Monthly Archives: July 2015

Grieving for a Noble Soul

a poem by

Somewhere deep down a sense of pain,
Inexplicable, given the lack of any gain,
An ingenious flame flickered away,
After igniting many a mind.
The tears that rolled down,
Like having lost one’s own.
What makes him a standout?
Not the one to have clout,
Or trappings of wealth that speak loud,
Neither a prince charming,
Nor an imposing figure that’s alarming,
A standout all the same!
By his peculiar coiffure,
Childlike mind,
Infectious smile,
Burden and vision for the nation,
Humble beginnings,
Made in India label,
Faith in the youth,
Relentless pursuit of knowledge,
Blemishless public life,
Love for children.
Mere sharing his birth month,
Brings smile to my face,
As though the connect vests,
All his commendable virtues.
How he would’ve wished,
To lead India into 2020,
As a nation that boasts socio-economic equity,
Crossing over the threshold,
Into a developed nation,
Integrating the best of all time and places.
This humble Octogenarian from Rameshwaram,
Effusive in his credits to teachers,
Never missed an opportunity to be with students,
Left the world being among them,
He took off with wings of fire from Shilllong,
Only to leave behind millions inspired for long.

A Tribute to the Greatest Dreamer of Our Generation – APJ Abdul Kalam Sir

a poem by

Infinite dreams of those sublime moments
When you surreptitiously read about stars and galaxies
And you helped your father ferry the villagers across the river
Priceless thoughts that you comprehended in your cerebrum
Precarious to imagine, dangling onto a thin gossamer
Desperate to break-in with that brilliant discovery!

You would stay awake when everybody else slept to read and study from borrowed textbooks Of helping friends and thoughtful elders, you would then dream-on those illuminating yet Elusive rays in your mind’s canvas and paint with the multitudinous colors of the rainbow, you Never thought the mind had any limits
For your dreams encompassed the Universe of Universes!

As you woke up before dawn while everybody else slept and only dreamt, you toiled hard and Delivered newspapers to sleepy homes and to give shape to your dreams that would await your Paint-brush and colors to arrange from the disarray!
And as the dawn slowly took shape so did the pied blooming of a desert rose !

~ Forever you will be remembered A. P. J. Abdul Kalam Sir, you taught us to dream big!

For You, Brother

a poem by

Tumbled and rolled ourselves
did we not?
For that silly laughter
that vanished soon there after

Those memories never
ceased,
but you ran away
with ease

You were sentenced,
condemned
cruel games were on you
a prank that came true

Even today,
years after that day
I turn around on the
slightest noise

Asking
‘Brother, is that you?’
but silence.

Silence of the day
silence of the night
staring back
left me craving
for that laughter again.

Behind the Misty Dawns

a poem by

Behind the misty dawn of a hillside window,
Sits a great Poetess, scribbling in a shadow,
With a fair and simple of a face, like a boat,
She seems to be like lotus in a blue lake slot,
With its lonely waters edged by moonlight,
Stranded on a sand-bank of a river at twilight,
I looked at her, caring; she seems to be dull,
Her window is not closed, night is full,
She opted, just only her window for freedom;
There the daybreak light meets her kingdom,
Through it, her eyes like, lost stars travel back,
Towards the blue sky by far to open a love pack.

Verse of Love

a poem by

Like the verses of love,
written on the walls
of my inner heart…
you have become
my counterpart,
never, ever you depart

Like the curses of lust,
touched on the shores
of my dwelling resort…
you have become
my counterpart.
never, ever you depart.

Like the dew of dawn,
showered on the petals
of my budding rose…
you have become
my counterpart.
never, ever you depart.

Like the chirping of dove,
heard on the soft skin
of my red cherry lips
you have become
my counterpart.
never, ever you depart.

Identity

a poem by

Identity
His life asked him his identity
I say it’s an unseasonal drop on the pane,
Just a vagabond bard,
A silent crooner
Sans a meaning.

