You Belong To Me

The roads all lead to ancient Rome,

But mine must take me way back home,

Where the sunsets glimmer against the green,

And dewdrops whisper and skim unseen.

"Winds which rush my tale to thee",

Glide like snakes, so gently,

Hence my voice may reach you, clear,

And like music may to you adhere.

The slopes that bring the river home,

Will slide you over sand and stone,

Past ''two mules, train and rain,''

Meandering into my bed again.

Imagine the sun then on my bed,

Dappled with many trees outspread.

Though not before we adore the moon,

That marches through the starry gloom.

Thence all will be clear to thee;

Like a pleasant State decree,

That home is where you're meant to be,

And that you really belong to me.

A Rare Stroke Of Compassion

I was lost in my world when I first saw him; lost in my world of people who probably don't and will never care for me. Why he lay on the pavement dirty and with scanty clothing, is obvious. He was among those less endowed individuals scraping a half-life, grossly below the poverty line. Sustained and nourished in a well-walled home with a protecting parental environment encasing me like an oyster shell , I never looked at him for more than a few passing instances when I would glance at him obliquely, through the nooks of peripheral vision. I would walk on, perhaps lost in the harmonies of my own happy thoughts or the burning tips of my cigarette; so insensitive.

Today, however, although ensnared by all these selfish and 'intellectual' distractions, I did look at him for longer time than my heart warranted. Even though I was wont to carry on my travel homeward I felt a strange, almost painful, guilt, that I had suppressed forcibly earlier. I noticed him, due to the sole fact that he was asleep and not begging with upturned palms. Shamefacedly, I admit to myself that in my laziness, I would shirk the duty of presenting coin to him, if he did beg.

It was then that I thought. I thought of his hard pavement bed, and his level, concrete pillow; his blanket in filth and tatters encompassing his nudity. I suppressed a shudder. I considered a possibility of his being a mathematician or a research scientist for particle physics, under proper educational financial circumstances. Perhaps his mental abilities were better than his financial ones. Hence, for a moment my mind was engrossed in the What-if lane. But then i shook myself from useless musings, and back to his urban reality of perpetual hunger. That man had no work-place and no home apart that public seclusion that the pavement corner was to him. Simply speaking, he had nowhere to go, and successively no place to escape to. The pavement was the known devil to him; a cold constancy.

"He must be employing his mind in something," I thought, and my little insight led me to form a rough sketch of his occupation in my mind. As he potentially might be intelligent man, unexposed to the physical comforts and mental pursuits of this world. For him, I realised the world might as well be flat. No rivers need exist for his sustenance although groundwater supply may be a part of his consciousness. What, then does mean anything to him, since all he does is sit at the busiest spots near our university and beg?

I jumbled my mind for a probable answer and found one. The most significant part of his daily attention would constitute people. People from various parts of the city on their way to the various other parts of the same city or different ones, his observances and specialisation would entail mainly their natures with respect to him. For instance, how would a woman with permed hair and gauzy dress, leaning on the arm of a man, with hair set in the popular trend of the time, whom she has attracted with her beauty and charms, react to his obvious pleas for a negligible part of purse? This answer he would give as well as any in a situation similar to his. He would probably tell you about the nostrils of her upturned nose. He would also tell you about the more conscientious individuals who may give him meagre help one day and inform him of their lack of change the other. On some hot summer days they may fail him as they race back home or toward some shelter, unconscious of his unsheltered empty stomach.

In my understanding, then and his apparent relation to the unfriendly world around him, his work for sustenance would be a detailed study of the general attitudes of the average masses, that use his roadside place for repose and alertness alike, as their sidewalk, which, actually, it is.

