Claimant

      Claimant

We  live  in   an illusory

 world of  many claimants ;

eyes , looks  and  arguments  

cannot  bring out  The Truth.

Delve  deep  into  the hidden 

Matter, Only  the  visionary

Can  probe  the reality.

Truth  has  to  maintain  a

Low  profile, for  the fake

Is  vociferous  and  virile.

Tap  the  dormant  and 

Bring  the  claimant  to 

The  lore, I daresay.

A  Take  on  “vada That” by Adam Lowe

  No  Notchy  Munge to plunge him

Into  darkness. No internal  dark for  him

To  come out.He is  clear  headed  and  cool.

Somewhere  there,  brandy smell of  the  gang,

No  fear  for  the Charpering carsey: or police cell.

He  is  not  into  a  crave for  serious love or partner.

He  Worries   how  he  is going  to mend  the offending.

Pondering  for  an  answer. A royal  dignified  life of

Set pattern, he moulds  for  the  future and  wellbeing

Of  the society, he  is part of.

 He   abhors  this  world of  Patter  and pogey.

 His  troll  is  serious  and  meaningful.

In The Midst Of Thinking Herd

     In  the  midst of  thinking  herd

It was  neither a dream, nor  a passing  vision,

But   a  reality tinged with  emotion  and  sympathy.

You  prefer  to  walk to  have  a  reprieve

From  killing  chores and pressures.

These  days  you like  the company of

Serene  and secluded, minding  their own  way,

Harmless; in a  way dumb herds of  cows

And   deer, packed binds  to  that of

Sinister looking mankind who mostly

Thinks in ill  harbouring  way.

Ruminating  in their own way,

herd moves  on.

Looking  at   the slopes of mountains,

God  had created the flowers  and shrubs

For  the sake of  animal  ken. Ripples

By  which  they  rest a while

Always move on .This  is a better home.

Heather They Are.

   2)    Heather They  Are

 In  the  purpled  hour

Of  their  merry make,

After   exhaustion, and when

Awakening taps them,

In the  PURPLE Crying

Of  the Baby, those lessons

And messiah  hinge a  lot.

Heather surround  them

As well, making  them

Heather   and  great.

Could You Be All These?

     Could you  be all these ?

Could  you  be the glow worm

To emit bright  aura in pitch  dark?

Can  you become recharged torchlight

When am immersed in power cut

That  sinks  my  surroundings?

When dimmed  light  is  a  threat,

Could  you  become  my informative

Companion, via my Micromax mobile ?

Could  you  be  the remover of my

Countless  obstacles  when they  stem

around your neck  and  heart?

Could  you  be my All Time Guide ?

Above  all could  you  be  my  radiating

Boon  to shine  as Halo  for  ever  and ever.

Thank God ! I am literate.

         Thank God! I am literate.

I  thank God    and  my  Muse

For  ever. I need no scribe.

My choked  emotions  and

Pent up  feels    burst  into 

Transformed  configurations.

The  words  are no longer  choked,

They are double alive, for My

Muse  gives  shapes, serene  and

Sober expressions to them.

The  paper  or  book  is  Not

The  place of One  Language

For  it  is  a  multi Coloured,

Multicultural   Hub. I often

Delight, revel to be a  part

Of  this reflective  Hub.

Tracking The Lines.

           Tracking  the lines

The  dragon like wheels that are set,

Move  backwards  and  forwards,

Tracking  the lines along, miles

and  miles  far off, beyond your ken.

The onward  path serene   and  poetic ,

Free  from  panic, eager to  reach its goal,

Watching  through the window, each

And every station, pulse of humanity,

Move about, a mindless noise   and

Notation, mechanically devised.

Is it  noise or  Voiced Voice, you

Need  to ponder   and  prevaricate.

The  downward  journey, the  pitch  dark,

The  barking  of  the dogs on the 

Starless  night, the Dalila  like  arrival

On the platform,   awful  for you:

 You know,Dalaila  has   much  to  say.

All depends  upon how  to  foray .

The    arrival  on the platform  veers

On its reels, ready  to  take us .

It   has  to  track  miles and miles

Far  beyond  our  ken and  goods.

       On  the Sable  Mound of   Sand.         