Meaning is a frame
A frame which defines,
But a drop is a drop
From somewhere up to somewhere down,
From a vastness to a vastness
A drop, a bard, a nothing…
When has a no thing been any thing?
His life asked him his identity,
I say it’s any thing that’s your thing…

(On my way to office today, amidst weeping clouds, to be something)

Teachings of Nature

a poem by

Nature is the best teacher
With teaching latent in it’s every element
Look at budding flowers
They teach you
How to begin with smile
The singing birds
Teaching you to be merry
In whatever the circumstances be
The tall and sturdy trees
Inspiring to stand rock solid
Amidst the storms and tornadoes of life
The stable soil
Encouraging you to withstand
The tyranny of time
The continual rivers
Inspiring you to keep on moving
Surmounting obstacles
The extensive forest
Motivating you to be large-hearted
Accommodating a motley of emotions
The speedy wind
Teaching you to move swiftly
Extirpating stumbling blocks
On our way to the pinnacle
The rigid mountain
Teaching you to aim at
Nothing less than the zenith of excellence
Let’s look at nature
For it can be our best mentor!

Oh Luna

a poem by

‘Tis but a humble request of a Loner
‘Tis but a humble request of a Loner
Oh Luna, I bow as I plead with thee

Granting my wish of thick rich darkness
Oh Luna, please dim thy shimmer and shine
As I embrace him and he engulfs me, tonight

Oh Luna, we have tales to be shared
Secrets to be whispered, promises to be made
Trails to be ventured and dreams to be realized

Please cover thy eyes and ears, oh Luna
For I long to cherish my date tonight- The Dark Night
As a loner to a loner, a friend to a friend and a soul to a soul.

Oh Zephyr

a poem by

Oh Zephyr
As a merciful favour
To an awaiting soul
Drift this luscious savour
To half of my whole

Sundered by distance
Yet blended through hearts
Longing this fragrance
He is, on other end of world

Together, we rooted
These roses of amor
Please whisper my ardour
As you deliver its scent

Alone and away from home
Can you carry him hope
That the roses still bloom
So does our love

Oh Zephyr
As a merciful favour
To an awaiting soul
Drift this luscious savour
To half of my whole

The enchanting enigma

a poem by

I turned my gaze around
as the last bus to my home has left.
My breath was heavy
my heart was pounding
and I stood there with my parasol,
totally exhausted.
That was when my heart skipped a beat
beneath a banyan tree
he was sitting, totally drenched,
on his seat.
His shirt was sticking to his body
hung on the tips of his hair,
were tiny little raindrops,
which paused on his eyelashes
and rapidly rolled down his nose
and further down his neck
he had done nothing to me
yet, I was hypnotized.
He broke the spell and brought me into reality
as he looked at me, and…
our eyes met
that I realised.
His big dark eyes
as black as the thundering clouds
I wanted to be lost
deep, deep, deep in his eyes
Ah! I wish I could
I turned my eyes off him
so did he
too clumsy to express one another’s feelings
too shy to look into each other’s eyes
we both were silent
the only noise was the splattering of rain
strange sensation it was
Perhaps the aura of love.
I turned back
ready to depart
with a heavy heart
desperately he turned towards me
under the gloomy moon of that rain,
slowly… our eyes met again.
He smiled at me
was I supposed to be shocked?
Or blush?
Or smile back?
I didn’t know
but that warm smile stopped my heart
I do know
the cool breeze went past by me
slightly blowing my hair
but I…
I felt a warmth
a smooth warmth
and what was it, I don’t care.
The rain had stopped
the bus arrived
I got into the bus
but, my eyes were fixed on him
until the last inch of him
disappeared from my sight
I woke up from my dream
looked at the clock: 8 AM already???!!!
Damn!!!
I rushed to the school like a mad man
forcing my way out
through the crowd
I noticed a familiar figure
he turned around,
looked at me
and smiled.
My heart ached in a sweet pain
as…
our eyes met again.

What’s Love?

a poem by

Love just a feeling?
Or merely an illusion?

Love a path to soul searching?
Or merely a customary obligation of reproduction?

Love an attraction of opposite poles?
Or there lies some inborn connection?

But one day he found something quite unusual,
Same pole attracting each other…

But one day he found it doesn’t fall
in line of natural cycle of reproduction.

But one day he found his ward is not
what he/she has supposed to be, he/she really is…

And it is not so easy to even comment
on this critical situation?

How could he/she do this?
He angered at their decision of mate selection?

Is it right or wrong to act and love who you really love?
Is it wise or foolishness to turn into completely different?

Is it excess of freedom to behave in that way?
Is it justified to become Gay or lesbian?