A Toddler's Tales of Toddler Days

When I visit the past of my youth,
Those concrete lanes of concrete truth,
I feel the present slip away,
And though requested refuses to stay.
I wake recalling songs I adore,
That splash about daily upon the floors,
Of my teeming memories abrimful,
With nostalgia, innocent and sinful.
I remember my toddler plays,
Around the house with cups and trays.
I remember those lullabys,
Sung to me with sleepy sighs.
They fiddled with my senses young,
Mingling with many words unsung.
I remember the cityscape,
And my desperation to escape,
To places where the sky is seen,
A stretching dome or a canvass screen;
Where trees do russle to the passing air,
And mutter words to the flowers fair;
Where the gnarling binds itself,
To make a home for a crazy elf.
I remember picking some scarlet seeds;
Of some stately tree or wild weeds,
To necklace my throat and my little wrists,
And to hold the rest in my tiny fists.
I remember trying to match my wits,
And winning at times in snatches and bits,
Against an elder who with a grin,
Would ten mellow and let me win.
I remember those childhood days,
Of simple dreams and simple ways.
Is there no path or hidden alley,
That would walk me back to that valley,
Where life was healthy and tinted pink,
And happiest ever or so think.

THE HOME SONG OF THE EARTH WALKER

Let us go then you and I,
Until the sands do meet the eye,
Until music fill the desert sky,
And widows smile on the sly.
Let us hear the marching tune,
That stirs the dust upon the dunes,
And air we breathe is with gold hewn,
Smelling of the carcass of ancient runes.
Lets paint the world with a riders colours,
And grace the time with lores of tellers,
Inquiring the lives of wine dwellers,
Who fell their feet upon stony cellars.
Let us go in fresh pursuit,
Of God's grace and fortitude,
Of lively lyres and tunes of flutes,
Of rich cuisines; the mouthfull foods.
Let us reach the world's end,
Where the mountain water bends,
And to heavens the fallers send,
When their ways are all amend.
Yet let us return to homely abode,
To where at end every traveller rode,
To lay down the needed but heaving load,
And rest each limb, sinew, muscle and node.

The King's Concern

Minor call of the baffled king,
Rang around the circling;
A sad chill in the ring,
Telling of disasters emerging.

The rooted nobles, a quartet,
The wisest in the islet,
Throbbng to the core did wait,
Pulsing the news of the state.

"War!" said he, that doth stir,
The kingdom in a bloody blur,
"The enemy marches at length afar,
Pray thee now to thy lucky star."

The lashes of the nobles' eyes,
Tear up to the brows up high,
The army unprepared to die,
What good do twinklers in the sky?

Flashing thoughts of blasphemy,
Like simmers of golden alchemy
"Die we all, sire!" exclaimed he,
A noble in evident agony.

"Our king, our lives, are under attack,
Weakness shall now be severly racked,
For this King of State has heavily lacked,
In the grim reality of foreign attack.

Then silence adorned the courtly hall,
The king's concern bourn by all,
The Majesty's death, the naton's fall,
The end was near, the end of all.

Plastic Coated Reality

She lost her footing in the rain,
Needing a Christmas, getting pain.
Looked upon with disdain,
Her eyes she raised with a tear-drop stain.

Hunger, greed and French fries,
Reasons why a man dies.
Yet all somehow satisfies,
The worldly rule of the game of dice.

She still walks in the fading day,
Hunting for her hunger along the way;
While men rub their bellies and say,
"Who's the chef by the way?"

And I, in my country dress,
Am no child of excess.
I scrounge around for caress,
From hands that either love or bless.

Drummer boys with joysticks,
Pick up women sharp at six,
To feed them coloured whiskey mix,
And get them down to their heady tricks.

I look upon those fun and games,
To laugh within my skinny frame,
At those giggling dames,
Whom the cunning Jackie tames.

Know they not the deprived souls,
How the little script unrolls;
How the silent starting bell tolls,
And achieves the cunning Jackie's goals?

Wise men on paved cracks,
Smoke and snort some foul smack,
Talking before the turned backs,
Of hunched beggars and lumberjacks.

They talk of things they do not know,
Like starvation and breaking snow,
As precious moments come and go,
Which away they knowingly throw.

A palmist in the black bandanna,
Who goes by the name Susanna,
Bites a nice big banana,
And looks for her Santana.

