Thursday, November 14, 2024

A joyous and lively day

 

The morning bright,

Hopes fully in sight,

Then a dark cloudy mass

suddenly stamped its shadowy class,

It ate the sun

with thundering chuckle and darkish pun,

A sudden spell of September rain,

The birds retreated with little gain,

It seemed it’ll rain for long,

Sky’s tears fell with depressive throng,

Too much rain isn’t good,

All go with a sad brood,

But then the sun lifted the eastern veil,

Light flickered with a victorious feel,

The winds swept away the cloud

hanging with its dark shroud,

Dark, gray, bluish, white,

the sun emerges bright,

Quickly happens all this,

Rain-bathed trees glisten with bliss,

The birds come out with chirpy showers,

Drops glisten on flowers,

And everything is again

as it’s supposed to be after a brief rain,--

A normal rain-washed day

with its sun, clouds, rains, winds,

all having an equal say,

The day accepts all,

These are all its call,

The rise and the fall,

It won’t be a day

without its undulating ray,

Just like life won’t be life

without its order and strife.

Sunday, November 10, 2024

Transfiguration

 

There is an indefinable nobility

and dignity in one’s soul,--

the scented core of

one’s essential being,

despite all the

muck, dirt and foul smell

on the surface,

Allow it to come

a bit closer to you,

first in thoughts,

Reading can help you in this;

talking to nice people too;

opening in the unbounded

confession box of nature also,

Then slowly over a gentle

and slow period of time,

you can still bring it closer

to your seat,--

this body vessel,

You can bring it into action,

It then is like

holding a fragrant most flower

in your hand,

And then you smile

in consonance with your soul.

Suppliant-stony & Bitter-sweet

 

Delicious flavor of freedom

lingering in her eyes,

The only way to taste it

was

through her lips,

Loving warmth tingled

in her body,

Giving a feeling of vast space

in her intense embrace.

Saturday, November 9, 2024

Spurting, seam-bursting sorrow

 

The night sky looks so close

and so big

from the top of this mountain,

I peer into it

and read the

voluminous story of betrayal

written with splashy font

in her twinkling eyes.

Freedom Vs Imprisonment

 

A part of me

lost touch with life,

A door was shut

upon a little alley of life,

Then I was blind to

that aspect of life

which the little alley carried

in its journey to the main street.

But whenever a door opens,

a part of your soul comes out

to mix with

a lovely piece of art, architecture,

pattern, design,--

man-made or

self-evolved

on the canvas of nature.

The hunted hunter

 

We are less human

than we think

in our need of love,

We are nearer to raw,

animalistic aspect of nature

as we go hunting our own needs,

which we present as

the selfless bouquet of love.

During our hunt

we carry oldest, pristine fears

and like little animals

we seek safety

in the cave of love.

Nature

 

Once the mind-noise stops,

it opens a door

to the deep melody of soul,--

Nature which is the sum of

all the lesser sums.

Friday, November 8, 2024

Vagrant virtues

 

Her smile

spreading into the sad air;

her laughter

a ripple in still waters;

her words

an assurance in chaos;

her touch

bringing life to a heart

that had turned rock.

 

A sad, soft and beautiful touch.

 

A succulent transparency in her whisper

bringing light into sorrow-swept eyes;

repairing a leaking heart,--

a check dam on the stream of pain.

 

Her soft but alert presence

filling the unfillable restless void.

 

Washed with her memory

here I stand

happy and sad

with all that is

good and bad.

 

Moment to moment magnificence

 

The moment is frozen

but it breathes,

Slowly its stillness moves

and gently leaks into air,

The eerie stalemate is broken.

Reality is just a

series of such moments,

Just like cinematography,--

a moving picture;

just snapshots of perception.

Thursday, November 7, 2024

Gratitude

 

How lucky I’m

even to stand amid my supposed

heap of miseries—on land,

It’s a treasure because tight now

someone is drowning—in water;

looking for a toehold

of land—dear earth,

It would be his treasure

just to stand on a garbage dump.

 

I might find this day drab and boring,

while someone would give all his wealth

to get another drab-most, boring-most day

—just a day.

 

How lucky I’m to live, breathe,

see, walk, touch, taste, feel,

while so many lose

their privilege to even these.

 

How lucky to have a home,

while so many go hunting

for a filthy corner

and put a plank, board, metal sheet,

lie under it

and call it home.

