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.

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.

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 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 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.

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 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 .

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.

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.

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?

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.

(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.

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.

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.’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.