Troubadour

        Troubadour

We   are  a troubadour like

donned   by   the  Muse,

tapping  our  beloved  tents,

sharing  favourite  food,

we  avidly practise

and perform   in the nights,

exchanging our  poems

their  thirst  for knowledge,           

Timbre  vibrates  in us.

We move on to another village.

A Birthday Gift.

)             A  Birthday  Gift.                   

A    Lovely full  blown Rose   on your buttonhole,

Fragrance   permeating   the whole surrounding,

Smiles  are  nothing  before   the  flowers,

Flowers   are soothing  and  sacred  and sincere for  ever.

I   put  this  on your  ash  coloured   suit,,

But   your look  of  Demure ,makes  me  deter.      

I took you to the  dining ,Mahogany beckons

With  a  glimmer and  warmth of

Dishes in  china ware  and   Melarmine.        

Eggless   cake  with   a   cup  of  coke

Would   in   certitude please you,

Me   thought and    joined  you  in  cheers.

Polished  sink   and  the  towel

The   white flowing  water,

The   foamy  soap  to  wipe

Your  hands  and   the   reflecting 

Mirror  as  if  says:   look! Something

Is  wanting , he  looks  dissatisfied.                              

A soft, laminated book  pops out

Of  my  NOT VANITY  but multipurpose bag,                     

This  is what I want!

This   is  what  my passion.

A  Book  of Poems,

A   Gift  of  All  Times!        

A humble take on Solar Microscope from - The Guardian.

      Yeats’ "The only thing certain about us is that we are too  many

 Yes. We are too many, many  with different genres,

avocations, ambitions,  animadversions, critical theories,

more  poets with  distinctions, publications,

with  a  motto,  ‘’publish or perish’’.

We   have our own problems, polarised views,

Poets!  The  warring  world of Land is ours

Where  Imagination  and aesthetic  beauty

Propel us, guide us, infuse enthusiasm in us.

The  land  we live in , is  a   land of

Acute   aridity,   Drought  and  denigration ,

also  overflowing  mass of  floods.

All  according  to seasonal  shifts.

We ,the poets ,attribute these

To Nature’s  Fury  and  ensemble

In our  writings and  poetic  codes.

We, the poets, quote lines of   repute

‘’water and water ,everywhere, not a

Drop ....’’ and so on.

 We propitiate  the   Rain  God

For  more   and more water.

We , the poets, congregate, aggregate,

Discuss   and dissect.

There are poetry haters and

Dissenters of   writers  and groups.

Strange paradox, we and they.

Her Unlimited Move.

                Her Unlimited  Move. 

     She  bounteously   blows

    on the transcient,uncared for,

    Slender bunch Of

    Grass  and  steep ;

    Touches   the  quay

    In a   gentler mood,                

    dives  beneath  a  stone,

    attempts  a  nobler

    whiff  of  violet flower,                   

   my car  stops,  cannot       

   steer  for the windscreen

   blurred   and  besmeared,

   for it is  a  massive  toll.

  Beneath  the  vast umbrella,

  She comes  and goes,

 Sweeps  and recedes,

Whoever  can   check her?

We  all can only bear  her.

 

  

  

   

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

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

In the  Afternoon,

I sit before  my computers,

Tap  and type on the key board,

Delete  and control.

In the afternoon,  I  type  poems,

Copy and paste ,at times  ‘’ cut’’ too.

In the afternoon, I prepare

Coffee decoction, the aroma

Tempting me, again  take a break

In the afternoon,

Take  a hot  sip and taste,

Store  again  black beans

In the container for the morrow.

Switch off  the oven,

Go back, contemplate  again,

Will  this  coffee  remake

Your life’s  turns  and events?

Afternoon  also turns  its face,

Sun   goes down its  orb

To  make its  appearance

In the next day.

'Love' theme for Valentine's Day.

  LOVE 

I dip the ebullient  brush of
Expression,

my expression

In  the  water colour
 of  painting

in  a  diaphanous

bowl, 

Carried brush, stroke it

On the wall with  the

Decor of Love, 

Wall  stares   back .

Accepts it, resonates

With my perception 

‘love thyself, love humanity’.

A Take On Engram.

    A  Take  on  Engram

A  hurried  Bath

In my tiny bath room,

No showers, no sprinkles    

for  the  handle is rusted

because of  non –usage.

