A day in the moving train

 

 A day in the moving train

 

Sitting in the cosy, comfortable seat of the train,

Silent observation takes me back to years and past;,

I recall a  lady , jovial and   all the time in endearing talk,

with a peculiar hat,  she talks endless , a good company

for all  in the compartment; wintry chill does not seem

to impact, yet a confounding puzzle in her demeanor;

 

a man entering on the list of talk

 looks drunk, his dress  a mix of want

yet, mingling with the go getter,

 philosopher  and friend  on the upper hand

with a move and motive to keep people

all the time engaged; prays for better times

 

when all sundry and mean will get vanished;

a newcomer is she with a smile, endearing all

 hello on her lips, with a  look outside window,

trees  and lampposts  and cattle graze all

passing by in a quick move and taking

to  a  strange world all when train passes on,

you  and me are only stay with intropection;

 

 

 

This cool Evening

 

             This cool Evening

       This cool evening by the  pruned  lawn,

       by the  bunch of grass, like stars in between

        popping up in meadows and fields,

        a step into  the Nature opening up in you ;

 

           some time  for us, before destruction

           takes place,  before your sickle and bag

           bent upon gathering ,before  we get stacked

            in your dry, parched pages of heart; grass  wail;

 

            in the name of felling, weeding speedy,

           cleaning and deforestation, mind filled with

           heavy piled up clay and clutter, a move away;

             A  Return to Un Nature Move, gnawing us ever! 

 

             For me this cool evening turns

              Into  an  hour of questioning and qualm;

              Blue sky is a mute witness like me,

             Sudden showers – sort of questioning too!

                                                                

              Some discarded plastic bags eked out

             thrown long ago, crumbled into corners; 

              Recycling might be in its slow pace

              when,  only He knows and HE only knows.

                                

                                     

                                       

 

Ticking off the calendar

 

 

Ticking off  the calendar

 

With the advent of New year

a new born elm, a smile always

welcoming all in the household,

 

looking at the corners of every page

a calendar in each room, a visage

of Messiah,holding  numbers in wand;

 

some dates crossed for bringing tears

some dates marked  highlighting events

happening and harkening, soft touch

 

is  the heal. A new  face, new  laminated bulk

new  beckoning, yet effacing old memories

impossible; a straight horse  jumping into field

 

crossing all barriers, thistled  hoofs, high jumps

over  bush, speeding fast to an unknown

destination; fog clogging nose  and pathway;

 

wind across  window pane, calendars

fritter and  face ordeal of hands and push.

They  have   a special place on the wall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘ What if the sun shines?’

 

       ‘ What if the  sun  shines?’

 

   Me born, denied  of   vision,

   my dark room  like x ray theatre;

    my living luxury with unbounded

   Forte. What if the seasons blossom

  with respective smiles, up swelling  like

  springs of water taps in corners of

  railway platforms, for me the dark

  is my ordained luxury.

 

   A gentle tap   going afore

  when compelled by necessity

  on the traffic ridden roads, sun beams

  glare at me impartial, jasmine and rose

  those captivating, nose drills    piercing     

   fragrance, foray that they belong to

   their category, for I see them not.

 

 All  these  for   the sense of my being,

 Flip for the skin and  flesh;

 But  my four walls, for my soul  attuned 

 ever since I came into this blessed soil!

for  it bears me still ,still and  silent. 

What  if the sun peeps out!

 

 

ON ABORTIVE KNIEF;

 

 

ON ABORTIVE KNIEF;

 

When embryo’s  soft bud

 blossoms  slow and  steady,

 spongy flesh   with a crave

  for fingers and peeling layers,

 

 before He fixes eyes and ears

 inside womb, the protective

warm cove,  cruel outside world

 with tongue doughty uncontrollable,             

 

could be  instinctive dictated  mother

or   doctor’s advice of lack  of stamina,

induces her for a game of negation,

what right she has to  suppress  the growing?

 

Cruel abortive instruments ,

twangs of  stubborn application

in moments of   thoughtless move

finish the  job of destruction.

 

One life, one  soul and  one moulid

to be thrown in a  mound or field

lifeless  not even breath,

may be for new  breath elsewhere;

 

woe to the metal or man or woman

who performed this ungodly deed .

l

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Year Eve

 

 

 

New  Year Eve,

End of December, New Year’s Eve,

Crackers  blow, majestic in front and back

of houses  and  multi storied apartments,

 Convivial mirth ringing aloud.

 

Joining hands with church peal.

Augury of undoing all  that

is abominably mad, painfully sad,

into  a lawn of greenery and opulent.

 

 All  faces hiding how much of sorrow

  Yet,  tapping the stick of optimism

  bold on the streets  of  angst and  tension             

 writ large  for years  not obliterated;

 

bright in the morn early and near

 all faces wishing with cakes and drinks

joy and smile welcoming all passersby

crackers sound and bound beyond walls.

