My reflections on the album

MY    reflections    on the   album

The   hot   air   puffing  in, 

amidst  your      prolonged   desire

to  preview  the   album,

but   it  is  not  going  to be

a   preview, but  a  profound  delving

into   those  dear and dead  ones:

where   are  those   departed  souls ?

SILENT SUFFERING  was  their inborn  trait,

Today    you  can   read  their   suffocated  

emotions, but   then  it   was  all  hidden 

under   the polished    exterior  of  a  calm

visage    and    sacrificial    urge.

Can  you    spot   them   amidst  the

Unaccountable  stars, perchance their

Partial   face  reflected  in their  twinkling,

 you  realize  a   vain  craving   it   involves,

The   album   holds   them    steadfast

Which   some  people   cannot  do,

But   you   hold   them   in your  heart.

Nothing is more dangerous..

Nothing   is   more  dangerous..

Nothing    is   more   dangerous   than 

The   dangerously    encircling    innocence,

Or   ignorance:   the     morbid   gruelling 

Conspiring   factor  is   as   cruel 

as  the   timer:  the   retributory  times  :

The    already      dwindling

 sparrows    chirp  around , suddenly

fall    in    to  the  killing    trap  of  the 

trading, merciless    mercenary .

Strewn  feathers   speak  of   endgame:

Many   sparrows    still    chirp  around,

 equally   are  there     elusive   traps.

Heart consoles

Heart  consoles.

   After   a meticulous   search,

    long   wait   and    stand in the BIG BAZAR,

as   we  wait  for  Spring, season’s

fresh   new  lease     and   crescendo ,

Where  customers   buzz  like   bees 

Ringing  in  and out of  bee  hives

You  reach  home to  unpack 

The   picked up and  assort:

It  is  just like  winding  up

Of   office    staff  at  five.

You    fall  asleep   like   a  deadened

Patient  in  a  hospitalised  corner,

whether    sleep dominated    you 

or    etherealised by   surrounding 

mode    of     silence, you  cannot  configure.

Figures  in  Dream like  quality

Pop in    short,  a  sort  of    come  and  go ,

Your   heavy  heart, much   to 

Unload    consoles,

Only   thing  that    can  be  done

At  the moment.  

It is not the caged bird alone that sings...

It  is  not  the  caged  bird  alone  that  sings.....

It  is  not  the  caged  bird  alone  that  sings,

Outside    vagabond    voices   to  the tune of  timbre

both  of  his hey  day  and   declivity    now:

 With   tumbrel  the  farmer is  wedded

 to  his   ancestrally   transmitted ,proud

 lineage  of     cultivation.   The bard

 not   wilfully   but    woefully    writes

 his  pages  of  unethically   got  and

seen Mammon  worship .

Only  his  pages,  but  others’ coffers,

 The  black  crow  in the much

 visited balcony    amens. 

Acidity remarks

                   Acidity   remarks

I   am throttled ,  bottled,      

Tight-lipped,   furtively 

thrown  in  a   hurry,

The   angry  young   man

throws  me      for  love  negation,

Or  retort ion,

  is  he  bothered if  the

Victim  is   defaced   or  deceased?

Out  of  the   empty  bottle,

Broken to pieces,

I  am  flowing  still,

My   supersicilious      pride

has   bubbles   all   over,

 The  flash in the newspaper

In   the   morn  highlights

‘’I   am  banned’’

Hungry voices

Hungry   voices.

Those   indefensibly     dead , still   rig out

Of   their    half    burnt  bones, care  to

Somehow    speak  to  this   uncaring

 Sadistic    world  of  diabolism:

The     still  burning  embers of  the

Burnt  wood,   remind  the  sad  tale

Of  bygone  ,   the   dead , resonate

With  their   craving  angst  

Irredeemably  suppressed  

For some  reason  or  the other.

Tapping  the  cold ,chilled  ,barred

Doors  of  Justice,  Some  familiar

Passers  by   rehearse  the  poignant

Faces ,out  of  gratitude,  record

Their  voices on the   tawny   stalk,

I  refresh   those   lines  as   I pass  by.

Chocolate

Chocolate

April’s   Dove  spreads   its

Wings  of   message   of  peace

While   the   shiny   sheets   of water

by  the  glowing    River  Thames,

caress   your    creative     aura,

I  stand   by  the   wheel  of   London  Eye,

   A  sip  of   hot    chocolate,

  Fragranced   smoke   escapes

   the  seductive  cup,

   hot  chocolate   is 

 women’s day’s  best  treat.

