Leaf color ( guardian)

 

Leaf color  ( guardian)

What greater grin and your pain 

of morn can you see than in gathered

leaves   spread in garden, once your

copious flow of green and verdant full; 

 now shining yellow with dimmed brown

swallowing green, borders on pond,

what do they teach us, tell us in this

fast decadent world, intense loosening

our hope, artificiality in seeds   dipped

by pests  and withered corners; not 

much swallows nor crows with cries

echoing the fields parched now;

our days are gone, with colorful

fruits hanging quench thirsts then.

Now only shadows in parchments.

Look up to skies for mercy and pour.

After Guardian ( …. It was my destiny to live long.

 

After  Guardian ( …. It was my destiny to live long.

Ten years of  cancer 

Struggle with drive and alone,

At times with rumination 

in  corner with lymph nodes,

Doctors’ notes on prescription

With chemo, death chasing me 

Slow and steady, fear running 

Across, eating me alive.

Death chasing me down

Not knowing that equally 

With vigor and will  I am 

Fighting back; Death chasing 

Me down ;with a warning

My days are numbered.

My deaths every minute

 unfulfilled like lines

extending in artists’ sketch

unabated  sill; desires,

 ageless norms, debts 

 and unsolved mysteries,

death chasing me down,

death on its adamant

steps giggling at me

me , reciprocating

with a reconciliatory 

smile, embrace sleep.

A maid.. ( after Guardian)

 A  maid, ….

What a morning to receive a call!

eager  to receive new assignment

with all anxiety to know about

surroundings, to know more about 

inmates, the   involved merits ;

 roses colorful in bloom and nourish

 infusing a fragrance of enthusiasm

among   inmates all around.

A special, notation of roses all colors,

Invitatory smell an ambience of sacred

event, permeating through all pantry too,

cook, with all right tasting smell

all dish and rule.   There comes agog

house keeper, slowly with a look of concern

looking all around the merriment

going on, helpless she is.

Our expectations are different

From reality, occurrences with a sudden

flip of happenings veering into maze.

 

A final command (After Guardian)

 

A final command  (After  Guardian)

After years of suffering 

Time has come at last,

A voice from some  corner

Unable to decipher;

Go away from me, yet

My mind unwilling to accept

your suggestions, your way 

of recompense these times. 

The life led by us, moments

of memory, petty issues, unsolved

queries, still lingering, as fragrance

in pet jar, even after its exhaustion;

wine and sunshine, jar and dice

play and fun all in our lives,

till, chord of separation is struck;

with a final appeal to Sun god

my soul merges with the one

appeal for unification. Thank 

God for all blessings.

Nocturnal reverie After guardian

 Nocturnal reverie

A pleasant walk and lonely light

There is a song of philomel, a mild

 Cool air permeates, the tree mute 

Witness to owl on the branch, silent

watching; nodding grass in the banks,

cool moon on bench and shadow

on the banks – all  kinds of flowers

interplay, all  imaginative free play

 serenade on wings of leaves and falls;

a poet never leaves  Nature’s   beauty,

nor do objects of nature forsake a real

poet’s moods and serendipities; cows

and sheep , swallow  and bluebird  group 

 in a form of meadow, these happenings

in the fertile  free play of poet, magician,

nocturnal events in  daylight reverie of poet;

but somewhere , the crudity of unthinking man

taps, in its own way. All rage subdued, all

rigor controlled, all peace renewed in the 

morn, with rays rewinding morn and noon.

Poem of the week: Anima Anceps by Algernon Charles Swinburne

 

 After Poem of the week: Anima Anceps by Algernon Charles Swinburne

A while away 

----------------------

Spring showers

Soon  cold nod 

Of biting chill

In your room 

where your cozy

writing obstructed

by throat infection,

close your tap, away 

from your laptop;

soul’s journey 

into long forgotten

souls’  end dead

bereaved untimely

same time into realm

of birth and growth

ripped short by cruel

hands of fate  and Time.

