Library is still alive.

             Library   is  still  alive

Agile  reading  is  alive,  avid  writing  is alive,

I perceive in the fresh, polished   racks,

Neatly  stacked  by  ebullient  hands.                                 

Charles  Lamb  gently  taps  to  relive

Those  days  of  Bodleian  library

Of my undergraduate  days:

At   times, moth eaten pages

 In  some  libraries of  underdeveloped ,

Still  fritter  by the impending

Disastrous  winds. Threat  for my thread.

Why?  there is  still   romping  Romance.

Impassioned speeches, feuds,

Cleopatra’s moods, Malvolio’s

Self love, Witty clown’s intelligent remarks,

All  in  some   gritty, hurried  notes

For  Annotations. What  is not  there

In the library? I share  the biblio-geography

In   superabundance  flowing.

 

                                     Rock  muses.

                            I am impenetrable,  ageless,

                            Like   Maya’s doings or undoing.

                           Every flashy  splash, frothy gear

                          Rolling  crab  and crank by  the

                           Sand  dunes, touch  and negate.

                           I see  Shiva  with  His wary  eyes

                           Move less  midst  the manes.

                           His  celestial  locks   playing  on

                           The  body of  curvatures.

The Twin Watching

                                 4)     The  Twin  watching

                            Time on His  winged Chariot,

                            Faith, the Healer, twine and inspect,

                            Let  things  go. Even  a  scrap has

                            To  see its  fate  and  deposit in tune;

                            Cornered   brambles fritter  proud

                             By the   speedy wind.

                           

                                  “What is wrong  with  you?”

                             What   is wrong  with  you?”

                             What is  wrong  with  you  abominably?

                            A conscious  query in the sub conscious  segment

                             Like  Zero  balance, the ignorance

                            Thumping  you  with  a  Victorian  banner,

                            Till  recently, stunning  events and  anecdotes,

                            Alarmingly move, yet move not the  arrogantly

                            Seditious, we move  on Challenging the times.

                            Clock  ticking  as if  to absorb everything

                            In its  tide.  The lolling    octogenarian musing;

                            If  the  Times  are challenging  or unthinking

                           In the  human, Challenges the Supreme.

                          

                            Who  cares? 

                      The epicurean   verve  once dashing

                     Now a dust, a sediment on the bowl.

                     A  crumbled  shirt hanging on the wall.

                     Speaks of  abuse  in its vintage.

                     Intermittent  cough. Phlegm  spat thoughtlessly

                     Mocking the moribund. Looks as if  it says

                    ‘Glad I came out.’  In short it is going to                

                     Die another   Death. Who  cares?                                        

The Blade on the Grass

                                        The  Blade  On the   Grass.

                    The glimmering, yet uncut ting  blade,

                     Lie  aslant, uncared for, 

                    The  edges wear  a  worried look;

                    Its  bluntness  from constant exposure

                    to fogginess, looks  as if unforgiving 

                    the  weather, for  the degradation  wrought.

                    While the Grass is  paying  Thanksgiving,

                     Dancing  with hue and sturdy,

                    Wintry  shield  pampers the bunch.

                    How  two lie on the  selfsame  bed!

                     

What 9/11 says!

                                          What 9/11 says!

                   Our heroic saga was kite bursting                

  No sea shore, no play by the beach, no trendy waves

To lure us ; as  we grow,  things do change.

A whisper with  authenticity of a  Gospel.

On   that  day   tremor is going to affect , a threat;

In the multi-storey   apartment, it is   only a   rumor,

Afore the tremor  ran down us,  a hellish fever strikes us.

Instantly how all of us came down

With  a  thud, holding our breath.

This was only an illusion, but sooner

News paper report on 9/11 turned the

Reality of  lives, an illusion.

Mid air diabolisms

       Mid  air  diabolisms

High lobby on the mid air.

Not  a  constructive, but   hellish,

Submerging all  real  Saga of lives

And  ancient Literature. Corporate

Raiding,  a  raid on the articulate,

Dumbfounding the world and onlookers.

What  could  elevators do? Before

You  and  I hovered there in the

Mid air, the devil’s disciple  took  hold,

Transparency was lost in

Man’s heart ever since going  against

Norms  of  life took place aided by

Rocking  skyline of money.

Until  God  descends  and consoles

“peace will come,wait”.