Lovely! Lovely! Lovely! Is The Rose!

Lovely  !    lovely !   lovely!   is   the     full

 Blossomed   flower ,

The   Metaphysical   Rose 

In   my   ancestral  reared   Garden,

 I  don’t   smell  it,

The  fragrance  pierces   my   nose,

Pervading   the   Valhalla   like.

I  feel  a  sensation  it

Wants  to    contract   its  space

To  be  more   possessive,

No  more  loves  you  crave,

No  more  lost   things you  miss,

STILL  the  ash  coloured  Dove

Looks      NOT   askance  at  me 

But  to  approve  of  my

 Internalised   ambience.

Words'changing attire

       Words’ changing  attire.

 Words   always  not  bright  strokes

Of  brushes   of  ebullient  painters,

Not   splashes of      retaliating    waves

Or   receding    froth  dashing  against

Pebbles  or  crabs  hiding .

I  closely   sat by,

saw  hammering   words  

on the  frittering  pages,

 him , hammering  words

 twining enjambments,

At  times,  words   are like

  Modern  double   sided  saris,

words  could mean  a lot

behind   the  closed  eyes

of   a  saint. Yet  they  are powered.

On floods and watery deluge.

if man has hardened His Heart,
buried his Soul alive,
conspired with his Conscience,
we can take recourse only
in floods, waters,and rain,
devastating though they are,
they listen to our redesign.

There is a BONE.

    There   is a   bone.

I  settle  upon  a  quay 

A  huge   final   transformation

After  corrosion   and

by   the  surfing    waters 

splashing   upon   it,

 far   off ,  a   bone  

craving   helpless   for

a   comrade,

a   swooping   bird 

pecks  upon  it,

bone   when  surrounded

by  blood   and  breath

had    strength   and  stamina,

 almost   cracked  now,

who  cares  for it?

A Pearl sheds tears

 A pearl  sheds  tears.

I   was  reared   safe  in   waters,

Mother  Ocean  midst  roars

 Protected  me,  some  selfish

Beauty  conscious  monsters

Pulled  me  out,  I decked a   

Rugged  finger,  sure    I was

A  gift   from  a  woman

Longing  for  love, life, endurance.

 This  undeserving     throws  me

Out   on  and off,

Soon  will  repent for  it.

A Dew drop, a Pearl, and a new born's Smile

A  Dew  drop,  a  Pearl  and   a  new    born’s     smile.

 Not   all   the   folded  colorful  silken  saris

On the    hanger, in the  showroom,

The    dazzling   beauty  of

 Diamonds   In the  small  cute  ears

Of   a   five  year old   dancing  doll,

The     shimmer  on the golden  ring

A  boost  for  your  thin  finger,

Nor  the  golden   horizon ,

The   orange    hues   of  the  Setting  Sun,

The   first   rose  bud  in your garden,

Not   all  these  -to   compete  with

The majestic  PURE,   SERENITY   of   a   DEW DROP,

A   PEARL AND  ON  A  NEW BORN’S SMILE.

A take on: My heart leaps up.....''

    A  take  on  :

‘’My  heart  leaps up  when   I behold

  a  rainbow in  the sky’’.

  Now  I  spot  no rainbow

  No  buoyant flowers,

    I am   past sixty,

    I   am old   and  palsied

   I feel    I am finished,

   I desire  my  soul  to  go

  Higher in the  cloudless  sky,

  To  merge   with  the  unique

Stars   and  stellar  system:

Let  the  kite   go  high

and  high  not  to be

mangled  and torn,

or   distorted  on 

tree  tops , rustling  :  

let   the  thread  be 

channelized   by my

Mentor, in  slow  and

Steady  rhythm, till

It  reaches   its  Heaven’s portal.

A summer poem

A summer poem

I had spent two receding wintry months,
Me, beneath the thick woolen rug,
Completely frozen, my writing mood
at a standstill, at times shivering
and quivering along with my body,
long spell of rains with uncouth
sound of the falling waters,
as if not to wet the parched land,
the appeased deity of rain followed by
rituals and sweet rice ball and offerings,
by the childlike village farmers 
yields to wet the stony heart of
folks whose hearts have become
dry and totally dry,
nothing but venom ooze.