Yet more room for flesh.

Sorrow  yields to morrow

Joy doused by painful ire

moods   and gain all in sink

to be submerged into basin;

far off  ugly premonition

yells often  making you ready

for realm not liked but only read

in scriptures  and books;

yet back to life  and dizzy song.

Poem of the week: from War of the Beasts and the Animals by Maria Stepanova

 

Poem of the week: from War of the Beasts and the Animals by Maria Stepanova

It was a horrid night

watching over  the window,

not merely  sleepless  night,

but birds   among birds, four legged

in mutual cacophony disturbing

stillness of night. Not merely 

sounds of human bickering,

volley of  shots nonstops amidst 

blood shed  and wail, but also

a different from bird calls,

shots piecing through birches

and branches, twigs  and leaves

not  a momentary threat to birds

but scarry noise from gun pellets;

 some wounded in search of shifts,

dying soldier passing on gesture

for water, dead  just now, all 

for nation  and creed  merge 

with birds  and animals, poet

feels sorry for scant respect lives.

After Guardian

 Norfolk  and  Lambeth go in history

Wars and fights get recorded

Losses  and   victories get embedded

in books of history for  people 

to read, feel and mourn and praise;

Clere saved  his friend Howard

A move selfless  and out of affection;

What ever be the result, we struggle

leaving result to Him, the creator,

believing in Him, for  the finale.

He who fought for his friend 

  Saved his friend, but   it is the

Situation, circumstance beyond 

Control, redeemer was pained,

Yielded  to a cause of his friendship.

In your wounds, there is time the healer.

In her world of Karma

 In her  world of Karma

 Her  day of writing

is not about costly fur coat

which hangs around  her

and  a few known;

 not about wardrobe and bedecked neck-

jewelry studded in   glittering stones.

 

Then what?

A day of scorching summer heat

On her head of pot brimming

with gurgling water equally hot,

her hand on hip for a supportive clip

while her sandals draw unsteady flip flops.

 

Each careful step aligned

with a concern of her child

in cloth cradle hanging from beam

of  dilapidated haven, a lullaby

by its elder sister echoing her still.

 

Reaching  the blessed  home

for some  lean  protection it gives

 for she is the sole bread winner

disowned by her husband  long ago.

Blessed landlord in wretched times!

 

Her  contacts not, never,

in swim bath suits  and 

rich flavored juice in jars

morning and noon in cool sips

matter of distance for this poor.

 Her improvised kitchen

Catering to her bare needs

Compels her to sing s self made

Song of karma , her  karma

Why this on her hearth and how long.

 

 

My mother says no after ( Guardian) Radhamani sarma

 My mother  says no after ( Guardian)

Yes! That Bloomsday sounds very important

in my resounding diary, making me visit often

the crucial moments of care  and  recipient.

Wheeling   elderly and aged, in my home,

my priority, for years with   commitment 

and devotion unmatched, driving me proud

for the blessing and healing it involves.

Personal care, veering moment after moment

Round the clock, for the   realization, this one

Birth, and life evolve around affection

And nothing but mutual affection. 

But the mother slowly in her own world 

Of past, her days, irredeemable, peculiar

Dream world beyond my comprehension;

Still my care persists; comfortably she sleeps

In her own world, cherishing memory of her

Husband, with whom, she had special days,

I am not wanted, now, slowly she merges 

Into a different round of entity, me, after all

Watching the dumb show.

Poem of the week: Nocturne by Wanda Coleman (after guardian)

 Poem of the week: Nocturne by Wanda Coleman (after  guardian)

I  move  in a steady pace, measured beats,

 Monitored by a steady tongue, for they say

tongue is a  powerful and balancing  fork;

I hum and run in smooth, unfaltering pace,

Governed by a smooth rhythm, its own pace,

But how long it lasts, is a question, how fast,

another, running a quest in search of death;

a departing point, “point of departure”

a stunning myth, direction towards

a dead end, irredeemable, towards

another border, new port, dark,

unpleasant and dismal, mind cant digest;

all this happening while running, running

beyond  a  mythical dark, or dark myth

mind is irreconcilable for this running ? 