 

The clothes I wear,

the food I eat,

the people who love, care and smile at me;

even those who hate me

because they know me at least,

There are scores of those

who don’t have any of these.

 

I’m rich and lucky in being alive,

I hold a treasure,

What makes me see it?

It’s just ‘plain old’ gratitude,

The moment I lose it,

I lose everything,

Then I’m just a cribbing,

miserable, poor, suffering victim.

 

So my gratitude is my key

to the infinite luxury

and treasure I hold.

 

Tuesday, November 5, 2024

Bleached beings

 

Hate consumed love

and life’s colors got bleached,

Dreams got washed away,

Smiles died,

Colorless people

despite all the external coloration of

fashion, make-up, design,

vibrant exhibition and thoroughfare.

Classical beats of life

 

Lives crossing path

for a meaning,

Lives drifting apart,

Again for a meaning,

I suppose.

Unswerving dedication to hope

 

From the musty corners

darkness can creep into one’s mind,

Fight it if you will,

or you can.

If you can’t manage,

let it come;

but at least don’t allow

it to feed further on your hopes,

There will be a day

when the openness of clear sky,

freshness of forests,

brightness of sunrays,

smiles and smells of flowers

will also come rushing in,

Like crusaders to wipe away

the last traces of dark.

Standing on the official tower of misery

On the far edge of pain

hanging over a precipice,--

where one loses all hope,

One step more

and it’s all darkness,

Stand there on the edge,

Ponder over choices,

To fall is the easiest choice,

But isn’t the easy choice

a trap laid by death itself?

Sometimes it’s possible to go back

and walk into life’s embrace.


Saturday, October 19, 2024

अतीत के आईने से

 अतीत के आईने में आज झांका तो 24 साल पुराना अस्तित्व मुस्कराया दशकों की धूल के पीछे से। और कहा मुझे इसी शांति से जीते रहना ताकि मैं भी अपनी झलक तुम्हारे भविष्य में देख पाऊं अगर किसी दिन भविष्य के आईने में देखने का मेरा मन करे तो।



मीठा भ्रम

 होने और ना होने के मीठे भ्रम के बीच में कुछ पल।











Friday, October 18, 2024

वो जा रही है

 वो जा रही है धीरे धीरे, बार बार पीछे मुड़के अपनी गुलाबी मुस्कराहट की छटा बिखेरती। दूर किसी नए क्षितिज पर अपने यौवन की सुनहरी किरणे बिखेरकर ओस की बूंदों को चमकते मोतियों में बदलने के लिए। शायद जो कुछ यहां अधूरा रह गया उसको पूरा करने के लिए। कुछ अधूरे सपने पूरे करने के लिए। कुछ नीरस आंखों में रोशनी भरने के लिए। कुछ उदास होठों पे शहद जैसी मीठी मुस्कान लाने के लिए। जाओ। तुम्हे रोकने की ख्वाहिश करना जीवन के एक नए आयाम को बाधित करने जैसा होगा। एक मीठी और हल्की सी उदास मुस्कराहट के साथ अलविदा। अच्छे से जाना और खूब खिलना। इतना खिलना की उसकी चमक में आने और जाने की द्वंदात्मक पीड़ा का औचित्य ही ना रहे।










Thursday, October 17, 2024

एक सांझ

 टुकड़ों टुकड़ों में बटे अपने मन से देखूं तो विचार और भाव। धीरे धीरे उगता चांद। सुंदर और अद्भुत। उस विराटतम अद्भुत सौंदर्य की एक झलक।








Monday, October 14, 2024

The grand illusion

 Shifting shapes..

Fragmented forms...

Cracked creations...

Floating formations...

Transitory turns...

Brief beginnings, briefer ends...

A moment in the eternal NOW...

Visible clues to the invisible unity...



Life invincible

 Life invincible 💪 



Saturday, October 12, 2024

Evening Shades

 Evening shades...

a musical silence...

a pleasant sadness...

a shifting stability...

a solitudional companionship...

a sweet loneliness...

a whisper...

a dewy smile...

a place where light and dark have a date.









The old

 The Old 

doesn't want to leave its hold

against the new all fresh and bold.