I get up slowly resisting
my wrestling mood,
browsing Emily Dickenson, 
setting me into a summer mood.
The glass shutters of my window panes 
moving to and fro as if in a warring mood,
the penetrating cool breeze 
now takes to my balcony,
mild sunbeams creep cheering me up,
a small sparrow on the dried leafy
branch swinging to and fro,
I am afraid if the coconut would fall
and crush the spongy feathered bird, 
the bird swings and swings,
oblivious of the scenario, 
the book of poems on my hand,
summer hangs on with my siesta.

After Matilda's Fire.

After     Matilda’s   Fire.

I  walk  out  of   a  show  of

Matilda’s   Fire,

Saddened   by  the  tale.

Not   a little  far off,

Here  is     God’s  ire

Aghast   by  the  grim

Tragic  outlook:

Mortuary  man  beckons,

Me  in,

I  cross  the  fallen  ladder,

Greed   chuckles

at  those calm  now

The   boxes    protect  them,

Today’s  ice ,

Tomorrow’s  embers.

Life in embers...

             Life   in   embers...

Like  the  patient ,   drooping  cloth liner 

Bearing  heavily    the   clusters of  wet clothes,

 The    day   wears:   drags  on 

With  the   lengthy   shadows  ,

 Suppliant    grass   on   the  Craig

Bears   calm   and gentle      the

 Stamps   and   steps   of    the   careless

Passersby.  The  concept  of    Life 

and    Death    same  for  them.

Ambulance   from  mortuary   

accustomed   to   its    seasoned

sirens  ,amplifiers    of  life’s  philosophy.

Loading  and unloading  the    LIFELESS,

There  you  see   real  life.

Those   burning   embers  in  

The  graveyard,   inch     you 

To  see  a  beginning, a 

 Page less    past.

                                         

Walking in the fog

                                              Walking    in the  fog.

                                            You walk  in  the  fog,

                                            To  ease  the  clouds,

                                             Besmearing  around  you,

                                             You  walk  in  the  fog,

                                             Under   the    careless   dark

                                              Yet,  Sinister    and  spying  :

                                             Spiraling   everywhere. 

                                             Creepy  with  its  crooked

                                             Deadening   silence,

                                             You   think  of  next   Birth,

                                              Snowballing   the  transmitted

                                              Issues  of  karma, while

                                               Many   stifle   the  very  life,

                                               The   living   along   with

                                               Their  conscience,  submerge

                                                totem  into  a  fearless

                                               Uncanny ,diabolic

                                                underwater  currents.

                                                You  continue  waling

                                               In the  fog, with the

                                               Clouds  multiplied.  

                                              A sigh, stopover, heals .

Inside the purse.

                                Inside   the purse.

              

                 Inside   the    folded, quality leathered purse,

                  Sophisticated, attractive,

                  Tucked, cosy   in  my  palm, 

                  Inside   the  crowded    public transport    bus,

                 My   creativity   ruminates, chews   the  

                  Cud   of   observation, moving, moving.

                  Inside    the    purse, heavy  

                 Worn out   zip  struck  in the  middle,

                 Inside   the  bus, the  conductor

                 Calling   for   defaulters, loud   and emphatic,

                   Whistle  sounds     automatic ,

                  As if  it knows  the  timings,

                   Inside   the  purse,

                  No  pounds, no dollars, no

                  Western   money  transfer  receipts,

                 Jingling   are  a  few   Indian  coins,  

                 I   preserve    a    paper , very fragile,

                 Oblong,  crushed, yet  preserved,

                 What  is  there  in  a   name?

                 What  is  there  in a  piece of  paper?

                 Yes, very much  is  there

                  It  is    the  bus  ticket,

                 rolls    and   moves  faithfully

                  to  my  destination  midst

                 jolts   and   bolts.    

                                                        

                                                            

                                                           

Look up to The Heavens for clarity

Look  up  to   The  Heavens  for  clarity.

When  man   is   bemused

Most  of   the  Times,

Confused, or  pretending   to  be

Lost  in  the    trackless  path  

Of   thimbles , vouchsafes  the 

 Cacophony  pleases

 his  ambivalent  Moods,

 Silently  you  watch  his

  Histrionic   movements,

  Entreat   the  clouds  to

  Clear  up    fast  :    

  look  up to the Heavens

  for  clarity.