Those Calls of Birds!

       Those calls of  Birds!

 In  the  pristine  Dawn’s setting,

 Illumining horizon, slow  and sure,

Each bird is  a twitter, a  cardinal  voice,

Clarion  call  of  God’s Dictum.

In the plumage, I see  my ancestral lineage

Long  last  and  forgotten. Times’ duress,

of course. Though atop, Roof  often

Befriends   these  bosom pals:  Voices  are

The   Hudibras on the  fake attire 

Of  select .It is no small thing  to

Listen to these rising  and  scattering.

At   Times  Litany too. I  would

Like to listen to these.

           Wood  stories.                                                                    

  Wonder  If it is a  super polished   oblong,                

Mahogany  table or sturdy chair,

The Grand sire  reciting  The Mahabharata

Wheeling on it, every  now  and then looking

At the inmates  with  a  peremptory look ;

Or grandfather clock, tick ticking          

Every beat of  our  move, hope

And  happening around us;

Every piece,  a silent, kindling

Watcher  or  bearer, for  a  wood

 wall portrait  engraved specific

of  a maternal uncle, homeopathy

practitioner. How often the  playful

children   would  hide and seek

beneath the broad table, a spectrum

of  unbounded mirth  and glee.

The  wooden  articles   breathe,

Yet bemoan not their predicament

Nor  curse their  once   felling  sword,

For  but for the cruel fate  of

Those   hands, these would not

Be embellished here.                                                                                                                                                 

                                                                                                                                                           

       Her  First Love.

Before  the fear  for the class room is gone,

The first  day of entry into the school begins,

Her  lure  for  the new uniforms  and  slate

Multiplies: for  in those days, slates ,pencils

And blades, the box were  the necessity

Of  a perfect class syndrome. The  blade,

The  sharpener in the geometry box, she  abhors,

For  Maths  was tough  to comprehend.

The  blade  that  shines, sharpens the pencil,

Draws  the  sketches, she folds meticulously

In the  slated  wrapper.  Now comes  her love

For the Rhymes and  English class.

“Baa  Baa  black sheep, have you any wool?”

Comes in  rich lore to  her  mouth’s brim.

The  blade lurks into nothing, the rhyme

Redoubles  with  vigour and trimmer.

      Tradition bound  post modern woman

 When penury draws the boundary line,

What is mascara, or  the  eyeliner?

The  flicker  of  the  candle

Tapers  into  nothing  and total  dim.

She  sees  the  golden  ribbons    and

Jazzing   bands  on the  pictures,

hanging  on the  walls  besmeared

with  cobwebs, still   a  Victorian

romantic  sentiment  preserved.

A pair of shoulders  not  strong  and  

Sturdy: yet  willed  into  hard  labour

By determination   and necessity.

No  perfume on her  skin, but

Long petticoat   to hide  her 

Snowy, delicate   Feet    and  skin.

A star  and  stud  on her  ears

Shining  with  the   glow  chin.

Lemon  rice  and   buttermilk 

In  a bowl  are her luxury.

Her  lovely mind   and

amiable  Nature, her asset.     

I come in Time and for Certitude.

           I come, in  time  and for  certitude.

     In times of  duress  and ignorance,

     You  are by  yourself in the garden,

     The  buds asleep in their

     cosy chambers .  Doubling  season pats on them.

      In  Wintry bed  the  seed crackling

    You see only in imagination ,yet

    The biting  cold sparing  none.

    Yet, come  as I  from  old,

    Or  era of  Golden  prosperity,

    Tapping  the  pyramids or talking 

    With the  sleeping  souls, resting;

    Perhaps  for  next  birth and  birthing.

    I  see the wood  and waste,

    Beast  and bestial,

   The  river  glideth,duty  bound,

   bank sings  along  the brooding

  crane   and  cawing   bird.    

  Unfailing,  I come from out

  The heart of  summer’s Joy.

It is all Gone.

    It is  all  gone, gone.

Gone, it is all gone,

Meddling  with The

Incarnation, it   is all gone,

With  The Godhead,it  is  gone.

Reputation  is  Gone,

Peace is gone, Life is a

Piecemeal share of life

And existence is the remnant

Of His  Grace,undenied   even

In the last bogie.

“Hare  Rama, Hare Krishna”

in the parched tongue,

Southerly winds blow

As a   matter of  fact.