She would dance to his guitar gig,
Grasping at her falling wig,
And taking a long drunkards swig,
From his jar of juice so big.

I join her in her charade,
And a smile we shyly trade,
Then sit and discuss about the books of Sade,
And other matters the law forbade.

The mistress and her doctor sad,
Talk about his young lad,
And how the kid turned bad,
On seeing the two unclad.

Although they may try their hand,
To make the laddie understand,
That what he saw was nothing grand;
Just a trip to wonderland.

The doctor's wife sings and bakes,
Four and twenty cupcakes.
She'll serve them when her husband wakes,
With cold tea and milkshakes.

Little does her silliness know,
Where her husband comes and goes.
She's happy with her flour and dough,
And shooing off the irksome crows.

I cheer them all as they play,
their masquerades night and day.
Unknowingly they give away,
That they never mean what they say.

the fish, the bull and the devastation

cripples in crumples in dapples of noonlight,
untied and untried like a new bride in moonlight,
to beat with the heat without retreat, for long,
a sharp axe, a climax, when the wood cracks, in a song,
peckers with backbreakers, mow with rakers the soft grass,
till all's over, under the cover, and smiles sober. glass,
with a glisten, tinkles so we listen. when we are risen, with time,
broken walled, and dissolved, dearly involved in the crime.
eyes gazed, and heads dazed, but spirits unphased, clambering
somewhere along, the girating song, too long, hurrying,
back there, that spot where we were, in the clouded layers, sprung,
a passion strange, an heady exchange, within the range that had begun.
limits though touched, were sadly unreached, as faces bleached in sweat,
a strong old bull, though met with a pull, kept his rule, all wet,
over the current, where the fish is sent, all spent up the vent,
All hail, the gush and the gale, for all creatures wail, all spent.

dylan on the breeze

as i gazed, among the mossy scent at those gentle tips of grass, that like the poor, for whom sleep is the only luxury, slept in the damp dawn, the carpet of the lake, the rejoicing water woke from the blackness it had snatched from the seductress Nocturne. it waved to the hiding sun, flashing smiles all around. the trees shook the breeze of it sinuous back; and the breeze in turn unfurled its wings and whipped at faces upturned. the water ducks shook awake the water that still pretended to sleep by shivering its calling wings at it and dipping down to peck at the water's cheek. like crumpled and puckered satin the water lay resting, alive with silvered fish and snakes, that grumbled foodlessly at the ripples overhead. two giants floated amid the windy waters. only their lush green heads greeting the morning air. the little nooks beneath the shabby trees that branched over the water like a tailor on linen, looked desolate, as if someone used to live there. the matte and velvette gentleness of flowers on skin; a lick from the gardens that grew wild. white branches like splattered milk, with birds cleaning their beaks or having semi-breakfast.

Dylan's ravishing melancholy, sprayed my mind with melodic intoxicants, as the tears befriended the cowering lashes. gazing at the sanctity and worshipping the rage of music that lovingly killed me, i dissolved like the clouds over our heads. at that moment i wanted to drown as i felt that something wanted to embrace me, but it seemed like it didn't have arms.

there he was one day crooning in a voice that held some but not much taste for me; and then it was this morning.....

he said to me that 'one of us must know', and left me searching for the answer. he said 'what did u see my blue eyed son', and i hated my dark ones.

he swooped down from some warring heaven to show me a glimpse of himself...

Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row."

....but what is a glimpse when i writhe for so much more???

the kid ship

sunrise on belittled countries of far away rockiness

the ethaca of ullyses

the puny vatican

the hardly accounted for reefs

sailing with a mast

blown in a bulge

by the fluid particles of the air avast

that headily collides

with the ship's hides

and has its shadow cast

formless and lacking hues

by earthly ropes

and social glues

and monetary hopes

the ship sails south

towards some river's mouth

that drains us of our soggy filth

it sucks on the seas

and gulps in the breeze

the flighty little tease

bouncing on the watery crease

men on the dock

reading the planetary clock

the little girl in a frock

and a one legged sock

she with her brownie locks

members of the crew she stalks

her faint brows she cocks

in curiosity

the ship knows the way

among the bergs of ice

and the polar bears

obedient to the captain's say

which for the crew does suffice

as healthy scares

to the grainy coasts

he points his handy toes

gripping hungry egg and toasts

he smites his rocky foes

then deep in the dark

visionless night

where the stars do spark

and the moon is bright

the shiply form

lingers still

until it is eaten

in the gaping yawn

as a nocturnal kill

relics of my past

These my paintings in ink and brush.

