Perhaps our loves have their settled times,
When seasons of hope and destiny can meet.
We only had walks and talks among trains
That whistled through the pages of academic lore
And tangled with newfangled theories and more
In nights that had bustled with Eliot and Poe
Or poured over Rushdie and Ghosh.
At most we had shared some moonlit new songs
Or wondered at statues of immaculate grace
Just before crossing the road, clutching hands,
For a dinner of biriyani unmatched.
Gallantly we moved and breathed to the leaves
Chapters now lost of unspoken words
In lanes that are dotted with history's footnotes
With songs from our memory's springwell.
No one now croons along these quiet lanes
With melodies of Mirza in lips.
Shorn of all tendrils or blossoms I bide
And wait for the tide of memories withheld
That spring to my nights with joy now and then
And promise me a surge to time's missing shores.
Battling with waves I steer my ship straight
Till seasons of hope and destiny can meet.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Saturday, November 10, 2012
From the Kingdom of Bhutan
Time rather crawls among these quiet hills.
Perhaps when he strolled along harvested fields
He was struck by the majesty of green rising peaks
That mock our flux with most ancient calm
And lost track of ways he had mapped.
Or perhaps gazing on snow-mountain caps
That hung atop valleys as wizened old sages
He had puzzled himself with their foreign lore
And therein was caught again late.
It even could have been the full blooming rose,
Or many other petals of captivating colours
That brighten these greens with fragrance and charm
And halt a man sharp in his tracks.
Even at night, when in cold-chilling dark
The wonders of day are quietly asleep,
The twinkles of lights from faraway folds
Meshed with the fabric of star-sprinkled sky
Arrest our gaze as magnets on top
And stall our progress too long.
Or may be just brushed by the buffets of wind
He stood with his curls or tall-tousled hair
And breathed in the whispers of God.
Time rather crawls among these quiet hills,
Here in the land of Buddha and his peace.
Perhaps when he strolled along harvested fields
He was struck by the majesty of green rising peaks
That mock our flux with most ancient calm
And lost track of ways he had mapped.
Or perhaps gazing on snow-mountain caps
That hung atop valleys as wizened old sages
He had puzzled himself with their foreign lore
And therein was caught again late.
It even could have been the full blooming rose,
Or many other petals of captivating colours
That brighten these greens with fragrance and charm
And halt a man sharp in his tracks.
Even at night, when in cold-chilling dark
The wonders of day are quietly asleep,
The twinkles of lights from faraway folds
Meshed with the fabric of star-sprinkled sky
Arrest our gaze as magnets on top
And stall our progress too long.
Or may be just brushed by the buffets of wind
He stood with his curls or tall-tousled hair
And breathed in the whispers of God.
Time rather crawls among these quiet hills,
Here in the land of Buddha and his peace.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Pygmalion to Galatea
Honestly my dear, try as I may,
I can't forgo this pubescent fixation on skin.
Platform or mall or tram bus or train
The eyes cannot rest
From the curvacious contours of
Full ripened limbs
That struggle with clothes
For an inch full of light
As I fixate on ecstasy of sense.
I'm not a monk in his cloisters, you know,
But a man with his senses all sane.
And hence they are spread over valleys and hills
Or occasional cliffs that call to my soul
Tempests of animals unleashed.
Choked with dull-dour dosage of grime
These little showers of fantasy I need
To stagger through my miles unshorn.
Call me a voyeur or pervert if you will,
I care not a fig for labels as these.
Shapes and forms are all them my ware
That I breathe into stones rough or smooth.
Hence shall I gaze with bold brazen eyes
And drink in all nectars of honeysuckle days
That ooze from the creases of dresses or skin
And moisten my chapped arid ways.
A fool for the flesh? Well, let it be.
If God in his wisdom has made thus frail
Angels on earth shall I see.
I can't forgo this pubescent fixation on skin.
Platform or mall or tram bus or train
The eyes cannot rest
From the curvacious contours of
Full ripened limbs
That struggle with clothes
For an inch full of light
As I fixate on ecstasy of sense.
I'm not a monk in his cloisters, you know,
But a man with his senses all sane.
And hence they are spread over valleys and hills
Or occasional cliffs that call to my soul
Tempests of animals unleashed.
Choked with dull-dour dosage of grime
These little showers of fantasy I need
To stagger through my miles unshorn.
Call me a voyeur or pervert if you will,
I care not a fig for labels as these.
Shapes and forms are all them my ware
That I breathe into stones rough or smooth.
Hence shall I gaze with bold brazen eyes
And drink in all nectars of honeysuckle days
That ooze from the creases of dresses or skin
And moisten my chapped arid ways.