After Square ( Guardian) Tishani Doshi

 After  Square   ( Guardian)  Tishani  Doshi

What is a square ? always a question,

Is  it  diagram, a figure, a graphic

Limited space, unique in my  mind.

A wooden framework, human invention,

image full of hidden crafts, would have been

arts embedded in it. Square is my home, serene

where frames of godheads are hanging 

on the wall. On extension, it is my garden,

where  sanctified aura blooms in  multiples.

Another square, cells multiple within our

Fragile body, again another side, a slow

Demarcation with the passing of time; 

When drawing close, when square shakes, 

falling from structures, become one 

mud, still it is a square, inimitable its way.

 

After Guardian ( Lucifer takes a break)

 

After  Guardian ( Lucifer takes a break)

All of us need  a break, even Gods do:

All work and no play, all work and no fun

Will  not work out for us  these  hard times,

 Body and mind need  a break , inevitable break,

 To churn chaos to order, to make  coffee  out 

Of  watery milk, need  some leisure  and patience

Inevitable break. Do you wander in these  aimless

World or wonder  how far is the distance 

from above to  these testing soil   with  times hard,

once  you are  in , do you taste  a sip of drink

strange, without sugar or less  sugar;

don’t you know man, life is  bitter struggle

here , not a sweet corn to be tasted, yet

man imbibes  a bitter sweetness for 

circumstances  beyond control.

What lies behind defeat and death Radhamani sarma

 

 What lies behind defeat  and death

The  hot days with hot pellets of gunshots

fiery raging with  angered valor and   courage

to defeat  our rivals, same hot blood still

amidst us from our trench, some from the

field, blood running like water, after all

the battle field is like child’s play;

unabated  vendetta  and ill will, the same

mood of violence prevailing after fire

quenched here  and there. We  fell  to the

ground with wounds  and breath hanging 

flimsy within  the orbed wall, much to the

 fear  and suspense of fellow warriors;

sudden, dismay, some falling like dusk

not knowing what is the next step, some 

still with a will to fight adversary, we  the

lying on the floor, not knowing, not fleeing,

still with a  pride,  a feel that we fought to 

redeem the honor of our country. Victory,

real victory lies still an acceptance that

though you fell, fell   and fled , fled for a

cause of a nation, matter  of pride, not defeat. 

omposed after "American Sonnet for My Past and Future Assassin Heal the wound, be blind to infliction

  Composed after   "American Sonnet for My Past and Future Assassin

 Heal the wound, be blind to  infliction

Live in the future, forget the past  and plan

for  your future is not my mood or motto now;

I live a world of my own, the deadly past haunting

me  over again, the present with its immediacy

appears elusive, but my  future with a strong hold

taking structures  on  a strong  platform ,my

prudent coined mound, unfaltering now

 before me .A  beautiful garden planting

rose, jasmine  and tulsi leaves  multicolored

and fragrance far reaching , my dream's 

aid from morn till evening, I keep travelling 

far  and wide, yet home is my ulterior savior

where  color  and chaos thwarted  by my 

 Mentor's    feather touch. In killing does not

live life, life lives in saving and protection plan;

introspection  and self awareness  order

of the day , forging ahead for a success.

Life is gritty void bugging all around

 Life  is  gritty void bugging all around

Hardly any space for us go out

and  breathe natural air, to play

game in broad day light with sanguine

mood to be culled into  the net around;

pollution, noise, gas and smoke 

all around, without   which mankind

is loggerheads with his self, despite

comforts  surge like mountain ranges,

like elephants rampaging forests, plantain

trees  and groves, hazards  and environmental

hiccoughs rummage our lives. Day and nights

vie with air pollution and noise pollution,

we  keep our fingers crossed waiting 

for sanguine  outcome, but heading 

towards  puffs of smokes blinding us .

after Guardian's

 This misty air...........

