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?