Flowered

Placed in the midst
Of a twilight zone
My vision went hazy,
My fancy disoriented,
And while my failed dreams
Were in desperation
I had a glimpse
Of the loveliest of faces,
Under a white veil.

I stole a glance of the loveliness
Of the countenance benign,
While lamenting
Over the distorted reflections
On the fragmented glass remains
Of my dreams
Of phenomenal dimension,
Which I had fondled
And renewed over the years.

Through your white veil
I stole a glimpse
Of a fascinating amalgam
Of beauty and compassion;
A flowerbed
Of exclusive red roses
Of dewy-freshness,
Clad in a thin pall
Of a late winter snow
Of Kashmir Valley.

Through your white veil
I had a glimpse
Of the last oasis
Of my life,
In the midst of
A harsh and fiery desert.
Through that white veil
I rejoiced the sight
Of a gorgeous painting,
Drawn by a ceremony
Of profound colours.

Under the white veil
I again had a glimpse
Of a fairy of Ajanta fresco,
Full of exquisite tenderness
And love of beauty.
Yet, always with a suspicion
Of something deeper
And transcendental.

Beneath the white veil
That embellished your face
Like a patch of snow cladding
The upper reaches of your abode,
I had a glimpse
Of your soil and scenery
Of reflection and reality
In full bloom.

Sun and Shadow

Under the shadow
Of the sky,
I neither fancy
Nor relish
To ransack in vain
The ephemeral magnificence
Of a pied rainbow
Drawn on a broad canvas.

Under the shadow
Of the same sky,
I am not ecstatically thrilled
To hear in futility
The music of the drip-drop clouds
Emitting an earthly odour.

Rather without a grumble
Of any hue
I love to brave
The mid-summer sun
Of a blazing sky.

While I damn care the sun,
All along I endeavour
To keep the shadow
In good humour
For, I know the shadow
And the shadow
Has the celestial potential
To eclipse the sun.

Nothingness

Carefully crafted schemes
Seem to sink like a load
Into an abyss
Of weird anxiety.

Ephemeral excitement
Seems to get extinguished
Like the fluttering flicker
Of a dying match-stick.

Dream of a day
Like a dry leaf
Fails to take off
For, a clumsy evening
From nowhere
Overtakes it
Before the real sunset.

The Disjointed Kite

Spring winks from the icy-blanket
Of a long slumber,
Mildly tickling
The benumbed roots
Of a budding red-rose.

Eternal mirth seems to peep out
From an elegantly packed
Chocolate box.

From the deserted grove
The Nightingale
Echoes a happy note
For a one-time change.

The brook murmurs.
The mountain breeze hisses.
And all species
Vegetative and winged
Seem to smile and flutter,
Whisper and gesture in the language
Of a virgin love-letter.

I could definitely hear
Everyone, trivial and profound
Announce in a language
Loud and clear,
That on this Valentine Day
“Love is in the air”
And I thought
I should ground it.

Fool that I was!
I grounded it and Love nosedived
Like a disjointed kite
On the blades
Of a thorny shrub
Grown on a rocky land.

Untitled

Can you recall?
The hard words spoken,
The stern glances exchanged,
When you pinched me
Most uncharitably
On the left side
Of my chest?

Then it caused nothing
Beyond a minor scratch
And I lost sight of it,
For during intimate moments
I was lost
In the togetherness
Of a cut-piece moon
In a starry-jungle.

Do you know?
This Winter
The scratch reappeared.
The pain, revived and
A deep wound emerged
On my hairy chest?

Because you were at it,
I have been taking extra care
To hide it under a fine skin
Like the hidden yolk
Of a hen’s egg that has
A regenerating potential
Which recurs in solitude.

Unnamed Biography

I am transfixed
Like a spider
At the epicentre
Of the web of a bunch
Of beaten moments,
Untouched by the reality
Of time and space.

Quite often
I find it funny
And deeply ridiculous
To unknot and tidy
The same beaten moments
That lie like a heap
Of tangled threads
With invisible beginnings
And no visible ends.

I know not why
A statuesque calmness
Has rendered me speechless
On a ruined panorama
Of succeeding desire and despair.

I have been treading
Through the time present
With a rhythmic synergy,
By elbowing aside
The lived past
Into the black and white pages
Of an unnamed biography.

Topsy- Turvy

Ere I could lift the violet
From the western sky
With my slender brush
To paint a splendid sunset,
A dark horse
Came galloping
From the far east
And trampled the canvas
Under its blind hoofs.