A Sea Kiss

the blue sea and a red sky

an interlink of colours

hues of purple and tints of pink

licking at the shore

in a night so wild

so unbelievably tame

so grimly unsafe

and so unsettlingly free

dripping chains from bamboo canes

clutched in fervent hands

rocking to and rocking fro

on salty sands

intoxicants and faith

two young rumpled heads

eager lips and eager us

inclined on grassy beds

young girl shoulders

grazed with fingers

of an obliger

a monopoliser

he lent his lips

and he lent his kiss

he also lent his hands

to uncharted lands

beneath the palms

in a static stance

strangers interlock

the rumbling sea

gives privacy

by receding from the dock

suddenly

he shrugged free

and unbended to his feet

reaching down

he made her frown

by ripping away her seat

smiled the imp

like a pimp

fading as does foam

said 'go home'

Old eyes ashine

Breath in the days,

When the night shrouds the sun,

Woken by none,

But a dazzling light.

How the moon sways,

When the rhythms of the dark,

On journeys, do embark,

Clouding human sight.

Whimpers of weary men,

Who shiver in the cold,

Wretchedly old,

Spread like fog upon the wave.

They dream of the glen,

Their haven of pleasure,

Memories they treasure,

That once their lives gave.

Nothing lasts forever,

Or so they always say,

But I ask who are they,

In unkind amusements,

Do hurt the dying river,

Do pain the melting snow,

And winds that cease to blow,

To tear their hearts in rents?

While the misty mornings,

May bloom into the day,

Smiling along its way,

To warm our cold hands,

Our spirits soar yearning,

And reaching out high,

Deep into the sky,

As we sink beneath the sands.

The setting sun

Glimmers in afternoons where I stand,

looking beyond the bars of my balcony,

waiting for the sun to come down lower over the sky

so that my eyes can meet its eyes.

I dream in silence as I await its descent from its harsher heights.

I dream of victories of men over the millions of years.

I dream of conquests of countries and of lives.

I dream of the love lost and found, of youth and the old age.

My dreams travell over strange territories guarded by the Jacks in armours.

Some territories seem wild while others look civilised.

Savages and men flit close by me in my dream.

I dream of land haunted by the nightingales and the stars,

by the rose and its thorn.

It is of land sprawling over the seas,yawning around the globe.

It is of those little fish which breath out bubbles,

while talking to the water and the corals.

I dream of that peepal tree

that looks like its hoarded by fluttering butterflies

when it tries to wave its leaves to the setting sun.

I turn to the sun;the setting sun

that I was waiting for to step down before my eyes.

I looked at the sun,orange and yellow, smiling.

It looked like vermilion on a bride's forehead, burning.

I looked at the peepal tree as it watched the sun cheerily.

It struck me then; what a bond it was that I was witnessing;

the bond of the sun and the tree.

