99. On Intimacy with Mysterious Moment
Hath I known the time
When the sleep came
Over me like the name;
Thou great mystery infinite!
With that instant to ignite,
I could light small rhyme :
First maiden to be kissed firstly,
Or, ye lightening sky briskly
To quench the thirst of yore
Eagerly awaiting first downpour.
Me doth but fail,
Like a disappointed lover hail
The start of love days :
Gaze first, first meet,—
Time caught in crazy ways,
Again but sadness beat
Its unlyrical, unrhymed tomber,
Lost is that instant
In noise huge of the bomber.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Pseudo-secular drama
Well so much for deliberately leaking the Liberhan Commission’s report to divert the public angst against the Hindutva proponents. What about massacre of 5000 innocent Sikhs in 1984. Any takers for justice in that? In 1992 a structure was stage-managed to be broken for political gains. In 1984, it was the real flesh and blood that spattered streets of Delhi. Who was ruling at centre in 1992? How can the central government wipe its hands clean of an act perpetrated in a state when there were intelligence reports regarding the impending destructive task by the Kar Sevaks? It was just like allowing your enemy to commit a murder so that the foe can be held guilty. Congress government did only that. And ask the pseudo-secularists isn’t it just plain communalism to politically appease a particular section always citing the wrongs committed against it by the political opponents? Political action and reaction mean the same as far as communalism is concerned.
Monday, November 23, 2009
100. Summer Flower
100. Summer Flower
I was born on this day,
Quarter century old,
Time's scythe takes hold
Around years, months on 5th May,
And the hot summer pay
For the cake gold,
Lies which in barn to be sold,
While sandy swirls make hay.
Thank thee O summer,
Only thou show passion for the child;
Arriving like the flower late,
Becomes who then a dreamer,—
Summer flower; without singlest trace wild,
Oh! The flower with unflowery fate.
101. Night Song
O Cuckoo, thrown destitute,
Singst thou now nigritude :
The beautiful rhymed song,—
For whom? Wait who hung
In adopted nest and parents deceived;
Mistook as nestlings conceived.
O singer of conceited bravery,
On this night dreary,
Drive they competers out
To eat whole food; become stout.
O foolish songy mother,
I blame thee not; migratory, wind flown,
Spring abandoned thou either,
Summer gusts left thee alone,
Now, like nightingale thou singst
A long song for night :
Feel I thy Florence nurst;
The rhymed heal over distruct,—
A day's war we swampt,
Thou now wander with lyrical lamp.
How unmotherly thou art!
Not to pour ditty whole
Upon thy eggs waiting hatch,
Like black Goddess, thou dart
The blackness as mother sole,
Lulling lolly thine match,
The life song over night's camp,
Thou keep life's lamp
Burning with thy awake,
Please, keep singing for our stake.
I was born on this day,
Quarter century old,
Time's scythe takes hold
Around years, months on 5th May,
And the hot summer pay
For the cake gold,
Lies which in barn to be sold,
While sandy swirls make hay.
Thank thee O summer,
Only thou show passion for the child;
Arriving like the flower late,
Becomes who then a dreamer,—
Summer flower; without singlest trace wild,
Oh! The flower with unflowery fate.
101. Night Song
O Cuckoo, thrown destitute,
Singst thou now nigritude :
The beautiful rhymed song,—
For whom? Wait who hung
In adopted nest and parents deceived;
Mistook as nestlings conceived.
O singer of conceited bravery,
On this night dreary,
Drive they competers out
To eat whole food; become stout.
O foolish songy mother,
I blame thee not; migratory, wind flown,
Spring abandoned thou either,
Summer gusts left thee alone,
Now, like nightingale thou singst
A long song for night :
Feel I thy Florence nurst;
The rhymed heal over distruct,—
A day's war we swampt,
Thou now wander with lyrical lamp.
How unmotherly thou art!
Not to pour ditty whole
Upon thy eggs waiting hatch,
Like black Goddess, thou dart
The blackness as mother sole,
Lulling lolly thine match,
The life song over night's camp,
Thou keep life's lamp
Burning with thy awake,
Please, keep singing for our stake.