Ere I could merrily hum
With the home-coming sparrows
The familiar chirping melody,
The great Himalayan frost
Of the icy-north
Rendered them dumb.

Ere I could compose in my poetry
The infant-smile
Of an early bud,
The icy-claws
Of mid- December
Ravished my garden
Into a pathetic insignificance
Of bruised stems
And bleeding twigs.

Ere I could confide with you
The opening chapter
Of my unfinished autobiography,
The thick hairline
On my tender forehead
Receded like the ebbing waves
Of a vanquished tide,
Leaving the sandy shore
Of erased foot-prints
And scattered shells.

Time

I am stranded
At the centre
Of a sprawling round-about
Even as Time resolves
In the visible pace
Of the seconds hand
On my old wrist-watch.

They say,
They have seen
Time crawling
Like a soiled infant
On the earthen floor
Of their neighbour’s courtyard.

During my youth
I have seen Time
From the spectator’s gallery,
Running with the exuberance
Of an able athlete
On a hundred-metre-track.

Now Time has mellowed
Like my beloved grandma
Into a handful of
Crumpled anatomy,
Squeezed to the core
Like a piece of ice-cube,
In the bewildered eyes
Of her grandson.

Three make a crowd

If you nod
To my rose,
How easy it is for me
To plough the earth
And dot it all over
With a multitude.

If you consent
To live with me,
How happy
I shall be to build
A palace in mid-air
Above my thatched roof.

If only you wish
To listen to my sonnet,
How easy it is for me
To compose an epic
Of million couplets
And recite it for you
Under a moon-lit sky,
When you and I
Make a company
And the moon a crowd.

The Bell that tolls

A multitude of shooting stars,
Befalling on a placid harbour
In an alien land,
Render the brave hearts
Into sitting ducks
That leaves me in knee-deep tears.

A lonesome jasmine
Spilling out
From a sultry landscape,
Soaked by early monsoon
Drives me crazy
For the scent
Of the curly tresses
Sprouted on her nape.

With a wink-less gaze
I look for the Northern Star
In the midst of a multitude
That shall guide me
From the wilderness
To a safe shore.

The bell that tolls intermittently
Atop the dome,
Echoing through the
Cobwebbed corridors of my being,
Drags me to the doorstep
Of the city cathedral.

Return Journey

Desire gets burnt into ashes
In an internal combustion
Of a blunt-faced
Suburban locomotive,
Screeching on the rails
To the oily doorsteps
Of the city brothel.

Intermittent giggles
Of a bunch of naked innocence
Emanate from the dense slums
Along the tracks
And slimy animals bask on the furrow
Of the black mud
In indolent sexuality.

In broad day-light
The popular woman
Of the city,
In her cosmetic cell,
Pines for the scent
Of fresh strawberries.

The setting Sun ejaculates
Dull rays at six,
Forming a strange silhouette
Of a faceless crowd
On the concrete road
Of the metropolis.

Rebirth

A hearty elation sets in
At the sight
Of a closing sunset
That shines like the glaze
Of a live-pyre
Across the river.

I am thrilled all over
By the cool breath
Of a clear and present ecstasy,
Never felt before.

I am hardly curious
And never nervous
About the temporary flickers
Of a cluster of glow-worms
Intermittently winking
Around the village cemetery.

No more I scream
At the sight of a coffin
Full of unshed tears
And abstract remains
Of my premature dreams
Awaiting a quite burial.

Through the smoke-curtain
Of a leafless autumn twilight
I distinctly visualize
In the remote sky
An orphaned-star
Pining for the warmth
And security
Of a mother’s womb.

Permission

Bound by an ancient habit,
On every dawn of my village
The Sun of my childhood
Rises on his own.
From the violet
Over my village cemetery

As usual
During an unusually sultry monsoon
The rustic clouds
Pour themselves out
Over my village earth
Unmindful of her necessities.

During a forlorn
And tired twilight,
The remote stars
Dreamy and subtle,
Yet distinctly familiar
Even to my ancestors,
Sleep-walk on to
The dark canvas
Forming a celestial pattern.

Traditionally
Wild and passionate,
The spring flows
From the usual direction
Of my cousin’s village
On the Basanta Panchami Day
Year after year.

Flying from nowhere to perch
On the dark bough
Of the old banyan tree
In my backyard,
The lonesome cuckoo
Pours out his soul
Without waiting for the chorus.

The passionate jasmine
My mother planted
In our garden
Gets impatient to bloom out
Its nocturnal fragrance
For whomsoever it may concern.

This being so in and around me,
Should I wait for your permission
To spell out the vibrations of my heart?