BY my  side, Dove

Gives  nice   aroma,

 It is  Dove, bubbles of  Dove,

No   humming   of  Love, love.

Even  two decades  ago

The same is  the scenario,

For  no time, but of reading,

Preparing for class room,

and   writing,  editing.

Now the  same , for  my time is

Spaced between kitchen, sink

and  my  adored   Guardian

for Dear  Carol  would  send

the signal of  deadline,

‘’comments  are  now   closed

For this   site.’’

I must hasten to comment

Else  my conscience would  

 prick with a feeling of guilt. 

In The Temple of Human Body..

       In the Temple of Human Body...

In The  Temple  of  Human  Body,

The   Heart  is  the  Fulcrum,

Soul  sacred   Sanctorum,

Seated invisible, noble,

Ready to migrate  and

Transmigrate ,upon

The   Call   and  Will.

Don’t  deconstruct   the 

Residing  Deity, who

Presides over day- today

activity.   Practise   the

Silence, Mantra for

Most of The  Times,

Betimes, Divine  Succour

Will reach  your  Doors.

The Land's Telescopic vision

   1)    The Land’s   telescopic vision.                                                            

In its  verdant greenery, it 

Craves   not  for  more  rains,     

In  its ubiquitous   Mother-Earthly

View, it protects, feeds, the  fodder,

Cropper, breeder  and   fender.

It cares not  if you  are grateful,

But should   you be bountifully

Duty  conscious, a dictum  it

Gives, no   vintage  without   tillage.

In its   sardonic  execution of  destruction,

It   justifies  all parameters of reaction

Fury, and  finished, a  sort of Evolution.

It  echoes,  ‘’ oh! Man, be humbled,

Else ,sooner you will be  crumbled’’.

This Creepy Cold,,,

         This   creepy cold.

Six long hours of  wait and sit,

In the   now and   then crowded

Platform, cold   as   shreds of

Creepiness  that   might capture you.

You  watch  the red liveried  coolies

Who  load on their heads, to  unload

their  burden of family sustenance.                         

Why not trolleys instead of coolies?

If we can’t erase the word ‘coolie’

In the dictionary of our life,

there is no end of strife.

What is the use of our Independence?

our  free education?

Their   looks don’t bend down

On the narrow steps, their eyes

Positioned  straight. What cold

Bugs  them? Rubs the   hardened,

Seasoned   skin  that lifts those

Luggage/baggage?

By my side, another child,

Herself   a   small  child of  hardly

Seven, holding another ,hanging bony,

 itches,Criss cross each other.

I  am  saddened ,when will India

Improve? On to the train,

‘mind the gap’ ,yet another  nightmare,

I  go on  in the tilt.

Soul's Agony.

     Soul’s  Agony.                                         

  I am coagulated  beyond  limit,

  break  the  barricade.

I   wear the accelerated  Wings,

The   flapping  and   craving

towards  a  silent  zone,

free   form toil  and  moil

of  reptiles   and  rigmaroles,

witnessing  puerile   motions  with 

little  constructive notions:

From  above  I  see,ply,

 many  crunch  the  feed

fodder,greenery, next day,

with  a  sickle to  uproot.

Earth  can  only  shake  and  tremble.

Not A Moron but A SIREN.

    Not  A   Moron but  A  SIREN.

 Not on the  Win  of war, but a wail

 on the   senseless killings,

 of painful   shouts and  wounded   screams .

 Not  a luminous   Glory,

 nor  a  Thumbing  Victory,

Nor a successful  pact of  treaty,

Endless volley of thunderstorm

Cannon on their Left,

Cannon on their Right,

A   common  ring of  Banality,

Undaunted  were those ignited

Into the hellish schemes of war,

Into the jaws of Death,

Not  cared to be in

 the throes of Death.

For, Certitude, someone had blundered,

Them, right thinking  hindered.

Honour lies in gunshot,

Honour lies not retreat,

How  to ingrain sanity

In them is out of clarity.

It is eerie/scary.

        It is eerie/scary.

Ropes  are no longer ropes,

 Spiralling  Algae  like,   

This thread of Yuga Dharma

Kali Yuga Dharma, its  features,

Its  knots, in  a  method of  fawn

tightening  my  neck, loose

 rope  hankering  around me.

Stare  at one  thing, think of

many  a bugging  moil.                 

Your  seasoned chair,

With  a look of  clairvoyance

Muses  at  the  happenings.