The lout's lay

the day was young and the night was gone

sleep lingered in the way

grim risk spun and things undone

'neath the sun was made the hay

she woke up hot and she sought

something for her disarray

with scalded throat she searched a lot

but no fun came her way

she clambered out in a bout

of craving and dismay

seeing her pout some roadside lout

thought of making his day

her he stalked as she walked

along a rusty way

her way he blocked and with her he talked

and to him did she say

"i need some stock my throat does lock

half my words away

for i am stuck without any luck

early in the day

deep in her heart she knew from the start

the man was sticky as clay

so in her head a decision spread

him she decided to lay

in the heat on his motor seat

with him she rode away

her heart was abeat with a throb till her feet

and this she heard him say

"just down hill is a little rill

where people go astray

and i ask you jill if you will

with me one night stay

to quench her greed she agreed

for the nightly lay

for without the deed she'd almost bleed

or her hair would just turn grey

there down south at the river's mouth

where many a wolf did bay

people uncouth and no phone booth

and no running away

cold with fear but her want still dear

to him did she say

"so far here with the smell of beer

forever you tempt me to stay

he gave her a stare that laid bare

that he'd got his way

and with care they were in sweat and hair

on the bed asplay

with some wine he explored her mine

locked in passionate foreplay

in some time for much reasin and rhyme

there was some canine display

they were mid-action in a fraction

of the sordid day

but turning around she moaned a sound

like a donkey's bray

to the poor lout it was a clout

that retreated his snake that day

when again he came out he was sure and stout

that she had turned him gay

Death of Hayden

flows of venom

sprightly and clean

horse-rode his vein in glory.

that fated spear-tip;

the foe of life

wrote itself in history.

dreams displayed

their fragility

and hope galloped to the sunset.

his sweetheart moaned

in solitude

her tears dropped in her basket.

her floaty skirts,

her bouqueted grace

her golden pearly hair.

her eyes asparkle;

the blue of her face

a drenched, sorrowful affair

her buttery hands

clutched at his soul,

crying at fateful poison's victory.

his crusted blood clung

wistfully to her;

her heart adew and wintry.

a few years thence,

in the crispy fall,

stood the armoured maiden.

by a fettered fence

was a stallion

headed by the mark of Hayden.

the sweetheart sung

the lyrical war

and twice rode the mask of Hayden.

fall did her kingdom
akin humility
ravished by merciless men.
the tumble however
she greeted overjoyed
as she charred among the ashes.
with her name afame
she flew to him
to serve his draining gashes.

Moon-kissed suitor

Wet with kinder dew drops,

a rippling Sunday evening,

the sun closes its eyes to the cradled earth beneath.

The tiny drops of sunlight cling to the last freckles of the departing day.

The smoked glass sky,

where the moon comes alive,

waking from her days rest.

She dozes in silence,

looking upon the world as clouds of fantasy flit before her eyes,

caressing and amusing her.

Her silver coats the earth with the lightness of feather,

but just below her lashes glares a golden light through an open window close within her reach.

From this very high window,

mingled with the light,

filters through a glimmer of aged tunes and words entrapped within curls of music.

Along it floats pale tragedy of old wizened eyes.

The music from the window, breathing lethal warmth,

like a sleeping dragon,

warms the mild moon's brow.

She peers in impatience,

lowering her head,

she falls gently,

in search of the lyrical voice;

of him who serenades her.

Against the painted background,

sat a man with auburn hair hair;

a man with talking eyes.

He played for her of the long gone love of Lancelot and Guinevere;

of Romeo and Juliet,

and many others whose love was true.

But he, in the pausing silence of his ancient notes, told her how lonesome she really was.

So scared was the expectant moon the she began to weep.

She looked at the stars,

none of which she could reach and pull close to herself,

so there she wept alone as his damning words washed away her hope.

She lay her tired self upon her bed if smoke and down,

breathing her last, she died into the day.

The French Queen

There they were,

The fatal steps ,

To the flashing blade;

To the final edge,

Inviting and calling,

''Come to me.....'',

It said, cheerfully.

She proceeded;climbed on,

Her hands bound,

And her tyrant;

Her husband,

Had graced the sharpness,

And was laid,

To rest in peace.

Everyone before her;

Man, woman and child,

Craved to see her dead;

Resting white and cold.

Her heart beneath her breast,

Beating their final beats,

Hurried to beat a few more,

Within their severed time.

Her grand couture,

Soon to be stained in gore,

Cleaved to her form,

For dear life.

Her held up hair,

Straying loose from their coils,

As if their desire,

Was to see the world,

One last time.

She knew not her crime,

For a little girl, was she,

Who did none any harm.