On the sable stark mound of sand,                                                                                                       

Recline you  for  a  mood of  band                                                                                     

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

 Of  Rock, rock  of singers, revel

and  roll like  roller coaster: Level

your  high rising  mind and  mood

in tune  with  the  roars of  black hood                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

of watery  sheets  off  fossils

 and rood like  avid gossips.                       

The  sea thrills in the company

Of lonely ,  meditative,  to  accompany               

Its  true, warm  friends  who  sail

In the  same  boat of  steady   mail.                           

        

He draws Inspiration

        He  draws inspiration.

  In the Frisbee  like  breadcrumb,

Layer of  yesterday  protection  of the thumb,

He  draws   a  typical  layout ,

Of his  dream   and dignity  tout.

He   refuses  to  put it

In the   Mouth, holds it

On the  artistic  brush

And to  breathe life  and blush.

                                                                                    

Every breaking wave..

  Every  breaking  wave

Every  breaking  wave has its  verve

For  the  frothy  foam is  the  recurrent

Breath of life’s   nodes .

The  watery  free play  has its

Roots   in the throb of  the Blue.

Ageless, ceaseless   and  fathomless,

It  nullifies  man’s  angst  less.

For   his  is  a   self-made  conflict.

The turgid flow of  man’s pride

Runs   behind   the  dashing  waves.

Ocean  is   a   huge  gyrating  hawk.

Love speaks

 Love  speaks.

Love tapped in my shoulders, then,

Slowly in my  dream, as if giving us

A wake up call.  I am  not  Dead , nor

A deadwood, but   a feeling not eschewed

But propagated in  all circles.  Poets,

Writers, thinkers and  artists embellished :

All enthroned me and some even condoned me

According  to their moods.  I did  not  wail,

For  I  know  the nature of  the world.

 They call me a  Red Rose, or  Blue

Or  white as serenity sometimes 

A  black rose or  deadly corroding evil.

I cannot define myself for  the concept

Itself is   conundrum. But  still I go on

Like  a  rivulet  or stream.

     In my own  house.

In my own  house, everywhere,

Every cupboard  overflows

With   books  of  ancient galore,

and  modernity ,both  for

Teaching   and  Research

And  Knowledge  to  update

With  the current  affairs.

Only  enough Time is  not

For  me. Why  Time  should

Care  for  my  avocations?

Occupations. It  flies  on its

Scheduled  Wings  and

Predestined  Chart.

 I sit   and  ruminate,

 In my yesteryear, in  my

Palatial  house of  grandparents

Books  were  there. Upanishads

Vedas   and Puranas  rich

In  grandsire’s   room  and

How  he  divided  his time

Between  cows   and milking

and greens   and  drawing  water

filling  tubs.  My grandmother

a  devout, patient  woman,

silent  sufferer. I read  her

example, a  notable   Book

for  me. This  book  lives 

with  me, going  before me.

  

Bards and places of Historic Grandeur.

       Bards  and  Historic  Grandeur.

In  every country, every history,

Every era, Bards  are revered  

With  laurels  and  honours

to  be  recognised.  With

Warp  and  weave of  fertile

Imagination, they work  the

Expertise  poetic  craft.

  London! the  pride of  great

 Bardic   poets and  rich  legacy

Of  Monarchy  and   Westminster

Abbey   and  tombs  and  monuments .

Ye!  also  preserve  the Glory

and   perpetuation of  victory

of  kings   and warriors   and 

queens   and  reigning  sceptres .

In  India  too,  the battlefield

Is the  celebrated  place of  Janana

Or  wisdom   and realization.

For   the  kings  like  Ashoka,

The  realization  of  loss of  blood

And necessity of abrogation of

Enmity   stuck in the   war field.

Batons   and   swords    admirably

Were  nullified  by Peace.

Bow  before  them  all.

Nourish   the  path 

And   hoist  the flag

Of  Victory.

   A candid  recollection

Those    early schooldays   are

Like  a  free  kite for   most of  us .

For  the inimitable tag “children”

 Encompasses  childhood  days.

School days are either a   heavenly

Bliss for the innocence and   freedom

They don   and a    simultaneous torture

They  undergo  for  the home work

and    arduous class work

they are   compelled  to do.