Kali  yuga  stands  for Dark Age, or times in which topsy turvy 
happenings take place. More so ,in the mindset of the  people,
with Agnsotic faith.

A Take or remake on Milton's On His Blindness.

A Take or remake on Milton’s On His Blindness.

( But not in the form of a sonnet.

When   I consider how my life is spent

In  full ignorance / connivance,          

In this dark world and wide  of

 Negation  and  sins  and  agnostic faith,

 And that one talent ( of creativity)

Lodged with me useless, slow

Though  my Soul  more inclined

To  serve my   Mentor,/ Maker,

I  fondly, unthinkingly  ask.

Does  God  deprive me of

His Gifts, if I don’t  acknowledge

His   Bounteous Grace. But  to

Prevent  this  hasty question,

Inward alertness, agility,

Replies,  ‘’ God   will not bemuse you,

nor forsake you.  There are innumerable

Struggling like you voiceless   and patient.

They  also serve who only chant, stand, wait.’’

                                                                   

If You See Me Lost In Wilderness.

If you see me lost in Wilderness.

If you  see me lost in wilderness,

Stumble upon, stubbles, thimbles,

Blood oozing on my cuticles,

The prick is less piercing, for

The  neglected greenery  voice

In   husky nod, ‘care to redeem

Us from extinct vile.’ The deer

and   antelope  dare  not

run  fast  on the marooned

bunches of dried leaves,

for starvation  half killed  them.

 Once upon a  time cool pond,

Now craves for the sky benevolent,

Flowers   don’t   have a carnival

For the  stem cells   were dead   long.

Birds migrate to a different   band.

I don’t go back to urban colony,

But  move to nurture,

 ancient rural,Agricultural   tillage

Otherness of the foetus.

Otherness of  the foetus.

Full  many a   six month  I was in  your womb,

My  hand folded, straight I sat, aplomb,

Cosy, the  blissful world would welcome me

With  affection and assured  protection:

 My parts were  tenderly, grown,

like a  blossoming Rose,

Skin was no skin, but a sponge.

Ere, woman ,how could you

wish hastily,  to rip me apart?

Is it penury or bland Sophistication

 that  Induced you for the

Crude negation? The  hard

Metallic  plonk put me

In  a tray, to be thrown

In  a    trash.  I  was  swept

aside by the sweeper.

Time passed on.

As shaping, reshaping

Is  His  document ,

God  took pity on my

Predicament, breathed

Life, I am breathing

In  some benign, matured,

Mother’s  cosy ,kind womb.

Walls of protection

Throb with Breath. Breath.

.

Be by yourself,your writing.

Be by  yourself, your  writing.

It is   biting cold, abominably cold,

Chill   creeps into your shrunken

Skin, hanging flesh. It creeps,

For the flesh is loose ,the wrinkles

Give  way helplessly.You fall on your

Flat bed, mind  sails  for   writing,

Though   the  body  is  already

For another  realm   of sleep,

You pull   off  the rug,

Fir  leaves   yonder still  show       

  affinity  to the tree, in winter .

 Tree’s   inherent Nature

to  hold  them steadfast.

Cold  in the silent  space

Booms  large, akin  to  the

ambulance siren. There is

another  cold  tapping in

the  coffin ,the  ICU darkened

by  white sheets. My quirky

pen  outwits  the cold,

and goes  on.              

               

Want Not The Glasses

           Want  Not  The  Glasses.

What   violets or myrtles,

with scented  rose  and colours

Purple  and  make us  purblind!

Oh! Bast, Goddess  of  Protection,

 Daughter of  sun God, Your  attention.

 Never  know  the Heart

Where  Roses linger not.

What  tackled vine

and  brewed  beer

can  give,  when purse

is  null,  Bun  is  Biscuit.

Rue  not  to transport  to

A world of  Sacred  peace 

and   Serenity Divine.

You sail steady.

      You   sail steady.

I wear the tegument

Of crustaceous  stint,

Shell   strong and steady,

Sailing   the  Blue 

Roughing  the  rough:

Dolphins and whales            

Skim  around ,customised.

The Blue, roars, rolls,

A cathartic ,incumbent

On your  ordeal.

Ever on your Karma.

Nonsense droppings.

Nonsense droppings

  A  jumper  I wore,

 for  I was going to   London.

Many mocked at my

London  Calling,

Still I heeded to that  Calling.