Life   as  committed soldier

 In the  warfront, in the urge

and wake of enthusiasm,

is life to be  celebrated  worth

A memory for years in history;

But to be treated like a slave,

to be  exploited, to be put

on garbs of starvation and thirst

a memory and moment to be erased.

Together in the same cell

 Tied up to their stories

Of village folk, to be behind

The scene of horrid happenings

How long – is their question.

Whole city, whole air infested

With pollution, poison and

Death and acrimony, running

Beyond remedy and  guilt

has left almost all, for their

need, is the essential want of hour.

Slave trade  and trafficking

Brutal argument with arrows

and chained metals their

day’s  thrills  and ends

when peace   mantra of desolate

of so many now  left on trees  and void.

from far off  a song of nothingness

amid  mist , mist of torpor

and  blood thirsty  resounding

every where. For some

only hope is the solace.

 

My word for your world of words

 

 After  guardian’s 

To Vladimir Nabokov … by Anthony Burgess

Radhamani sarma

 My word for your world of words

My mind goes back to those salty years

when you  coiled yourself in your web

 not attributing to any reason, not

clamoring for any ransom, you were

still your own, majestic  and  calm 

in your home, own home, of simplicity

and serenity. How often, like opposites

in  chess boards, we were in wordy deals,

digging in word play, semantics 

and translations, praising the Creator

for His Creation, language  and literature;

I came to your rescue, pacifying, Literature

and letters are our only forte, our realm

our free kite soaring above our moods, 

propelled by strings of our will  and wish;

I can only dedicate a poem for you

For your word game, right now 

Not bleeding, still wounds they are

 

Not bleeding, still wounds they are

 

Not bleeding, still wounds they are.

Some where, in your heart, sticking,

Why somewhere, mostly in most parts,

Gnawing  and annoying like wintry chill;

 

  You come out of its  creepy wound cuts,

  You tend to forget the   outcome, self

  donned in n gentler garb, even while

  the slings and arrows  pierce your

 

  forgetting orb, giving a  nod, a cool pass off.

 Hectic days  and sleepless  nights    in their own

world taking you along their wingless poesy

Only recourse  and remedy you dwell  in.

 

A god given boon and bliss you cherish

Wishing for the same your life’s journey

Soothing your wounds in a calm flow

 Still the wounds not bleeding, yet

 

  Pain hanging your vestige with

Time’s coin rolling on and on

Wounds get slow healed  their pace

Still wounds they are, not bleeding.

 

 Only recourse  and remedy you dwell  in poesy

While peace serenades your  body and mood;

 

Still and because...

 

After  Guardian's  'because

Radhamani sarma

Still  and because...

Still in the wounded heart like a container

sift  and flow like flow rhymes  permeate,

because of steady stubborn crow in the cawing morn;

 reminder of ancestral voice descent soon.

 grass bent  and trampled stay safe

in the mounds of stones and  dry soil,

 because of some wet flowing from Heaven's bounty,

from Time's  creation,  His will  and Design 

not to be thwarted,  His ruling wand from Above,

 yet marching battalions  surge to bypass;

because of His  Unique  Table  where calculations

cannot go amiss  and will not so.

Salmon and crab  swim and    play 

by  splashes  and waft of boats and waves,

because of  inherent thrill and  life

ordained by Workman  on this rim less shore.

Moon still shines on this tedium

in the negation, life's last baggage,

until  a will to surrender to HIS WILL

 beckons to my coinage counting  still.

still praise be to this  world,  rearing so far,

 still kudos to this soil nurturing  our keel,

because  everything is tune with set  pattern

 inviolable in this still wounding world.