101. Night Song
O Cuckoo, thrown destitute,
Singst thou now nigritude :
The beautiful rhymed song,—
For whom? Wait who hung
In adopted nest and parents deceived;
Mistook as nestlings conceived.
O singer of conceited bravery,
On this night dreary,
Drive they competers out
To eat whole food; become stout.
O foolish songy mother,
I blame thee not; migratory, wind flown,
Spring abandoned thou either,
Summer gusts left thee alone,
Now, like nightingale thou singst
A long song for night :
Feel I thy Florence nurst;
The rhymed heal over distruct,—
A day's war we swampt,
Thou now wander with lyrical lamp.
How unmotherly thou art!
Not to pour ditty whole
Upon thy eggs waiting hatch,
Like black Goddess, thou dart
The blackness as mother sole,
Lulling lolly thine match,
The life song over night's camp,
Thou keep life's lamp
Burning with thy awake,
Please, keep singing for our stake.
O Cuckoo, thrown destitute,
Singst thou now nigritude :
The beautiful rhymed song,—
For whom? Wait who hung
In adopted nest and parents deceived;
Mistook as nestlings conceived.
O singer of conceited bravery,
On this night dreary,
Drive they competers out
To eat whole food; become stout.
O foolish songy mother,
I blame thee not; migratory, wind flown,
Spring abandoned thou either,
Summer gusts left thee alone,
Now, like nightingale thou singst
A long song for night :
Feel I thy Florence nurst;
The rhymed heal over distruct,—
A day's war we swampt,
Thou now wander with lyrical lamp.
How unmotherly thou art!
Not to pour ditty whole
Upon thy eggs waiting hatch,
Like black Goddess, thou dart
The blackness as mother sole,
Lulling lolly thine match,
The life song over night's camp,
Thou keep life's lamp
Burning with thy awake,
Please, keep singing for our stake.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Always there are easiest of routes to the toughest of destinations. Every hard situation has the softest of a solution. So there is no hard problem in the real sense. Our solutions make them so. When in the face of a tough situation blame your solution not the situation. Isn’t life all about taking smart short-cuts to beat the puzzling array of problems randomly cropping around us? So be the solution provider. Behind most complex of a phenomenon there is amazing simplicity. Read that. Those cute fundamentals will tell you that every situation is a living being. It has a soft and sympathetic message for you only. Listen to these delicate murmurs and it will help you in breaking hardest of superficial, outer cores.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Just try to do one good deed per day. Hey, don’t worry; it’s not that classical preaching and all that. It’s just about one of the commonest thing coming your day on a daily basis. It can be just a coin given to a really deserving old beggar. Please forget about those stylish naysayers who will spew out millions of anti-beggary words and won’t do even a single deed to justify their theories. Forget whether your one coin will change the life of that person or not. All you need is a big heart and genuine sympathy. A coin given with respect to a fellow human being is far-far more valuable than a hundred rupee bill given we some inhibitions. The lesser fortunate will feel the humanism behind your gesture and reciprocate in equal measure.
Your daily good deed might even include sincere sympathy for someone in emotional turmoil. Just look around and you will find so many ways to fulfill your daily quota of a good deed. Believe me it will require so little from your financial, physical and emotional pockets. Just imagine billions of such little stars of goodness being lit in the lives of countless unfortunates. Don’t you think it will remove so many darker shades from the nooks and corners left out of the mainstream of progress? Give it a thought. Please forget about the larger perspectives. These are simply tiny means to escapism. If you are a real miser and are plainly helpless to dole out anything out of your daily scheme of things, still you can at least give a genuinely good thought. Some say thoughts are things. For the real misers even thoughts will do. But as it can be safely assumed, if you can’t act honestly, how can you think with a pure heart. So be on the safe side and do a tiny Good Deed Per DAY.
Anyhow, a political talk always rejuvenates. It might be a fact that our kitty of woes at the hands of our chosen governments just piles up like never before; still political discussions are taken so seriously by the people as if Indian democracy will crumble to pieces without their tongue-tiring part in it. So the smoggy, polluted wintery bride in Delhi is being welcomed by so many political bickerings. The man on the street is afraid of an impending living-cost disaster. Most are convinced that if things are not controlled, the already polluted air in Delhi will become plainly suffocating.