I double checked all my

Rooms and locked,

For  an established rumour

Ran,  Gold was gushing

Out of every Godrej

and   ornaments were

popping out of  cupboards.  

My eyes  count but

Synthetic   saris and silk woven

hanging  on the dresser.

I was going to  London,

For London was calling,

Calling and  ask not

How, how, now.

I came to the balcony

to close the doors,

Again double check

Lest any thief should

Plunder away all my gold.

How  strange! Some droppings

On my jerkin, from the crow

above, bad  omen?

No, no, it is a  good augury,

Droppings only on my

Jumper, not  my plan.

There is a Black Pal

There  is a  Black  pal         

There is a  Black  pal, my

 Visitor regular, cool   and calm.

In my balcony, its  abode of

 Grain or  rain, it  visits my

Perambulations   profoundly   strain,   

If  Black  were to be  a curse,

Woe  to the Creator’s  paradigm  of

 Release  and    hearse.

If colour were  to be

A conscious matter of  grouse,

Hollering  would annoyingly increase.

Deliverance is too far,

Even now, for   it is intricate,

 it is manmade

  aggrandisement .

Your Advent.

     Your  Advent

Your  are  A  Blazing Star,

Troubadour like,

Identifying thugs, also,

 them, saddling strong,

You are  icon  of assured    protection .

For   those  in the  tricky maze

Of  vile  troubles, believe

In  some   bric a brac.

You   came like an ordinary,

In an extraordinary  situation,

Forms   and   visions, astounding.

A  dire  situation  of  intricate   maze

I was immersed in a total

devastating, savage ,

abysmal  gloom of  darkness.

living  amidst   the  din and  clatter,

your form silenced their cacophony,

Silencing process  goes on.

In the   Time’s web,

Many formless  continue ,

Yet to be  silenced.

Rebirth for a NEW SAGA

     Rebirth  for a  NEW  SAGA.       

      It is a precious rebirth 

     For   A new  Saga,

     Mere  Thanksgiving  is just

     an  ordinary  label, or

     disbelieved ritual for some,

     your Advent,  for  the moments

      of  extraordinary  weaving, unravelling.

     I  was  a loner with those moments

    Of  sedition of others,   now your Advent.

     Encumbered lumber is ours.

     Know not how you ply

    with these flamboyant ,fanatics,

     you  take me  insurgent

     To  The Alone, to the  fly zone,  

  

   Angels  took  pity  on this   Soul

   Sent   southerly  winds,

  Salient  showers  of  bounteous Mercy.

  The  wind  blew well  on time,

Rich harvest was  augured

ere, seditious weeds are  undone.

Thanksgiving  goes beyond the ambit .

'Charred photo'

           ‘ Charred photo’  

After the last tap

 The  key board, demure.

The   blinds  are drawn.

I am half sunk

 Pillows embrace.

A sudden quaver/trigger,

My body tossed up and down,

Some unknown feel or fear

runs down me. Check out if

rats  rattle  amidst the vessels,

retire again to the recent emit,

 fear lurking  matted  bolster.

 It   enervates  my  pulse.

The   charred   photo by the

Subtle  Fire, time  ago, looms  large,

beckons /  to   reason out.

 my face, encounters splashes of water,

Now, no more sleep, sit back, think.

What is this slither/fear?

         What is this slither/ fear?

       A fear gripped me,

      Chill  as  frightful  as

      The  haunt  of a  coffin,

       a  sudden loss of vital  Memory,

     I drew my blanket   cap- a-pie,

     Felt as if  it is  the  slither

     Of   a cockroach, it moves

     On  my toes ,some  gentle

    jiffy tick alerts me,

     it is  the   slowly dismantled

    watch  from its  strap loose.

    

There is newness in every stale thing.

            There  is  newness in  every stale thing.

‘’The old order changeth  yielding place to new’’.

  There is newness in every stale thing

  as  there is  a  fresh lease of new life ,

  from the old, embittered ,past lives,

  old garments  slotted  for  wholehearted

  charity, enhance the  new looks of the

   impoverished, starved, now protected,

 protected are  the  old   garments  too

for  they  came in dire poverty ,abject

 necessity.  School  and  slate  are 

a luxury for those ,country urchins

in   soiled  kaki knickers, kite playing.

Fixing  cow dung  cakes on the walls

Is  their  daily wage earning  plenty.

