Glimpses of Something about Love

 

Where the light shines to the last ray

And night falls prey

Upon the rugged day

Sprawled mountains array.

And it raining to day’s last grey,

Drops shower darkness to lay

Solitude in night’s fray,

While the clouds thickening make way

For drunken wet night, which say

Like a drenched damsel makes hay:

‘See me not, for I foray

Hilarious hug in lover’s shrug, Oye!’

Vow, that eagerness! Sea ye

Seemst dying to see off the day,

Thy quivering pout through bay

Excites earth to foreplay;

Closing eyes to gentle breezy sway.

Alas! Eyes, imagination goes nay,

And the love scene blurs away,

Her sprawled hair put shadowy sway.

Immortal Beauties

 

When I think about the past,

Time’s load overcast

Rumbling clouds stretching vast,

So many beautiful things died; now aghast

Me remember them as alive for the last,

Alas, but life is so fast;

So many beauties annihilated in the merciless blast.

 

At each step a graveyard,

Present’s efforts fought hard;

Like versified truth from some bard;

Then coffin cradled, which once flowered

And whom this hasty runner favoured,

Now when time hath devoured,

Me prepare its next food; step as forward.

 

How impermanent, transient is life!

So many full flowers cuts time’s knife,

Still at each futuristic step we arrive

At something where newborns thrive,

And for more and more we strive,

Alas but, sacrificial presents only for the past’s survive,

And future’s tiny, trivial, momentous drive.

 

Are those graved beautiful flowers dead?

Whom no eye would ever read,

No! Seeds they are which time had

Furrowed along a path by someone who bravely lead,

Bloom they will again afore some eyes sad,

Whose present-past coexist and future dead,

My graved beauties then'll relive afore that bent head.

 

His senses lying rusting,

Still something in the dust goes bursting;

Swelling to Himalayan husting,

While illusion’s death hissing;

Dying before newborn rising

Above father’s head, where Gods watch praising.

The Saviour

 

When I think about the past,

Time’s load overcast

Rumbling clouds stretching vast,

So many beautiful things died; now aghast

Me remember them as alive for the last,

Alas, but life is so fast;

So many beauties annihilated in the merciless blast.

 

At each step a graveyard,

Present’s efforts fought hard;

Like versified truth from some bard;

Then coffin cradled, which once flowered

And whom this hasty runner favoured,

Now when time hath devoured,

Me prepare its next food; step as forward.

 

How impermanent, transient is life!

So many full flowers cuts time’s knife,

Still at each futuristic step we arrive

At something where newborns thrive,

And for more and more we strive,

Alas but, sacrificial presents only for the past’s survive,

And future’s tiny, trivial, momentous drive.

 

Are those graved beautiful flowers dead?

Whom no eye would ever read,

No! Seeds they are which time had

Furrowed along a path by someone who bravely lead,

Bloom they will again afore some eyes sad,

Whose present-past coexist and future dead,

My graved beauties then'll relive afore that bent head.

 

His senses lying rusting,

Still something in the dust goes bursting;

Swelling to Himalayan husting,

While illusion’s death hissing;

Dying before newborn rising

Above father’s head, where Gods watch praising.

The Saviour

 

He fell violently in love;

Big, stormy, illusionary ripples got a love-wreck,

And like life’s instinct when death doth attack

Only her image waved around him now.

In such a storm only the heart doth row,

While poor mind fell off the deck;

Logic struggled for its life behind back,

And storm intoxicated heart throbbed upon bow.

 

Logic but is such a slave;

Struggled it for a ‘follow’.

And storm when subsided to show the captain’s

Loss of direction; whom to look for a save?

Fortunately, mind stood there with a glow,

Saved, thus, from further delusionary pains.

Whose Success are You Going to Feast Today?

 

O sweet success, fragrance of nectar,

So many flowery moments got

Themselves killed for these clappings far,

Wined throats now celebrate a lot.

Suppose the flowers had lost for vain,

And bad fumes cometh out of the passioned flame,

That single bent head had bore pain,

Too many pocked noses had sought blame.

Aye! What one standth to lose or gain?

From the mob which gulps only by the name;–

Benumbed by victory; failure maketh insane;

One’s abhorred content changed there to lusty fame.

 

Thus the story of success-failure goes,

Prickles too many for a single rose.

Flower when thou did not know thyself as such; I saw thy beauty bloom much.

 

I watched a flower since birth,

Then a small plantlet greenish,

Whom eyes won’t distinguish

From the myriads born on the earth.

Grew it thus on its own mirth,

And devoid of any coronary wish,

Arose it then only affectionate kiss;

What a free hand for beauty’s birth!

 

Afterwards, I saw it budding;

Beauty which earlier knew itself not,

Got now aware of its budding heaviness,

And once small hatchling,

Stood, now, proud for flowery shot

By those full scented petals fresh.

That Unknown Place

 

Some deep forest it was somewhere;–

Oak, ash, elm, beech, sycamore,

Embracing, climbing vines dare

Heights where love opened door.

 

There love need not be made,

Rather it existed stoically,

And not as desire’s aid;

Stepped it out naturally, not frolically.

 

There leaves shone full green,

And grew pale after youth’s bloom,

Floated then downwards unseen,

Ha! O death, thy own doom!