To  have  a  diversion,

We  went  for  a  local Fair,

 Colorful shops and  congregations

and  candelabra  the centre of  the

Mall  illumining  the parts

around us.  Groundnut cakes

and  mango  jams  my favorite

 my favorite  and taste in the

Fair. Loud acoustics   and music,

Announcements  intermittent ,

Enliven  the show. Jasmine

and  Rose  garlands  permeate

with  the fragrance   give  a

Divine touch for  our eyes

Are accustomed to these in the

Local temples.  Now, oh! My God

things   are   totally changed and

as we grow we are also changed.

Thank God! For  a while, slate pencils

And  rubber   don’t  haunt  us.

Fair  still  lingers me.

Crab and crane

    Crab   and Crane

Crab  in its  limpid  move,

also in its habituated,

mood of   hide  and  seek

On   the watery  sands,

Draws sketches from its

Memories of  habitat.

Its   static   companion

Ruminating  crane

On the sheets of  water,

doing  penance  and meditation.

The  Blue  merges with 

The Azure. Ideal  spot of

Speculation  for  both.

The  shining  conch, also

A  watery  by product,

 Acknowledges the uniqueness.

Universal  pal  Moon shines

Seamless at  the  sandy  spot.

In the   blessed eventide,

What more do you want?

The Wards are Always Wheeling

    The  wards  are  always  wheeling.

The   repugnant   with  fear  and  anxiety

Wards  are overflowing  now .

Ambulance and   No clearance are

There  from morn  to eve.

No  longer  an  eyesore, but

A customization. Customization

For  what?  To adaptability

Of  man’s moribund , dead cells.

Oh! God  when will this come to an end?

Unabated  fire  of  ire, this  blood  bath

 Fail  The Messiah’s  inspiring   words.

Ego  and    vendetta   and  craze

For  power, can you stop  the  list,

Submerge  the dictum  of  peace

Into  ignoble  tunnel of humdrum

Harsh realities of existence.

What  can  the walls do?

Or the  wards  speak?

They  silently  wail

Along  the victims .

Oh! God ! when will

This come to an end?

Church  bells on  cliff

Blow in   ponderous vain.

      A   Sketch

I  drew  a  meticulously   observed

Long drawn quill of  a  bird

On the  broken white eggshell.

Brush breaths life into

Lifeless  outer ring, wails

For  the loss  of life.

Else a  beautiful chic

Would have turned out.

The running jell

Can you call it?

Spiraling  on the

Pan, dissipated  into

Edible with  pepper

And salt on it. The  quill

Joins  my bemoaning,

Adding  to the sign

On the shell.

              On  Classics   and   Modernity.

         Erudite   Homer   and  voracious  Virgil

       Our  venerable  ancient  Classics,

       Ruled   the  roost   of  education  podium.

       Excelled  in hexameters  and knowledge

       Of  the  worldly  objects  vast  and  wonderful.

       Yet, modern  literature   and  modern  art,

        By  slow  and  steady  growth  took

        the   norms   and  grew  a   clan,

        steady   tree  offering  comfortable  shade.

       But, without  the  label of  ancient,

       Beginning   and  pride  of  Root,

       There  can never be  the  progress

      Of  Modernity or  modern literature.

      It  is a  step in  stages  of   Time.

       Still  we  worship  all.

      

   

     

I am million, million Births and many more.

     I am  a  million, million Births  and  many more.

I am   one   of  a  convoy of  The Supreme.

I am a   million, million opinions,

Shared and debated and united.

This sacred Birth, Feel and pride,

This Body and emotions  and empathy

Are  all preordained, a  dictate  of  karma,

The  rotating, yet sturdy wheel,

Now  the sole  aim  to  become

One  with  the Almighty.

I am  a  descendant of  million  Deaths,

Having sojourned and undergone

Mysterious births and  pangs,

Know not  the purpose here,

Yet pulling on  with  an

Undaunted Will and vigour.

His   Design  is my  privilege.

I  hear at last,  million  voices

 Converge to identify the unseen yet

heard   mostly silent  and  strong.

There  is  an  echo, repeated

It   voices again  and  again,

 ‘“to shuffle of  this mortal coil”

Is  not your choice,

His  is  the  order  and  Domain.

Live  up  the  day, tomorrow,’

These  Silences  are embodiment

Of  aeons,  viable  solutions.

We need to respect them.