breaking the silence
of stars and moon ...
night rain
Had you left me earlier
You lingered around
like a hummingbird, tantalized me
till my love had grown into a banyan.
The aerial roots entwine me now, I feel
stupefied, a dullard before the mirror.
Had you left earlier, I’d have realized
my persistent idiocy. Pardon me
for my short sense of humour, but,
had you left earlier, I’d have declared
“Mea culpa” with an added eloquence,
I’d have finished exploring the moon,
ascertained how empty and how deep
craters can be.
You're still treasured in a copper pod
of my yellow flower tree. Even now,
the petals free in abundance
forming a soft carpet.
Seldom, when a mad wind blows,
I observe the struggle of a candle flame.
Had you left me earlier,
I’d have stepped cautiously, tried to read
the warning signs before stepping
on a quicksand.
like a hummingbird, tantalized me
till my love had grown into a banyan.
The aerial roots entwine me now, I feel
stupefied, a dullard before the mirror.
Had you left earlier, I’d have realized
my persistent idiocy. Pardon me
for my short sense of humour, but,
had you left earlier, I’d have declared
“Mea culpa” with an added eloquence,
I’d have finished exploring the moon,
ascertained how empty and how deep
craters can be.
You're still treasured in a copper pod
of my yellow flower tree. Even now,
the petals free in abundance
forming a soft carpet.
Seldom, when a mad wind blows,
I observe the struggle of a candle flame.
Had you left me earlier,
I’d have stepped cautiously, tried to read
the warning signs before stepping
on a quicksand.
An ordinary dawn
In the cobalt hue
softness lingers. For the birds,
it is time to raise the alarm,
for the rag-pickers, a new day
to rummage the earth
for reusables.
The rickshaw-puller coughs
and withdraws one last time,
pulling the rug around him.
It's the end-phase of monsoon.
A dragonfly rests upon my railing,
morning hue on its wings. I watch
its perplexity. The opening words
of a tap stir me. I recall the reddened
moon of the last eclipse.
Masonry work resumes,
the clatter of hammer against iron
rebounds in the neighbourhood.
Darkness fades and reveals
distinct craters all around me.
The stench of a rat's carcass
attracts a murder of raspy crows.
On my verandah,
the dragonfly gone, and with it
the sizzling wings of morning.
softness lingers. For the birds,
it is time to raise the alarm,
for the rag-pickers, a new day
to rummage the earth
for reusables.
The rickshaw-puller coughs
and withdraws one last time,
pulling the rug around him.
It's the end-phase of monsoon.
A dragonfly rests upon my railing,
morning hue on its wings. I watch
its perplexity. The opening words
of a tap stir me. I recall the reddened
moon of the last eclipse.
Masonry work resumes,
the clatter of hammer against iron
rebounds in the neighbourhood.
Darkness fades and reveals
distinct craters all around me.
The stench of a rat's carcass
attracts a murder of raspy crows.
On my verandah,
the dragonfly gone, and with it
the sizzling wings of morning.
Knowing her eyes
Search deep, within the cobalt waters
like a diver, hunting down the ruins
of a sunken ship. Did you hit upon the treasure?
- Not yet?
You must toil like a sculptor,
carve out the irises as caverns, erect stalagmites
stalactites or even witch fingers, or some
ancient skeletons of prehistoric men.
You say you can be none of them?
-Did you ever attempt scripting verses,
verses that can procreate the Garden of Eden
with mere words and feelings,
Telling her how scarlet can a sunset be
watching the ruby of her eyes,
Telling her how the blink of one eyelid
sets off ripples in quietude.
You cannot play with words even?
Be yourself then. But scrape off
the dust of years that covers you,
lay bare your soul to her diamond-sharp
gaze,
Tell her how idle hours pass
talking with the moon,
And how the lover in you always
takes a beating,
Yet you must never, my friend,
never let a springtide recede
uneventfully.
like a diver, hunting down the ruins
of a sunken ship. Did you hit upon the treasure?
- Not yet?
You must toil like a sculptor,
carve out the irises as caverns, erect stalagmites
stalactites or even witch fingers, or some
ancient skeletons of prehistoric men.
You say you can be none of them?
-Did you ever attempt scripting verses,
verses that can procreate the Garden of Eden
with mere words and feelings,
Telling her how scarlet can a sunset be
watching the ruby of her eyes,
Telling her how the blink of one eyelid
sets off ripples in quietude.
You cannot play with words even?
Be yourself then. But scrape off
the dust of years that covers you,
lay bare your soul to her diamond-sharp
gaze,
Tell her how idle hours pass
talking with the moon,
And how the lover in you always
takes a beating,
Yet you must never, my friend,
never let a springtide recede
uneventfully.
Alpenglow
As the daylight wanes
and yet a little remains for poetry,
whispers grow amid the aspens
this autumn.
Their pale skeletal arms
seemingly affirms the contrast
between reality and deception.
I hear them talk about me,
about you
about the blushing eastern sky,
yet all that I'm left with: a hint
of lonely breeze
a leaf floating over minute ripples,
a drop of blood
spilled from memory.
and yet a little remains for poetry,
whispers grow amid the aspens
this autumn.
Their pale skeletal arms
seemingly affirms the contrast
between reality and deception.
I hear them talk about me,
about you
about the blushing eastern sky,
yet all that I'm left with: a hint
of lonely breeze
a leaf floating over minute ripples,
a drop of blood
spilled from memory.
Somniscribe (Tanka)
she tries to decipher
her sleep-writings
the tunneled paths
of moth larvae
on a eucalyptus trunk
her sleep-writings
the tunneled paths
of moth larvae
on a eucalyptus trunk
The indigo flowers
The petite blue flames
that ignite my mornings
in tangerine autumn
Only paces away
from the rusted milestone
you'll find them
Indigo petals trembling
in a murmuring breeze
like day-break butterflies
I recite to them the poems
of my evening-years
And their bobbing heads
instill in me a certainty
that I keep returning
to these misty hours
As an apparition
or a curtain of rain
Or as one blue bud
longing to free itself
from its own enwrapping
sheath
that ignite my mornings
in tangerine autumn
Only paces away
from the rusted milestone
you'll find them
Indigo petals trembling
in a murmuring breeze
like day-break butterflies
I recite to them the poems
of my evening-years
And their bobbing heads
instill in me a certainty
that I keep returning
to these misty hours
As an apparition
or a curtain of rain
Or as one blue bud
longing to free itself
from its own enwrapping
sheath
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