 

The place, creator of its own destiny:

Accident, predetermination there fail,

Basks timeliness of instants many!

Wonder, whether they ever caught time’s tail?

 

Silent to the very core of silence,

Save some silent symphony by

Some bird larking by some unknown sense;

Noise of every sort there die.

 

Too unfamiliar a place,

Even to the sun partially known,

Curiously, thus, passes its face,

Doubting its fatherhood own.

 

Cloud crops fall into a world;

A world which its geography fathom not,

And in rumble-tumble they get rolled

Without hurt; Aaha! Cradle-caught.

 

The place where past seemed so evident,

Still present so independent!

And future with much secure accent,

Heavens! None from the trio lost with head bent.

 

Distance found itself unitless

Before the spread of that place;

Who can measure utter bliss?

Greenery that perplexed its face.

 

It looked as the centre of all goodness on earth;

As if God Himself comes there sometimes,

And rejuvenate all that mirth,

Persists which there as heavenly rhymes.

Flirtations with Life

 

Here I come to this small puddle,

Sit on its shore and feel water,

Scorching sun, wind hot, dust fly,

Oasis driven, I but ogle at the water only.

 

Boiling pot it seems; vapourising layers,

Few lives drop in it suddenly:

Sparrows few wet feathers there,

Lifefully they escape the rising dead water.

 

With my feet in water and

Chin domed upon hands beaming knees,

I see life flirting in dying water,

Skin hard, meanwhile, feels molecules going up.

 

'Life is here or there?' I think,

Mirages over ponderous small waves,

Oh Yes! Water dies but plays still;–

Flirt we have with life; death weds in the end.

Summered Sparrow

 

O brownie sparrow small,

Thou fly with harvested dust,

Aware thou become of nest’s call,

Her beak pants there with maternal trust.

 

Collect thou grains lost,

Noon time numbing heat; feathers beat

Upon peasant’s toil; now thy host,

Thy valiant jumps and crafty feat.

 

Sun-baked grains hardest,

Still, thou cut with cordial chutts,

Sawed Shakti makes thee worthiest;

Kitchen, water and eatable nuts.

 

Over parched terrain thou dart alone,

Agile, vibrant more, despite water gone.

The Carpet Maker

 

Who can understand the mysteries of life,–

Thrown entropy like a pack of cards:

Disarrayed, disjointed, unpatterened type,

And shreds we organise for some rewards.

 

Succeed when we in something,

We grin as destiny’s maker,

And if blow sinews away for nothing,

Chide destiny as the breaker.

 

If something precious is found on the way,

For valiant foot’s victory we hiss,

And if legs struggle for the destination far away,

Fault lies with His wish.

 

So, the question grows bigger till end,

When, perhaps, death answers with a helping hand.

Single Beauty for All

 

Like a lover this gentle breeze

Touches and then whisks slowly away;

Away to that flower and appease

Its beloved by soft petal’s sway.

 

I sense this flirting beauty’s charm;

Hilarious like a fairy gone drunk,

Cold I feel; while its passionate love warm

Everything around, for it has turned so frank.

 

Aha the merrymaking as if wined!

So many love bites from the maiden;

Too many! And all of them find

A different lover in the single beauty hidden.

 

Go on, O thou seductive houri,

For I count for nothing but a crazy lover’s fury.

Ode to an Early Winter Afternoon

 

The early winter afternoon singths

A rosy song for the balmy day,

The lyricist with littlest lines,

Whose beauty shines with silvery sunny rays.

 

Stoic storks having Spanish siesta,

While her cooings voice floral pink,

Oh, the snaily standstill fiesta!

The sages, guess what they think?

 

The sky’s muse from above,

With fancy-lorn eyes,

Bless-lorn it doth bow,

Vow! Small sashaying misty blessings.

 

And the evening all fancy-free!

Because whatever we can imagine

Becometh real with a glee,

With luxuriating steps she doth begin.

 

Spread out emotional landscape,

Protruding paw in friendship,

Its wild instinct nobody can escape,

And congratulating passes fresh air’s whiff.

 

The softy with its soft words

To her–the love-lorn farmer girl,

Whose fun and floridity buds

Open like a robust-hued pearl.

 

What a delicate weather it is!

As if clime is opening its taste buds,

Bravo be the beauty’s bliss!

Petal power smiles above the muds.

 

Oh the evening like a chubby child;

Eye catcher and pleasantly plump,

Half listens to the sun’s mild

Request for the reddish slump.

 

The evening with such rhythm

As the feministic ease of a belly dancer,–

The soul-stifler to its fathom;

Wheezing meteor by the curvy winker.

 

Therapeutic it seems

To the day’s bumps and bruises,

The day which wailed thinly, now beams

Gossipy; leisure-lorn it cruises.

 

Too quiet like serenest shower;

The fair hussy without being fussy,

Like Chrysanthemums for Christmas

Show no heed to the bee’s hurry.

 

Everything as if meditation brained,

And heart with all its waters coloured,

While foxy logic all drained,

As if a cradle from heaven gets lowered.

 

And when the night starts to fall,

Vanishing paradise doth it seem, aye!

While, the paradise giving a call,

‘Say me not a weepy-eyed bye’.