Friday, April 18, 2014

In memory of a very old man with enormous wings

He must have been that man himself
An angelic figure with wings
Long enough
To plod through generations
And magically implant
a city of mirrors
By the side of a river
and a forest
Deep and dark
Like our own solitude,

He must have been
That very old man with enormous wings
To turn events into chronicles
And to turn the mundane
into something extraordinary,
Where ghosts of our hunger and sufferings
Come out into the open
And dance in noonday dreams
Casting premonitions
Of destruction,

He must have been
That very old man with enormous wings
To divulge secrets
Our sins,
Our acts of violence,
Our own ways of overreaching us,
Our phobic indisposition
Of imagining the worst
Our resurrections at the cost
Of blood,
Our dreams and wishes as ripe as wheat,
Our triumphs, our feats,

He must have been
That very old man
With enormous wings.

(a tribute to Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

Monday, April 14, 2014

Jane Morris as Proserpine

With thought ridden eyes
And pomegranate in hand
Rossetti took Jane to another land
He made her Proserpine
And haply declared
'woe me for thee'

That silken light
Must have added colors
To his vision,his plight,
That climbing vine
Must have had clinging branches
Of memory,
And that incense burner
With smouldering attributes
Unsuspecting wings surely took,
Jane Morris how he turned immortal,
In walnut frame how he made her fatal,
Her furtive glance upwards
With poesy his colors of mind merged,
And he with detailed description of his sighs and pines,
Turned his Jane to a dire Proserpine.

(on a painting by D.G.Rossetti titled 'Proserpine')

Friday, April 4, 2014

When I become less

Is it easy to strike a note
With you, is it easy
To sing full throat?

Everytime I think I could
Sing with you a few lines
Or pick up with you those buds
That had fallen off untimely shrugged
From trees by the tempest strong,
A few hundred eyes singe me,
And I cease to be
What I could have become-
The cool breeze, the prescient one
Which had sent your smell from the painted horizon
So crimson red, so rhyme like inclined,
Everytime I think I could
Think of You, the Timeless,
And worship You, robed in white,
The Heavenly trance grips a hold on me,
And a thousand lightyears I travel
To meet my past, my living sense
Evades me, I embark upon the passage of numbness,
And I become less.

Monday, March 24, 2014

I owe to them,

The songs of mountain-springs,
And those trees that breathe life
Amidst dust,
I owe to them,
Those roads
Which take mind to flutter
And add wings to heart,
That landscape
Where little lines
And rows of blossoms
With blessings
Of woodnymph
Unfurl life
In its pure
And natural symmetry,
I owe to them,
That corporeal frame
Which had made
World ,the finest place,
For generations
To live, to sing,
To put meaning
Into everything,
And that sylvan wanderer of a river,
That had made hundreds
To paint, to ruminate,
To muse words
From depth of a transcendence,
And to feel the tranquil presence
Of the living soul,
Filled with gleams
Of thoughts,
I owe to them,
That sensation
Of equating rhythm
With the passage of seasons,
That idea ancient and omnipresent,
To be united with that kindred spirit
That binds each and every particle
Animate , inanimate to follow the grandest design,
And make the universe
To move with poetic task,
I owe to them.

Sunday, March 23, 2014


We are into the Great Collider,
And protons would make a burst,
We are nearing to our end of days,
We are going to make it to the last,

We are into a channel of a tube
And soon we would tear us apart,
We are heading to meet the particle of God
We are going to glow horrific and smart,

We are radioactive now
That our skins have fallen off,
We are up for a great show
We are going to challenge the full stop.

The portico,

It had been our favourite place,
The portico,
The pebbled way
Leading to the door,

Those earthern tubs,
Those saplings,
Marigolds and jasmines of Aunt's,

It had been our place
To play the entire day,
Running around,
Yelling heart out,

That magnolia tree
Had seen us all, frolicking
And puffing smoke
Our ways of becoming
Finally men

And those railings
Were our bars,
We had the habit of hanging
From them,
Swinging our legs,

How time passed and flowed
We didn't have the scope to think,
We were thoughtless,
We were young,
And we had the portico
And summer afternoons.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Just let it be,

If the evening sings
Songs of love,
And sweet scent of rain
If the breeze carries
to your bylane,
Think not of me,

Just let it be,

If the clouds come down
On your floor,
If the wind knocks hard
At your door,
Think not of me,

Just let it be,

If few big dollops fall
On your window,
And if you hum a tune
Of a rock, tender and slow,
Think not of me,

Just let it be.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Spring summer collection

You would spend more time
To deck your self up for summer spring nights,
You would wear lemon peels
All over your face,
You would match up your cotton block prints
With songs of baul singers,
Your ear rings would become stars
Of lucid poetic evenings,
You would stretch your legs on grass
You would like a dryad the time pass,
By your feet would sprout little lilies,
And a chaplet would you probably wear,
Spring summer would come then here,
That I know,
That I know.