There! The final step,

Reached by her crying feet.

Her heart was calmer,

Her eyes were drier,

As resignation spread.

They exposed her neck,

And she closed her eyes.

Then, from her shoulders,

Dropped the head,

Of Marie Antoinette.

The Ship of Captain Joe

From the sturdy mountains,
Skipped down a laughing river,
Born from the glassy glaciers,
Winding along in fervour.

Flowing in lazy languor,
Along the peasant's plain,
She drowns into the sea,
Quenching its lusty pain.

In this very sea,
which washes clean the shore,
Sails the black barked devil,
The ship of captain Joe.

Born along the sea coast,
On an island of crags,
With plank on plank was she built,
By unfed men in rags.

A sailors delight,
And a shipman's pride,
The bony virgin,
Touched the tide.

Fluttering her mast,
Pretty and quaint.
They named her Mary,
And used pinkly used paint.

She sailed for her masters,
Elegant and coy,
Spreading happiness,
And sunlit joy.

Smiles she made,
On faces of friends,
But unhappy was she,
At every day's end.

She was meant for greatness,
She felt and knew,
Not wasting away,
With a scanty crew.

So she waited,
And bid her days,
Until one night,
She got her way.

On the silent nightly trip,
Tame and sickeningly slow,
She heard a mighty roar.
And her sides felt a sword.

And she was captured away,
From her lazy coast,
Into the wild sea,
Alive as a ghost.

The man on the deck,
With his crew,
Cruised her to the sea,
Where she belonged she knew.

Captain Joe was his name,
Who had seized her bark,
A pirate much feared,
By day and by dark.

He stroked his new beauty,
Very tenderly,
Soon the pink was off her back,
And her name was Crysallie.

Many a shore she touched,
On Captain Joe's command,
Many a sea she kissed,
'Neath her captain's hand.

She was laden with treasures,
From time to time.
She was often bejeweled,
By her captain's crimes.

She fought his wars,
On the chaffing sea.
She never drowned,
So strong was she.

She made an oath,
Never to leave,
Her captain's side,
Till the time of Eve.

For long and together,
Did her captain and she.
Sail the oceans,
and reign the seas.

But in this nasty world,
Do joy and sorrow,
Painfully wreak the heart,
As they each other follow.

One day, when the sun rose,
Surrounded they were, she saw,
By warships and the navy,
As ordered by the law.

Captain Joe, her love,
Was ripped from her back,
His hands were behind him,
And his head in a sack.

They walked him to the gallows,
To kill him she knew,
Right before her eyes,
And his faithful crew.

From the strong structure,
He did hang.
Roaring songs of joy,
The 'righteous' people sang.

She was put away then,
Where none would ever go.
Her back ached in misery,
And her planks missed her Joe.

Contempt for the Contemporary.

Dimwitted slaves of fallacy, living lives of constancy,
Living a wasted legacy, of pretentious ecstasy.
Blandness of memory, bordering on mediocrity,
Surrendering harmony, bound in affected poesy.
Favouring grandeur over brilliance, blind to kindred innocence,
Grimly face their hindrance, that meet them at every entrance.
Mulling in warm water, their lives they wish to alter.
In meadows they wish to saunter; in gardens they wish to loiter.
Martyring these desires, they are worldly liars,
They run on rubber tires, but dream of wild fires.
Within the grips of destiny, which they call priority,
And treat with severity, toiling for eternity.
Forging dreams and ambitions, they leave behind the formation,
Of the silent assumptions, made with pluck and gumption.
Assumptions romanticized, rose-tinted and hypnotized,
Dreamily paralyzed and personalized.
They think that they know of words of long ago,
Vainly try to show they’re fast when they’re slow.
Fast is not the speed, at which they want to breed,
Planting worthless seed, of fake religious creed.
Life’s steady impermanence, it is meager tolerance,
Of people of no consequence, brimming with insolence.
At long last they understand, the pointlessness of work in hand,
How they regret those grains of sand, which coyly left their hand.

