

not    closed  completely,

gives    outbursts  of

starting   trouble.

I open  my    refrigerator

My  eye  captures  an

American  emblem,

Toy   aircraft  affixed 

On  the   crimson   door,

Oh! This  American  desire

Is  both   a   miracle and  a  mirage,

A  wonder   working  machine 

and   elusive   stick.

All depends upon  the  deserving.

The  Avatar, embedded or

Seated   in  my  heart,

By  intuitive  turns,

Affirms, work   hard,

Grip   the   quill   with 

diligence    and  flow.

I will  take  you  to

INGGLANDU  AND  AM...ERICA.

The Sky.

THE    SKY.

 Mythically   Vast,   delectably  azure,

Unfold able , cute   and  each

twinkling  star  is  an introduction

to  a   tale  of  bewitching   romance:

At  times , when your mood  is  upset,

 thundering, dark  and devilish,

Satanic   clouds    emitting 

anger  and fury:

When   I fly high in the sky,

 Feel  like   touching  you

 My  friend, my  poetic  aura,

Your   suzerainty,  I worship.

 Imagine,folding  and  bringing 

Into  the aircraft, but  your

elusive , expansive  show

laughs    at my folly!