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’.

Ode to the Early Winter

 

Autumn thus goes for the early winter,

Coolness now starts to tinker,

Topsy-turvy like an anchor,

It takes hold through its lazy days,

When the sun with its cooling grey rays,

Sprays amusing 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 survival 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, petunia and marigold!

Wonder, soft petals fear not cold!

And feathered friends from distant arrive,

As if only here lives thrive,

Ducks fly V-shaped to nature’s drive.

 

Rosy pastor, 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 bothers not the 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 genteelly,

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.