Sunday, March 29, 2015

On a composition of Brahm

What had made Brahm to compose
Such a tune, with such poise?
What comforting idea made him
To put music into such a rhythm?
What inexpressible thought
Had he tried to fathom?
What soothing calm, what solace
What intervention of musical grace
What pursuit? What search?
Into what restive state did he submerge?

If had i been gifted one millionth part
Of the idea that he had unearthed
I would have made one for you
And for all to have a better view
Of life and the world too.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Living, a shepherd's life,

Long long ago
There lived a shepherd
Just at the foot
Of the hill,
He had no worries
Or cares,
All he knew
That he would have to
Wake up and take
The sheep for grazing,
And his life had no other meaning,
He would do what every shepherd should,
And at the end of the day
When the shadow of the hills
Would be dancing down the slope,
He would return to his humble cottage,

There he would tend the flock,
And after having a meagre meal,
He would sit at the cottage door,
And watch the night sky,
Full of twinkling stars,
He would count them,
One, two, three, four, five, six...
Till sleep would come all over him,

The nimble soothing air
He would take to sleep,
Only to wake up the next day...

He had no aspirations,
All he believed was in living in peace,
And the square meal he had,
He thanked the lord for that,

Sometimes, early in the morn
When he would go out
He would watch the trees,
They looked sleepy and quiet,

The quietitude would then
Seep into him,
He would feel
That he had got merged
With the silence of the place,
Everything he felt
He got within him,
The distant murmur of the stream,
The calls of unknown birds and animals,
All he thought he got
As a part of his existence,

Thus living,
The shepherd boy
Almost became a part
Of the setting,
So much so
That he oneday realised
He had no wish other than living.


Have you heard of Tublu?
That boy curious,
Who would every afternoon
Come to my room
And if he would find me
With pens and pencils a bit busy,
He would say nothing,
But crane his neck to see
What I would be doing,
At occasions, he would stop
And on my works he would drop,
His comments, engaging,
'What do you mean when you say
Storms have taken buds away?'

I would just smile at him,
And indulge in his remarks knowing
Tublu only can make me feel
How wonderous is the world still,
If seen through his eyes,

Sometimes Tublu would ask me
Impossible queries,
'Who has created this world?
'Why are we here?'

I would think hard to find
Answers that could fit into his mind,
'God has created us,
And we are here
Because of Him'

'Who is this God?
Can I meet him?'
Tublu would ask,

'Sure, if you remain what you are,
Innocent and pure,'
I would tell him,

He would think for a while
And then suddenly runaway to bring
His box of toys, broken things,
A cart, a wheelbarrow, a telescope,
A drummer, a plastic soldier, a case of soap,

And I being guided by
Tublu, would play,
Till the afternoon would turn
Into evening
And the streetlights outside
Would glow,

Tublu would then
Wrap his things up
And before he would go,
He would flash his smile,
And tell me, he would again come,
The next day,
Keeping me

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Of some deaths, and Icarus,

'Of some deaths,
If death I embrace,
Let that be,
Like the death
Of Icarus'-
Once read
In a man's chapbook,
Littered among many things,

From then on,
I took off,

The wings of poesy,
I passed on
To the next one,
And only prose
I chose.

Where all those songs gone?

Where all those songs gone?

Songs simple and without sarcasm,
Songs that can fill life with life
Instead of breaking things with strife,
Songs that can make one happy,
Songs that inspire, vibrant and sappy,
Full of colors, not grey and post modern
But those which can lead one
To believe there are still roads ahead
To traverse, without dread,

Where all those songs gone?
Songs of breaking morn?
Songs full of love and care,
Songs without hatred and fear?
Songs that can hold the world
And stop it from falling apart?

Where all those songs gone?

Monday, March 9, 2015

Hundred days..

'It would be said so
For hundred days the land was not mowed'

Said the panch to the gathering
Who asked what could be done

To find grains in grains again,

'It would be a tough ask'
The panch replied,

'For it would be said so
For hundred days
The land was not mowed,'

'Call the farmer to the ground
He must be held and bound

For hundred days he did nothing
Only slept and did not till,'

What a waste, what a waste
Would be the cry from east to west,

He had left it high and dry
He had failed to properly comply
With the dictats that would've required
Courage more and something sagacious
And theories of everything rightly fitting there,

The farmer wished he could answer them all
With answers really long and really tall,

But how could he really tell
How hundred days he felt like being chopped and felled,

And it would be said so
For years to come and years to go,
For hundred days the land was not mowed.

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Visage of a twilight

Floating across the horizon
The visage of the twilight
Brought silhouettes ephemeral,
Wrought in hues emblematic,
As far as the eyes could behold
There was an expanse of a country
Getting slowly merged with the mist,
Apparently blurry the sight had the evocation
Of an evening unmistakably benign,
Adding to the tenderness of the air,
There was a descent of silence
Befitting gothic semblance.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014


Just like a scene bound by frame
The tramline crisscossing the lane
Had gone away till it had bent
Near the single file seemingly of an apartment,

People of the town could be discovered
In shawls, sweatshirts, pullovers,
Some were walking to the bazaar,
Some had the resting indolence,

The roadside benches had their fill
Old age had come there to kill
All the time that had been left spare,
With wrinkled faces and webbed brows,

A row of trees dotting the pavement
Company to the electric posts lent,
Just where a tibetan shop newly opened
Had queue of connoisseurs for exotic items,

The park nearby seemed like a fair,
Panipuri stalls having business brisk,
And candyfloss were held by little hands
Like cotton balls at the end of sticks,

Just like a picture, bound by frame...

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

At the day's end...

'Corns brought home for poppin'
And the cold outside is just not stoppin'
Ain't it good to be at home this night?'
The father asked his kid, smiling still alright,

The kid had just from a sweet short nap awakened,
His smile had lit the night that broadened,
'But the cold is what made us cozy here,
Can't you get the mild wintry flow in the air?'

The kid made a revert, his eyes full of innocence fair,
'Yes,' the father put his hands on the little one's head,
And then he put the bridge's pin on the disc's lead,
To make an unwinding return for both of them,

To find a meaning at the day's end
Much like a prayer they a song gained.