They question not  why  they

Are  born, look  for  some

Hope  and  revival in

 Merry Bells,  Santa Claus

and  New  Year.

Holy Dip,Dip

    In  the  sheets of water,

  many  gloriously   calmed

  and merged now

in the white sheets,

tossing up and down

like deadwood,

the  gurgling  water

 as if an affiliate

Member welcomes its

Supreme partner, Sun,

both on the same

Horizontal  line.

In  the sheets  of water,

Realize/A life giving boon,

Potential /orgy of

Origin  less source.

Whirls, whirling

Me  to ageless   icon.

In the surfing, I became

Breathless, near the shore

on   the land castaway 

seashells  abound.

A Take On Free Fall

 A  Take on Free Fall.

It  is  not  Biblical  Fall

Of  Seduction  after  a

Plump, forbidden   fruit,

Nor is it a  headlong  fall

Of  skyjacker’s tricks of vile.

Spooky  embers  of clutters,

Of  smoke  and burnt woods

Spiralling  from the  ground

hover   the blue  sky: A cloudy cap.

Smell of choke  and charcoal

I suddenly get up from

My  sleep, my nightmare.

Ground, mosaic  more soothing.

Love In The Clippings.

       Love in the clippings

A   whiff of  seditious wind

Clipped the tender, wings of Love.

Autumn’s   crude   chill already

Stayed ,residue, in my heart, for some time,

 ‘Rue not’ ! My, yet to be softened

  dictates pacify.

                                                                                         

 Kiwi! Kiwi! Kiwi! Sparrow, young chick

Concomitant   visitor in my  balcony;

A   whiff of seditious  wind

Clipped  the  tender wings of   

 This  Lonely, this lugubrious,

Swoops   on my shoulders,

   Peck of look, affection,

 ‘’ learn to love thyself,’’

   I   tend  my  flexible   cuticles,   

   Fingertips, taps, on the key board.

      Unlock the key board,

     ‘Work is thy Love,’ is the key .

  

     Keep it unlocked, for ever.

     Kiwi! Tap!   Tap!  on the board.

S.Radhamani.

    

  

Man's Mastery, again it is God's Gift.

               Man’s Mastery, Again   it Is God’s Gift.

   Painter’s ebullient  brush  strikes.

   When aridity  knocks , drought with pride set in

   The  fallen  flowers    crave for  the lost seats,

   their  stems, The  Sun  now lurks beneath its orb,

    A kind  of  Chill  chuckles   at  man’s  inhibition.

    The lovelorn lies in the last stage, in the cottage,

    His  lady bird  appears ,soothes ,consoles

    Infusing  a fuel of  animated   Love,

   The  cottage is  no longer, seeming   Dotage .

   He  revels,  flies  with

    the wings of plumage.

  

The Canal In My Village.

The  canal in my  village

The  gurgling water flows.

The  North is  The Direction.

 Tradition  speaks .The folks speak.

In them is ingrained  the

established   belief, North

is luck, North is fertility Myth.

 The river  carries  no  emotions

As of  now. But  when it is in

full   spate, fury  bursts.

The  farmers ,ritual believing,

Cook  sweet  pudding to offer,

to   propitiate   Sun God,

it  flows to feed many hungry,

Erases  the face of  Drought.

Your Heart.

          Your heart

Heart   is a miniature theatre,

Coagulations,just as you

Compress,  emotions.

Blood circulations, arteries,

Veins, palpitations,

Unchecked fume   emit

of  words, wordy deals.

As  gyrating within,

You are  director, operator,

Spectator, watching    from outside,

Applause for ebullient squeaks

waiting  for the  final curtain

to be  drawn, cathartic  agent

perhaps is in the offing.

Lullaby For The Forlorn

  Lullaby  for  the forlorn

As  the  cute  tabby   cat  stole

Out of the lobby, surreptiously,

The other inmates  fast asleep,

Its moving  paws  silenced   and

feared  by  the  loud  snore of some.

Outside  the  dogs  bark,

Close  to midnight, sequel

The  innocent  wail   of  the month old

baby, abandoned  by the  heartless.

Night glared   by the Moonlight

for the delay in tending  the  forlorn

looks  askance  at  the child.

I peep through  the window,

The  temple  priest 

Closing  the gates of

the temple, willingly

opened the rugged ,  locked door

of the Future of the  Innocent,

sings  a  soothing   lullaby.