Go anywhere in Delhi and you will find people muttering. Yes, the common man is just groaning with the pain of almost unprecedentedly sky-high cost of living. Bus fare is high enough now to give this pinching feeling to any laborer that he/she is contributing to infrastructural growth of Delhi just for free. The same people, the people on the street and roads—almost antagonized against the capitalist class, the class of well-to-do families supporting the BJP—are now just rubbing their hands with helplessness. Just six months ago they had come out so proactively to give the new iron lady another five years to further consolidate the first political family’s roots. Common man just wanted to define Indian democracy within the strictly defined loyalties to the Nehru family. Well, is it a real democracy? I have serious doubts. Anyway, the acceptance by the masses of the undisputed axial status of the First Family in Indian democracy meant the Prime Minister in waiting was not allowed to change his status. Now, after so much of polluted sewage has gone down the drains to merge the holy waters, the illusions are giving way to harsh realities. I can see a pleasant smirkness on the faces of rich people from the safe confines of big cars. ‘It’s your government buddies!’ seems to be the message from their side. In a suffering a tone laborer was muttering, ‘Only if there would have been elections as of now!!!’ ‘Spare your voter fury for the next five years!’ a portly fellow mused. Evidently the latter one appeared hit to a lesser degree.
Your daily good deed might even include sincere sympathy for someone in emotional turmoil. Just look around and you will find so many ways to fulfill your daily quota of a good deed. Believe me it will require so little from your financial, physical and emotional pockets. Just imagine billions of such little stars of goodness being lit in the lives of countless unfortunates. Don’t you think it will remove so many darker shades from the nooks and corners left out of the mainstream of progress? Give it a thought. Please forget about the larger perspectives. These are simply tiny means to escapism. If you are a real miser and are plainly helpless to dole out anything out of your daily scheme of things, still you can at least give a genuinely good thought. Some say thoughts are things. For the real misers even thoughts will do. But as it can be safely assumed, if you can’t act honestly, how can you think with a pure heart. So be on the safe side and do a tiny Good Deed Per DAY.
Anyhow, a political talk always rejuvenates. It might be a fact that our kitty of woes at the hands of our chosen governments just piles up like never before; still political discussions are taken so seriously by the people as if Indian democracy will crumble to pieces without their tongue-tiring part in it. So the smoggy, polluted wintery bride in Delhi is being welcomed by so many political bickerings. The man on the street is afraid of an impending living-cost disaster. Most are convinced that if things are not controlled, the already polluted air in Delhi will become plainly suffocating.
Go anywhere in Delhi and you will find people muttering. Yes, the common man is just groaning with the pain of almost unprecedentedly sky-high cost of living. Bus fare is high enough now to give this pinching feeling to any laborer that he/she is contributing to infrastructural growth of Delhi just for free. The same people, the people on the street and roads—almost antagonized against the capitalist class, the class of well-to-do families supporting the BJP—are now just rubbing their hands with helplessness. Just six months ago they had come out so proactively to give the new iron lady another five years to further consolidate the first political family’s roots. Common man just wanted to define Indian democracy within the strictly defined loyalties to the Nehru family. Well, is it a real democracy? I have serious doubts. Anyway, the acceptance by the masses of the undisputed axial status of the First Family in Indian democracy meant the Prime Minister in waiting was not allowed to change his status. Now, after so much of polluted sewage has gone down the drains to merge the holy waters, the illusions are giving way to harsh realities. I can see a pleasant smirkness on the faces of rich people from the safe confines of big cars. ‘It’s your government buddies!’ seems to be the message from their side. In a suffering a tone laborer was muttering, ‘Only if there would have been elections as of now!!!’ ‘Spare your voter fury for the next five years!’ a portly fellow mused. Evidently the latter one appeared hit to a lesser degree.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
34. Ode to the Early-Winter
Autumn thus goes for the early-winter,
Coolness now starts to tinker
Topsy-turvily; like an anchor
It takes hold through its lazy days,
When the sun with its cooling-grey-rays,
Sprays a musing-tender-maze.