 

Hope  beckons every household

Like babe’s smile when lullaby on air

betokens with an aura  of positive move.

December goes but  with a  nod

 

Weep no more, for in the rustle

Of wind and sweep, there is pot of luck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Guardian’s My Stranger by Maria Taylor

        

   

      All about the house, very ancient and dilapidated

      My memory steeped , leaking walls, and cracked cements

       The inmates, whereabouts still to be known;

      I cling to him  steadfast, my dad, my caretaker,

      Now hanging on the photo, I adore  and adhere to.    

      A t times, I wonder, where  are those souls, hanging around

      was my father an illusion or a real entity hanging around

      My mind re calls the care, the play, the cheer

      All through talks of imaginations of inmates,

       Again all illusion a nightmare; question remains,

       The gardener in him, the bill payments made

       Revealed how responsible  he was, yet, I never

      Knew  where is he hiding, behind the plasters of the wall?

       What I could see  is only a void, a void filling so much

        for us all,  how long this  misconceived euphoria, this puzzle

        God alone knows.  

  

      

Afterwardness ( after Guardian)

 Afterwardness ( after Guardian)

After  thirty years’ return to native soil, saddening 

to know oldest church in dilapidated condition,

the mango grove, and  village  school of thin,

number of ardent pupils with rigorous master,

all gone now, where is a question, could be 

doings of Time, vanishings quick beyond our ken.

I see  through my focused lensed of care  and curiosity

recent debacles, of unauthorized buildings, temple 

a place of gossip and congregation of wasting   time;

all around me zig zag path, lonely stretch of chaos,

space  occupying most  for those not accommodating

space  for poor  and  desperate, cursed  times ;

rustle of wind answers and in me  

for the humanity, Time conquers all .

Blowing Smoke by Nii Ayikwei Parkes ( After guardian)

 Blowing Smoke by Nii Ayikwei Parkes   ( After  guardian)

 She is cute, conscious, sensitive,

 Plays with bubbles in air

releasing her tension, and  

special imbibe  of fragrance 

from her floral bunch  hanging

on her shoulders; after all breath

to air,  a realization strikes,

“ we are mortals and guided

by sensations of time, ever 

throbbing like shores’ rhyme.

Every moment of love, every 

song by the mango tree, every

bunch of tender yellowish

flowers a beckoning to the 

world of play and cognizance,

there is another kind of game

stone throw by urchins from afar

where   sounds of fruits and leaves

falling, like a miracle from heaven,

yet love flows from all quarters

for us to feel, follow  and  be 

a part of the world veering in.

Now that you are not-you by Rosie Garland ( After Guardian)

 

Now that you are not-you by Rosie Garland  ( After Guardian)

 

 

Doctor comes in majestic

with his stethoscope  hanging around

with a  concerned look of smile;

a hand on  patient’s wrist

watches the time; There is Time

for one and all, Time does not yield,

though it is the best healer;

 

yes, he is in the last  lobs, breathing tough,

his rough hands slowly falling down,

face in the web of unconscious state,

eyes on the sunken cheeks for a closure

half willing to open and locate  the

whereabouts of loved ones;

perhaps dying embers already on him.

 

 

Is  it the Breath going away

or soul craving for its special

assigned forum, selecting its

own gathering; It merges with

the universal, the otherness

on the other world. Death

bidding farewell to the loving , caring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crow and me the same plight:

 

Crow and me  the same plight:

 

In crow’s beak  not a bone

Not a  sea smelling  fish or  dead crumb,

Nor a piece of grass green, in the field

Walkers’ bed of aura soon be fed,

 

In cow’s graze maze amazing,

In due course of time, dry and dead

bunch of straw  bundled in a corner;

shift  and shift in the cow’s tent,

 

master’s delightful duty.

Am I digressing, certainly not.

My poem, composed some

Twenty years  ago, retrieved

 

from my ancient trunk idle,

now  to  the write a  facelift ,

this poem, wind’s sway, now

away from the gentle  touch of crow,

 

my efforts  to trace it now elsewhere;

my growing apprehension ,

some spicy pudding neatly

stuffed, flying, flying far off,

 

in a far off trolley, idle stay.

I am running  after it,

Crow’s flight to unknown

In its steered path , still a wonder.

 

My long forgotten poem

My recently retrieved poem

Seeks an asylum

Elsewhere, its own cove.

 

 

 

 

 

On a Pebbly Beach by John Birtwhistle

 On a Pebbly Beach by John Birtwhistle

A day of ordeal  and  joy by the beach:

We as a family  packed for beach 

both  young as freshers  and new,

experienced old to the shore, shingles

and boats ,insearch of a day  away

from routines and heavy domestic chores.