It is all gone.

You  are by  me, my  side,

Stays all in good earnest.

You  Are, Are ruling  the  roost

Of  His  Dictum.

Canals flow silent

             Canals flow silent

Remembering  those dogged days

When   deserted with  sediments brown

and   red, crude  layers of  aridity,

eyeing  that   green eyed monster jealousy

brooding   also in  the popping  up

layers  of  green  plants  for  the  soil

was  barren  ere  while  ago.

Away  into  the  town,  the  tongues

Some  are dishonest, but  the chirping

Is  always honest, for it is

The  Melody  of God’s  Make.

Undiluted ,unspoilt by  any

Corruptions  and  corrugations .

Birds   speak  their  own  languages.

Yet, man  and woman  under  the

Blue  sky, employ  a  different, dishonest

medium. But oh! Here,to live  in a land,

To become a  butt  of  comic  ridicule

And vituperation, a  pain  and eyesore.

Canals   flow  silent  and serene.

“ How could   I know what  an alcoholic was?”

The  dim, dusty, musty, cluttered  room  

Of  the house, shall  I say, haunts. No! for

Certitude.   The  memory lingers, of  those

Hard, hardening , your muscles  and lines

Across  your  hands. Those vials and   lemon       

Were  meant to  pep up   your  spirits. Some

Ginger  tea  and  coffee light would  alleviate

Our   pained hearts and  body too.

 Life  was meant   for  us, to eke  out

 a precarious living  and . Ma  would 

milk the cow  and cow dung cakes

Meticulously on the wall of the

backyard. The next day hot water

in copper  boiler. The  siesta  and

cool  air in the veranda  would 

enrich  next  day  for  fields .

How  could  I know  what  the alcoholic was!

I  am  a teetotaler.

                             

Hats off to Hats.

  Hats off to hats.

In the matrix of civilization,

Hats and caps  and helmets

Sepoy  head cover change

Their colors. A big delay

in donning them, doffs

their  features, their perspective

looks. The matted hats foray

the  past craftsmanship. By

the nullah,you  sit and admire

the stream, see  a cap floating,

capturing the life boat float there.

Under The Tympanum Sky

     Under  The Tympanum Sky.

Under  the tympanum  sky,

Whether you are an Indian, or Anglophile,

Or cosmopolitan in outlook, you live by

A set cultural code, nobody can break it.

But, oh! These man made  laws are  beliefs

So governed by  mystic  laws with  a  hidden     

Secret, geography or topography of their own.

Days roll on: ages descend into new platforms,

Suppliant, gain new nomenclatures,bend  the

Norms of  cultures, which we tend to believe:

Still, the rubric prevails, we foresee,             

“Culture’s the crackable/  code
That guides all tribes and clans.”  

Here  goes  the  piper with his supple

Melody  to proliferate the  idea  with

The song, society goes berserk,

Skeleton, when culture is  torn  asunder.

Karma, The Careful Bird of Vigilance.

  Karma, the  careful Bird of Vigilance.

Methought, I can clip the wings of Karma,

Undo its doings  and  nudges,

Convert its  Divine chattering into

a  promenade of  unsilencing  throb.

She being  a wakeful Bird of pouring

Takes  me by surprise, not flying  away,

But pecking at the fruit, eyes the

World of notations  and permutations

As well. It looks  as if counselling,

‘Look at me. You  Don’t saunter hither and thither,

Unless  with  a  motif. Practice stable in your

Garb of right thinking.”

Now  she flies from tree top

 to topmost  twig of rumination

to carry out her preordained ordeal.

Amazing is she with her dappled wings.

A Flag Of Assured Solace

    A Flag of  assured   Solace.

You  are my  Hope, only Hope,

Assured  Hope thwarting  the  Devil 

Of  Despondency.

“On  one  of  these  Dark  Days,

 hugging  my misery”

I  can prostrate  on your Divine Feet,

I catch  your  admirable drift.

In full  saffron you  can deftly

Ride  on your  bicycle,

Can be mountaineering,

Can be marine  engineer,

Engineering  from enormous

Altitude, can be in Meditation

On  Grand  Himalayas.

Preaching  and counselling

Silently  to all Your Devotees,

On the other side, vehemently

Silencing   the Devil’s Voice.

Without you it is  utter  chaos.