A new canvas on easel for painting :
Farmers go working as if hunting,
Paddy’s brown-sweep vanish to nothing,
And the barren fields get new beds,
Such a soft soil for the numerous heads
Of wheatlings, to prop up for breads!
Look autumn’s leaves brown!
Finally, foliage gets them thrown
From the deciduous with a shivery frown,
While the winter sings a lullaby,
As if to sleep a baby :
‘Too much thou played with summer’s gaiety’.
Winter flowers blossom bold,
Lo the dahlia, pentunia and marigold!
Wonder, soft petals fear not cold!
And feathered friends from distant arrive,
As if only here life thrive,
Ducks fly V-shaped to nature’s drive.
Rosy paster, tailor bird and wagtails,
Painted stork, painted duck and common quails,
Because those wintery hails
In mountains force their sojourn here,
And same winter will take care
Of the visitors; whom season’s scold not dare.
Mynah, drongo and ecstatic barbler,
Depict they cool-spirited farmer,
The air now bother not above ‘warmer’,
Its sulphureous ebriety doth sweep
The hairy-velvety-grass and keep
The intoxication perpetuated to the deep.
The egrets fly drollingly,
In the air blowing genteely,
The air! As if its spring coming courteously
With its flowery shiver,
Yes! It is airy-fairy’s spring here,
While, ebriated birdies fly as its flowers.
Such are the days of early-winter;–
Fog, mist, dew, cold quietly enter,
Robustness, meanwhile, makes a small banter,
Vow, the invigorating Goddess smiles!
Blessing of wellbeing for miles,
While, the autumn goes for annual exiles.
35. 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 frolicity 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 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 metre by the curvey winker.
Therupatic it seems
To the day’s bumps and bruises,
The day which wailed thinly, now beams
Gossiply; leisure-lorn it cruises.
Too quiet like serenest shower;
The fair hussy without 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 foxey 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’.
Autumn thus goes for the early-winter,
Coolness now starts to tinker
Topsy-turvily; like an anchor
It takes hold through its lazy days,
When the sun with its cooling-grey-rays,
Sprays a musing-tender-maze.
A new canvas on easel for painting :
Farmers go working as if hunting,
Paddy’s brown-sweep vanish to nothing,
And the barren fields get new beds,
Such a soft soil for the numerous heads
Of wheatlings, to prop up for breads!
Look autumn’s leaves brown!
Finally, foliage gets them thrown
From the deciduous with a shivery frown,
While the winter sings a lullaby,
As if to sleep a baby :
‘Too much thou played with summer’s gaiety’.
Winter flowers blossom bold,
Lo the dahlia, pentunia and marigold!
Wonder, soft petals fear not cold!
And feathered friends from distant arrive,
As if only here life thrive,
Ducks fly V-shaped to nature’s drive.
Rosy paster, tailor bird and wagtails,
Painted stork, painted duck and common quails,
Because those wintery hails
In mountains force their sojourn here,
And same winter will take care
Of the visitors; whom season’s scold not dare.
Mynah, drongo and ecstatic barbler,
Depict they cool-spirited farmer,
The air now bother not above ‘warmer’,
Its sulphureous ebriety doth sweep
The hairy-velvety-grass and keep
The intoxication perpetuated to the deep.
The egrets fly drollingly,
In the air blowing genteely,
The air! As if its spring coming courteously
With its flowery shiver,
Yes! It is airy-fairy’s spring here,
While, ebriated birdies fly as its flowers.
Such are the days of early-winter;–
Fog, mist, dew, cold quietly enter,
Robustness, meanwhile, makes a small banter,
Vow, the invigorating Goddess smiles!
Blessing of wellbeing for miles,
While, the autumn goes for annual exiles.
35. 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 frolicity 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 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 metre by the curvey winker.
Therupatic it seems
To the day’s bumps and bruises,
The day which wailed thinly, now beams
Gossiply; leisure-lorn it cruises.
Too quiet like serenest shower;
The fair hussy without 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 foxey 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’.
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