He asked!
He shouted!

He cried!
He feared what the society will think of them…

He thought
and thought

and thought
again and again.

But at the end of day,
They are still his children…

But at the end of day,
it’s all their decision…

But at the end of day,
it’s all about loving deeply someone…

But at the end of the day,
Love is not to be confined in
certain fixed boundary and definition…
And then he smiled and respected his/her decision.

Consumer of History

a poem by

Banking on inherited memories rejuvenates me.
As and when I remember the memories
That me and my people long to cherish
And those me and my people despise to relish
To remember not as memoirs
But as inerasable scars.
The nation, the geography, the war, the leaders
The language, the temples, the forts and those statues,
And the ethnicity
Then comes the innate xenophobia
That declares me and my people as more equal than others;
And others do live in History’s mischief,
Bloodshed as part of the living
And for the living of me and my people,
And the making of the histories
That I and my people have today
As glorious moments of the past for the present
But for those who produced this wicked ‘hero’
That is unexplainable.
The Unforgettable’s enigmatic inexplicable
And this makes me feel the heroic deeds
And the unheroic moments as great periods
And people who built that fort and this temple.
I only consume History.

Producer of History

a poem by

Learning from the past bloopers
I reconstruct the future through THIS present.
And those present here.
There is NO present as such
For humans live in past glories
And memories that are painful
To think about the future
And the prospective futures.
Those (are) perceived either in fear or in hyper ambitions.
The past seems to me
A mere wars- the wars fought
For a feudal by feudals
Or those whose slaves-
(Both physical and social)
Those kings and their courtesans
Those numerous wives and those concubines
The titles and the moribund army
The modern PROMOTERS of democracy
Yet the common man was ‘there’
But not living.
I exterminate all the above
Including the democracy,
The dictatorship of the prolitere,
The religious kingdom, the Islamic republic.
Egalitarian society for all- the inclusive growth.
I will have equality
Where people are equal
In all but something
Giving room for
Those like I who would like to produce
History- future history.
I produce History
Not for History’s sake
For myself– my sake.

Boulevard under Orange

a poem by

Otherwise blind it is- the alley by my house,
Covered in pitch darkness of the nocturnal sky
Orange glimmers break the blindness however,
Twinkling from a frail lamp-post, weathered now.

A handful of pedestrians, frequent this unfrequented lane occasionally :
Navigated by that glinting apricot lantern
Held up against the ebony blanket of night sky,
As if by an illusory noctambulist, guiding their way,
Safely to their nests- slung at the bottom of the backstreet…

Tinkling their way through, peddles the rickshaw-pullers,
Visible only when under the saffron sodium-vapour lamp;
And then melting harmoniously with the blackness stretched yonder…

The bottle green coconut clan, now shadowed by the inky hue,
The reeling breeze caresses every fixed tree and every gliding soul;
A pleasantly queer ataraxy, hovers through this avenue;
Rejuvenating my sweltered core at the twilight of every sunrise…

That orange twilit alley by my house:
Lying in perfect seclusion from the city’s anarchy,
Untouched by earthly chaos or agony;
Trance-like in night’s tranquility…

A Fugitive Mind’s Servile Lamp

a poem by

Diligently bestowing its largess profound,
Beamed that light, alabaster, on His desk abound
Beamed it night after night, with a hope consummate:
To glance its master, some day- when fortunate!

Came not He, came not true, that hope consummate;
For the master is of a different sort;
His evanescence- constant- from one to another port!
Devoir cannot shackle him, shackles him not any forethought-
Free is he, from man’s anxiety and chills of tomorrow’s lot!

But that light profound, beaming diligently found:
Night after night, with that hope consummate
Flicker it did not, retreat it could not,
For duty bade it, to lie await…

But its master is of a disparate sort,
Now in an ancient fort; then at an eerie moat;
Gawking at a child- squatting under the glimmers of street light:
Books in his laps reminds
Beaming is My light profound, but I am not to be bound…

Because master I am of my own destiny,
Beaming they find me, when in true symphony;
Breathe I in shore afar- saunter in lands, barren of bars;
Wake I under the Orange ball- slumber beneath the twinkling stars!

Because fugitive I am, of a distinctive sort
Steadfast is my evanescence, from one to another port!