A day off is  a day gained for good.

pebbles colored, white, small  and big

rolling in elders' hands - for looks

and research  and curiosity, journey

into smooth and selective mode;

feeling nurtured perhaps,  why run after

tough and rough after all battles

and hard struggles in miles unmitigated.

Always boisterous youth  running 

after risk and remote, game of delve

and dig into rough and unknown

in the process of knowing and unknotting;

prefer  stones roughed by  splashes of water

age  and ruin undoing their shape and size;

Choice speaks of your taste  and mind,

I wonder why this contrast  and drift

 i am  still in search  of something 

different  and strange, waiting 

for a call from heaven,Time  and measure.

I am the wanderer ( after guardian)

 

 

I am the wanderer  (  after guardian)

 

I am not a home bird confined

within the precincts of four walls,

tuning on viola pouring all melody

of my angst of past and magnifying

now into a disastrous gloom;

 

I am a wanderer from a land

Of immense glory and good tillage

Where copious flow  and freedom

In every hearth and home

All now  A thing of Past.

 

Now a   hoary land of ghost

Where  desire and avarice

eating alive  every nerve

and mood beyond control

and restraint  a sordid spectacle.

 

Dark  and light, penury and sick

Flow  and glow gleaming into den

All I have seen still wandering

Into a land of uncertainty

Clinging  on only to Hope and survival.

 

 

 

 

After Guardian’s secrecy

 

  After Guardian’s secrecy

 

 

Blown by speedy gale dipped in mists

and winding  speedy storms baffling your

movements into a  null, an existential dilemma

 thronging many a door  and mind;

Many sailing in the same boat like me

Feel the half-blown bud, bitten by frost

and slow shiny summer’s golden rays

unduly dipped in wintry bed of  unmalting

frost, a baffling spectacle, as crucial as

life’s dilemma and testing times;

Driving in the busy metropolitan streets,

Clouds and wavy shadows on the sky

Barging through intermittent on lines,

When seasons and serendipity flowing

Through veins of discovery a passion

Unalloyed till now. Still my adoration

For spring and summer as any others

Continues until seasonal shifts enter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was as if a ladder ( after Guardian)

 

 

It was as if  a ladder  ( after  Guardian)

 

My memory recoils  the bamboo made

Solid structure of ladder much sought after

Used often in ancestral house of cleaning

And painting in great vigor.          

Each rung had its shine and bend,

Tilted and slant often putting   climber

In fear and dilemma, still ascension

was  thrill and challenge  and pride.

Kept in corner, each rung started

falling, only empty space,

as if one third of your life span

falling, your being slowly vanishing

in air, a dismay disturbing you .

A demolition strikes and debris

Piles along dust  and demure,

Amidst scented flowers nod,

Ladder laughing  at its own self

Amidst rungs going and gone.

 

 

A after "the Bread of Childhood by Ihor Pavlyu" Guardian

 A after  "the Bread of Childhood by Ihor Pavlyu"  Guardian   

Gone are those days of    porridge  and cake

delicacy and taste by the blessed hands of grandma

a culinary taste  and gift which we the inmates 

can never forget even today.

Even today, my embroidered memories  swaying

under the agelong  tamarind tree  and urchins picking

playing - a game  and past time our village records;

my mood sings along  brook  cool passing ;

TIME does not fly without imprint of those days,

a feel or loss of precious something is cranky 

in my blood, my mind and mood, but that crankiness

is consolidated into solid deepening cry. 

Peacock feather in between my books,

  parrots chirping  a rarity of sight and  voice

 I see  in my  eyes, my past days, my present

immediacy veering around.

something is wanting, something is wanting

 not a waste, but a must to rebuild our past.

After Guardian Oh wert thou in the cauld blast

 

How can i see you shiver in cold,

your lanky body and mood shaken

without support and efforts?

but in cold days and unsheltered  hut

you curled devoid of any assistance,

nor did you  approach me for aid;

our days of mutual warmth,

our endearing moments 

give and take and compromise

all nullified by time's collocation

when thou were separated for a while,

 me too tolerated and left to Time's doing,

in my gloom and dismal hours

you  would come and console

you were  queen in unbounded 

care  and my need which words

cannot suffice ;birth sees its best

only help comes in dire necessity.

 

my merry moment of song

 

In the wake of predawn,

I was the first to sing and call

it was embedded in me

to appeal for the sake of  rain

and we both sing ; singing

and ringing in tune with the fall;

 

Love  and concern

all through my song

a cadence and melody

which is unforgettable,

a caution for uncertain

future, for future is bleak.

 

When humanity is sleep

I wake, make a wakeup call,

and miss you  in the midst

of busy throb, for seclusion

 mode of preference, our

mode inviolable and constant;

 

 

I live among ephemeral ;

and greed   and compassion

both in my blood, now

I am  a feat ether, light

and fallen, wind rolls me

and me to sing and toss;

 

 

still I sing, sing along,

sing merry and merge

with feather and leaf.