A fool for the flesh? Well, let it be.
If God in his wisdom has made thus frail
Angels on earth shall I see.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Sleepless in Saltlake
Yet another day now comes to a close.
Shutting at last my ledgers of pain,
I browse through the pages of hours of days
And cower beneath well-trodden caches of blank
That have clogged my disks with items unused
In drives full of untraceable malwares in heaps.
Trapped into unchanging patterns of same
I dread rather more the end that'll start,
These patterns at once from scratch.
Torn between fears of a withered old dawn
And sleep full of illusion of rest
I writhe among sheets with eyes open shut
And count my minutes full of sweat.
Shutting at last my ledgers of pain,
I browse through the pages of hours of days
And cower beneath well-trodden caches of blank
That have clogged my disks with items unused
In drives full of untraceable malwares in heaps.
Trapped into unchanging patterns of same
I dread rather more the end that'll start,
These patterns at once from scratch.
Torn between fears of a withered old dawn
And sleep full of illusion of rest
I writhe among sheets with eyes open shut
And count my minutes full of sweat.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Fool's Pledge
I've burnt my bridges and no longer care
For feathers, that others
Deem, are not my own.
Jesting my way
With hammed brittle scripts
I'm fed up with the texture
Of motley and cap
And have broken my arrows of wit.
I'll no more now wait
With sermons or lore
For lovers or old men
In a world that is crazy as bats.
Damned be this farce,
And a plague on you all!
The fool's now a knave and gladly would go
In times that are tossed to and fro.
For feathers, that others
Deem, are not my own.
Jesting my way
With hammed brittle scripts
I'm fed up with the texture
Of motley and cap
And have broken my arrows of wit.
I'll no more now wait
With sermons or lore
For lovers or old men
In a world that is crazy as bats.
Damned be this farce,
And a plague on you all!
The fool's now a knave and gladly would go
In times that are tossed to and fro.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Muddled Mimes
I scribble through my contacts
And dribble for a call
As hours and minutes keep oozing along walls
With trails that are as straight as tracks.
Chugging with fumes as in outmoded cars
I rattle and scuttle
With cough, phlegm and spittle
And drown in the puddles
Of plasticised prattle
Where bathe our voracious
Much-lauded cattle
With briefcase and bags great or little.
Here among droning of newsreading bees
I turn to my headphones and quietly now block
Their humming with stereophonic locks.
Battered with cycles of clocks without chimes
I pay my bills late and muddle through my mimes.
[This one's dedicated to Jack...read his poems and you'll see to what extent the poem draws formal inspiration from his practice]
And dribble for a call
As hours and minutes keep oozing along walls
With trails that are as straight as tracks.
Chugging with fumes as in outmoded cars
I rattle and scuttle
With cough, phlegm and spittle
And drown in the puddles
Of plasticised prattle
Where bathe our voracious
Much-lauded cattle
With briefcase and bags great or little.
Here among droning of newsreading bees
I turn to my headphones and quietly now block
Their humming with stereophonic locks.
Battered with cycles of clocks without chimes
I pay my bills late and muddle through my mimes.
[This one's dedicated to Jack...read his poems and you'll see to what extent the poem draws formal inspiration from his practice]
Friday, September 21, 2012
So Long as I Breathe...
Your eyes were a garden of spices my dear,
Your smiles full of unwavering dare;
And those your locks that'll rustle and ensnare
Have left their indellible foot prints on mind
So long as I breathe and care.
The way your fingers bid farewell that night,
The way your shadows had fled from my sight
Which vainly had hoped for one backward glance
Have left their unpardoned scars in my heart
So long as I breathe and bear.
Your dances in the rain or raging in vain
Your naughty little tricks
That rippled through my veins
With prayers will I enshrine my dear
So long as I breathe and care.
Your unfulfilled vows that torment my skull
With insatiate flames and ashes along valves,
And your unsparing wishes have unfurled
Serpents of hate that'll writhe through my heart
So long as I breathe and bear.
Jostling with spectres of bipolar mind
I leave my state to words that I rear
And refuge in shrines of ties that bind.
[The poem is inspired by the beautiful Hindi poem written by Aditya Chopra for Jab Tak Hai Jaan which has been translated into English by the one and only Shah Rukh Khan. My take is a tribute to the beauty of the Hindi original. See SRK's own translation here:
https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-QO_ngT7TRSw/UFvw8tj0-iI/AAAAAAAAH_M/ipxausMaJms/s600/A3Sk6QPCcAAyDgV.jpg ]
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