At the back of my head

That little alley at the back of my mind, which leads to those hushed regions with invisible boundaries, that I don't want people to see, hear or even know are there. It's secret and comfortable and absolutely private. I store my my favourite and most relished memories thoughts. Thoughts of my least known desires and fears; insecurities.

There, when I choose, I can find my little chits of happiness folded and scattered here and there, and I open it and peruse it at will. My mind is like a little room of my favourite colours. Black, red, green and white.....and hues and shades of purple and mauve, lilac and violets......... It will have my thoughts swirling around like rings of vapour, smoky and vibrant. I have people entering and exiting at my, only my, will. The blackest and reddest parts of my mind are open to only people like my very close friends (they know who they are). The only time when anyone else is let in here is when I develop an ardent desire to shock them with these aspects of me.

My mind's room open to a neat room which anyone can see; it is deviously deceptive. On further observation you can see a slight sootiness covering those shaded corners. My room/mind is essentially calm and peaceful, with rare eruptions of thunder. It breathes softly at intervals, and letting in puffs of thoughts from leaky corners. Sometimes there are people in there with me, and sometimes we're alone, my music and I. My room is painted,I admit, in pretentious psychedelia . Sometimes there are little imps resembling The Beatles. There are intoxicating smells. Fragrances, beautiful and sinful, which make their home in the sniffer.

My obsessions roam these territories,though they don't know they're there. They please and shock me in turns. They unknowingly tread the sacred domains and I hear their footfall from my corner. They leave only when I forget them.

My room is also my library. Everything I read , am reading and will read snugly await my attention. My music of yesteryears and my own waft in the air. Art, that I witness and envision leap from wall to waltzing to the enveloping music.

This is my paradise, full of life and sunshine; my wilderness; my pleasure dome.

Tiny details here and there

Zeroing in on the little details of life, I find silent words, sounds, music, scenes, colours, scents and dreams that go largely unnoticed; ignored into oblivion. I have the choice of either noticing them or leaving them virgin and unexplored. I choose to wander into these slight territories of secrecy.

Images spark and I see their intricate woodworks chiseled delicately into their place. The beauty of anything beautiful ever seen is that it is studded with tender details like, the sheen on a statue, the glitter on a diamond and the fire in sunshine.

I can recall once having absorbed a particularly cherished detail. While inhaling the sweetness of a flower; I forget which; I happened to accidentally notice a tiny droplet of nectar clinging to the base of the flower. I happily licked it and tasted it on a minute area on my tongue. It still had flavour; in spite of the minuscule amount.

Some of the things that we leave behind are just some stone unturned. Something missed due to carelessness or hurry. Pity plays its naughty game on me when I find people missing the intricacies in life. How these individuals do in life without the small flourish of detail, I fail to comprehend.

Something tells me, however, that the ones who are meant to see, do see and enjoy. Their pores are receptive to the most undetectable of all sensations. They detect the most hidden of all visions, melodies, fragrances, tastes and touches. They feel the touch of heaven in bright snow. They feel the peace in the notes of a violin. Most of all, however, they feel themselves particle by particle and, thus are in completely harmony with themselves. J

Waves Of Sorrow

I burnt me,

In my scorching light,

Of the night,

In my home to be.

My expanding sea,

Of serenity,

Is splayed beyond for eternity,

Yet I'm washed ashore,

Before my door,

By my waves of sorrow.

MY sight atwinkle,

With hopes and dreams,

Sailing through my drying streams,

But salts of pain sprinkle,

Me with hardness of reality,

They are my truth and verity.

I feel the coarse severity,

As I watch my waves of sorrow.

Candles i light,

In my oft trodden way,

My sun refuses to stay,

And my moon is never bright.

Though my stars watch over me,

And smile with unity,

Trying hard to sooth me,

I feel my waves of sorrow.

Down below the surface,

My flesh is raw and tender,

Unwillingly I surrender,

To the pervading harshness,

Of what life has to offer.

Cloistered forever,

And waiting for the summer,

Splashed by the waves of sorrow.