Thursday, September 12, 2024

The death of a butterfly

 

A grounded butterfly

on the mossy brick floor,--

A flickering, flapping life

completing its last worldly chore,

A sad sight,

so many others flutter with delight,

suckling flowery smiles and nectar sweet,

Aha, life on full feisty treat,

And the sad, sick dying butterfly

with its wings shut tight,

jutted, sticking like one wing,

The air gone with the space between them,

A closing, a conclusion,

a finish to the chapter,

a final drop of anchor,

Just life enough to hold them tight and straight,

and a little movement of legs

to convince the gathering ants

that it’s something alive,

imploring them to respect

the death bed’s sad sanctity.

 

A silent, slow parting from the world

in a rain-soaked mossy corner

in this big world full of

big-time meetings, unions and laughter,

She is deathbed, grave, cremation

right there in the centre of

throbbing life, raucous laughter and living.

 

Life still holding

like the vertical sail of a lost boat,

The ants sensing the death

which is their food,

But it has enough kick in its legs

to shake them off and move

for a little jog of life,

another tiny sip of survival.

 

The day progresses,

Time crawls slowly,

There is now a tilt in its

vertical lime-green sails,

With a slanted sail it moves,--

Brave butterfly,

If you can’t fly,

you should crawl,

Moving with shut-down slanted wings

is also the hallmark of life,

It shows that once you flew high,

The yard is now

an unknown grounded reality,

One more tiny step,

One more little sip of life.

 

It needs a flowery coffin, I think,

I hold the shut down wings

to take it to a cozy flowery corner

where it can die in peace,

But there is enough force in its wings

to give a tangible pull

to the fingers of a pitying poet,

It flutters to the core of its life reserves,

It denies the captivity even

in its last moments,

As I try to put it among the petals

of a lovely flower in a safe corner,

It denies the possibility of make-believe comfort,

It’s brave; it loves its freedom,

It’s even wiser than me,

Shakes to deny my denial of death,

It flaps vigorously, as if shouting,

‘Let me be open and honest with my death

on the same old open, raw stage of life!’

It’s no longer interested in flowers,

It has dropped its cravings for petals and nectar,

That was then, and now is now,

With marvelous detachment

it uses her last ounce of strength,

swings and swirls and flops out of

the rosy bed I prepared,

‘Flowers are for life;

ground is for death!’ it seems to shout,

She makes this bold statement

with the last air in her wings,

almost gets airborne again

but lands on ground after

a few feet of painful, struggling flight,

It lands on the eternal bed of eternal sleep,--

mother earth,

It looks at me with a rebuke,

‘What do flowers matter now?

They were for the time when there

was air and desire in the wings!’

And there she stands on the ground again,

strong, defiant, her sails vertical again,

The antennae on alert

like a lacerated soldier still holding his sword

to parry off the last strokes of enemy swords,

Her legs dancing to accidental

bumps of the rushing ants,

Tightly holding the fort of life,

Seems to tell me,

‘Give as much as you can,

as long as it’s possible!’

 

She faces the end with dignity,

with calm deliberation,

with full alertness,

using all that is still left to her

to defend her identity of a butterfly,

And she does that with honor,

If not with flying colors

but with brave, straight sail

for almost four hours,

Then the vertical sail tipped over,

Her little ounce of consciousness

sought a way out,

The closed wings opened

Like the fists opening to open palms

of a human dying and turning to a corpse,

She welcomed the skies

with open wings

and flew to subtler dimensions.

 

She is now a toy for the wind to play with

and food for the ants to enjoy,

Her colorful corpse flutters

and is dragged playfully by the wind,

The ants pursue the lemon-green food,

Its wings chipped like a a cake getting cut,

Happy ants carry home the mementos of victory.

 

The butterfly is now air, sun, wind, sky

and water, fire, earth in the ants,

The little show of death on the ground,

The show of life in full abloom

among crimson clusters of peregrina flowers,

The corpse disintegrates on the ground,

While her sisters dance on the petals,

They suck nectar from flowers’ lips,

They flutter and play among leaves,

Dozens of them giving the best

a butterfly can give

in beauty, smiles, nectar and pollination,

Then silently one of them

comes aground like this one,

Floats like a dry, dead leaf

and gently touches the ground for eternal rest,

The show of many lives and smiles

and some deaths and tears,

Among happy flowers, waving leaves, floating clouds,

All under the eternal muse of that

who lives and dies side by side.