Like a candle flame
he’d been working through the night.
He needs the quiet luxury of a beedi
that’d recede his throbbing headache.
He scrutinizes his sculpture,
reminisces the greener days,
A young pair of hands busily crafting
one idol frame…
Since then it’s been a tale of flickering
fortunes; a journey in search of brightness.
He coughs severely, even the beedi’s smell
seems to let him down.
He imagines his wife’s blank stare,
the sour smile of his disabled son …
This studio is such a muggy room,
the window no better than a pigeon-hole…
He watches his rejected works,
mutilated forms stacked in a corner.
The candle gasps. The eastern sky
calmly lightens up. Goddess smiles benign.
Poet - III
Poet – III
“The verse-writer lives by the river,
Your Majesty, in a ramshackle hut.”
“I’m inclined to believe
that such creatures form a rare breed.
Let summons be served to him at once!”
Summons were issued, the ‘creature’, a frail
short individual, was brought before the King:
“So you write poems a lot, don’t you?”
The thinned man, with eyes fixed to nothingness,
meekly replied, “Just as buds bloom into florets,
florets bear fruits, my muse inherently paints
with an untamed brush.”
“You speak well, but let this be known
that henceforth no one in my kingdom
could be allowed to misuse his own life
by scripting valueless rhymes, or influence
others for doing so.”
“Your Lordship, it grieves me to say
that you’re yet to become the absolute ruler
of a poet’s instincts.”
“What will become of your wretched
poetry, if my men behead you
this very moment?”
“That very moment, my blood
would seep beneath the earth and nourish
the flowering shrubs that I’ve planted.”
“Take this ignoble worm out of my sight!”
Imprison him, he mustn’t see sunshine again.”
“My cursed life would merge with soil & ether,
yet these chrysanthemums would remind you
Your Majesty, that they are mere prisoners
in a land where pride slaughters verses.”
“The verse-writer lives by the river,
Your Majesty, in a ramshackle hut.”
“I’m inclined to believe
that such creatures form a rare breed.
Let summons be served to him at once!”
Summons were issued, the ‘creature’, a frail
short individual, was brought before the King:
“So you write poems a lot, don’t you?”
The thinned man, with eyes fixed to nothingness,
meekly replied, “Just as buds bloom into florets,
florets bear fruits, my muse inherently paints
with an untamed brush.”
“You speak well, but let this be known
that henceforth no one in my kingdom
could be allowed to misuse his own life
by scripting valueless rhymes, or influence
others for doing so.”
“Your Lordship, it grieves me to say
that you’re yet to become the absolute ruler
of a poet’s instincts.”
“What will become of your wretched
poetry, if my men behead you
this very moment?”
“That very moment, my blood
would seep beneath the earth and nourish
the flowering shrubs that I’ve planted.”
“Take this ignoble worm out of my sight!”
Imprison him, he mustn’t see sunshine again.”
“My cursed life would merge with soil & ether,
yet these chrysanthemums would remind you
Your Majesty, that they are mere prisoners
in a land where pride slaughters verses.”
Earthen lamp
You are the shine on our path,
your tapering crown glows bright,
rouses the ‘heart chakra’,
the perfect unison of Shiva and Shakti.
Twelve vermillion petals bloom,
we feel a universal rhythm
emanating within the kernel.
We are no longer perturbed
by the obscurity that lingers
underneath your pedestal.
We are embraced with
swirling luminous waves.
We flow like turbulent streams
pouring ourselves into the sea.
your tapering crown glows bright,
rouses the ‘heart chakra’,
the perfect unison of Shiva and Shakti.
Twelve vermillion petals bloom,
we feel a universal rhythm
emanating within the kernel.
We are no longer perturbed
by the obscurity that lingers
underneath your pedestal.
We are embraced with
swirling luminous waves.
We flow like turbulent streams
pouring ourselves into the sea.
Poet - II
After harrowing hours
hoping to see the day, you arrive
at the end of a tunnel, and find
a misty twilight.
You watch a dying sun,
bloody wounds on firmament
and glittering streetlights.
Yet on you trudge,
for the road shines ahead
and you’re not bothered
by the nagging shadow.
hoping to see the day, you arrive
at the end of a tunnel, and find
a misty twilight.
You watch a dying sun,
bloody wounds on firmament
and glittering streetlights.
Yet on you trudge,
for the road shines ahead
and you’re not bothered
by the nagging shadow.
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