Kolkata

Cracked pavements,

With etched dreams,

Yellow leaves lying,

Scattered on them;

A typical Kolkata.

Kolkata...

A city of times,

When it was not it’s own,

Of times when it was trampled,

A city through which,

The hot fluids,

Of revolution rushed.

A city,

Of times hungered,

And pained.

A city…

Which is touched with,

Numerous intellects,

Far superior than ever imagined.

A city…

A haven for the birth

Of those men

Who had hot blood

And warm hearts.

A city of tram bells,

And rickshaws,

Drawn over cobbled roads.

A city which sleeps.

A city languid,

Yet vital,

And invigorated.

A city…

Which believes,

In the power,

Of the pen,

Yet unfalteringly hoists,

The weapons of war,

On nation’s call.

A city…

Of ancient,

And untouched,

Inheritance,

Relics of the past,

Colonial and native.

Wild minds,

Molded and carved,

Into rebellion,

Of a kind.

A city…

Of vermillion women,

Who leave ruddy,

Footprints along the paths.

Women with doe eyes,

And rose petal lips.

A city…

Of early morning birds,

Of sleepy visions.

A city…

Of sanguine life…

Of fond hearts…

Of love.

The Ageless Tryst

Beyond the falcony cliff,
There slept a crystal sea,
Dipped down beyond the frowning rocks,
Into the earthy concave of water.
Swimming with fragrant sea waves,
And flashing on the sand.

Droning to the mountains,
The mountains, her lover,
Speaking words of comfort,
And whispering melody.
She closes her eyes, to sweep back,
To find unbound lores,
From her silent depths.
Then she comes surging back,
With talking songs to unfurl.

In return for her favour,
The mountains, the mighty lord,
To his beloved speaks,
Of his gentle sages,
And their worshipped wisdom.
Sighing upon her fluidity,
He breathes her vapours in,
Bringing her to his dense self,
As she laced him with her ice.

The winking silver peaks,
Laid bare below the sun,
To bask in its glory,
Glimmering with little sparks of fire.
His steep solemnity pays homage,
To the blazing sphere of life,
Offering his icy jewels,
For heaven’s kind acceptance,
Of his lady ether.

From there she drizzles and storms,
In rage ‘cause of her distance from her lover.
She rains into her pristine domain the sea,
Flowing into the calm stretches beyond.
From the seven heavens she brings,
Tales of serenity and peace.
Spreads them along her way meant for the,
Viscous search for her beloved,
To inform him of her flighty adventures.

In peace, wisdom and serenity,
They survive the time.
They chant youthfully of their years,
On earth spent in beauty.
Of anger, rage and sorrow neither spoke,
Nor leave any tell-tale imprints, did they.

Children of greater and lesser Gods

Incense of blades of grass,

Breathing the lulling distance,

Into feigned unconscious lungs,

For a juvenile surge of penance.

Monarch dictated drum rolls,

Beating like a gigantic heart,

Of some beast undiscovered,

For the death march to start.

Raiding the merchant"s den,

For the treasures priceless to pass,

Through the lyrical constraints of time,

And to be freed for men to amass.

Chagrined lads and lasses,

Sequestered from fortune and fame,

Lay bare their empty palms.

Dreams of glory lie low and tame.

But fragrant dreams of success,

Ever elusive, like sand in dry fingers,

Waste away into the blowing wind,

Hope, like a loyal maiden, lingers.

Adorned in luck begotten gold,

Humans of wealth and consequence flaunt,

Contemptuous to roadside urchins,

With faces hungered and gaunt.

Russelling silk whispering on marble,

Rhythmic tinkling of wine glasses,

Down by the roadside, those misfits in rags,

Drink from filth and grime that passes.

Warmth and heavenly grandeur,

In silver luxury mansions,

Yet some rest their forlorn selves,

On sidewalks and strange grey stations.

Then in the mortal end,

All embrace death and rest,

Some buried in smooth and varnished beds,

And some in the soil at best.