MY JOY HAD DIED

Last summer, my joy was born to me.

I embraced it with both my arms.

How glad I was, gladdest under the Sun.

And now I held it before them to see.

My heart gladdened as my joy I shared,

With my family,friends, and foes even,

How glad I was, gladdest I could ever be,

But no look at my joy had they spared.

Every day, for several Suns that went down,

I wondered if my joy would meet another,

How wrong I was, more wrong than any,

My joy was visited by no soul in town.

It died soon, and then sorrow was born,

And this time, I chose to keep it within,

How hard it was, hardest I had ever done,

Like a dagger in the heart I had worn.

Memory of joy had come to me soon,

Like an autumn leaf refused to be raked,

How anguished it was, it closed its lips

And  was heard no more in the moon.

She Danced Upon the Shore

She danced upon the shore,

What need had she to care?

The wind and water did roar,

And caressed her silken hair.

I smiled at her from afar,

Waiting she would turn to me.

Child I was, like we all are,

As artless as one could be.

She seemed as lovely as spring,

And I couldn't stay apart,

With joy more than I could bring,

I gave her all my heart.

I was told by her that love

Was hardly worth thinking of,

That every kiss and the early bliss,

Died with each broken promise.

That she would rather walk alone

Than give her heart outright,

For love as she had known,

Was a brief, hazy delight.

In a little while, all I had won,

Had been savagely undone.

Now to me, truth did seem

A lie I had chosen to dream.

 

Untitled

Strange tales of love I've known,
From one friend too many;
And there is one, of my own,
That you may choose to see.

It was on a fading Friday
That we shared a glance
I had a smile, she was grey;
I dared not to advance.

To her I did not stride,
But she was not the same.
I was looking for a place to hide
When I was asked my name.

Upon her, I didn't fix my eye,
I was shy to say the least;
My eyes met the Sun ,low in the sky
With my back facing the east.

She seemed to have lost her way,
And I asked where she was headed.
Not anywhere close, but far away,
From no shelter had she fled.

She needed no help from me,
I learnt to my surprise.
Instead followed me to the lea,
To wait for the Sun to rise.

'The Sun hasn't gone down yet
And till the rise you wish to wait?'
It was laughable and I did fret
But she moved with a swifter gait.

I did follow her to unbeknownst land,
She didn't look, but took my hand,
I recount myriad faces looking at me.
As if I was the only one to be.

It wasn't a dream, the tour
Which ended with the light of the day,
I was far from home I'm sure
And she was far, far away.

Her allure haunts me as I write,
Maybe she is here, to my right.
It's not her absence that I grieve,
It's the presence I refuse to believe.

WEDNESDAY

Sitting by the deserted aisle in Plunkett Square, she smiled , as the Sun set behind in restlessness. Her presence strikingly conspicuous. She knew not the dreadfulness of the world before her, but I believe she was afraid. She was very afraid. Too afraid to be conscious, so as to involuntarily dismiss it altogether. She slowly rose, with reluctance, and unaccustomed anticipation, as I could see. Maybe I chose to. 
The truth be told, everything else seems like a gigantic lie. But for some lies, you choose to believe in them. I did, for what seemed like an imaginary yet intuitive haven. Never considered the illusive nature, and that such a lie could ever knock the doors of possibility, became my fertile source of happiness. 

It is often in her absence, that I look outside. Not an absolute gaze at the dilapidated depot by the corner or the worn pigeon-nest on the cemented edge of my windowsill, but something farther. One can judge by the look in my eyes, the emotions of a hunter. A hunt too early in its time, farther in it's approach, though I know she is not coming back, not so soon. Nonetheless, I look outside. I seek what is no better than nothing. Waiting, hoping, for her allure is the most hauntingly beautiful thing, I have ever known.

A SILENT MEMORY

“Far amidst the lovelorn leas,

Or here by the silent seas,

In every nightingale’s tired song

That to me seems forever long,

Every smile, upon the crystal moon

Or the silken sunbeam at noon,

Violets smiling in the mossy vale

And tulips singing their daily tale

To you, they made me carry;

Now time seems only to tarry

Ever since, I stand amid the roar

Of your surf-tormented shore,

The trees have lost their rapture

And the sky now fails to capture,

The flame of dusk, the lusty light,

Unsmiling, does give in to night.

My hope has not flown away,

In just a night, or just a day,

You still lie, half hidden from the eye,

Bright as a star, shining in the sky."

And I rose, and walked from her grave

And stopped to see, if she should wave

What a difference, it would make to me

Though I knew she had ceased to be.

TWELFTH JULY

It was on the twelfth day of July,

Beneath a warm, indolent sky,

In the highlands, of stone and scree

I saw her, reserved and dreamy.

The wild indigo bowed , only to reveal

A faint countenance, under the Sun’s seal

Was it her indifference, or her sorrow,

That she held within, I didn’t know.

Yet she glistened, though flickering

Even the Sun seemed curtailing,

And the meadow, the bird and the hill

No different from me, stood utterly still.

For once, there seemed no fret, loss or pain

That surpassed this heavenly strain.

The light ceased; I could no longer get

The sublime glimpse, as the Sun now set

The darkness peered through my heart

And whispered to me, that I must part

For the blackish glow, and the faded sheen

Now ruled, and she, was not to be seen.

And with a heavy heart, from the plains

I trudged back, into familiar domains

Even today, when the Sun prepares to sleep,

I recount the glow, and walk to the door

Yearning in memory, I do weep

Long after she was seen no more.

Somebody I used To Know

The last train from Yorkshire
You took on the merry day
The last form of my desire
That faded into the clay

Time hurried on wheels
And rushed towards the end 
Wounds preserved in reels
That took many a year to mend

Awaiting a sweet gentle smile
Sometimes I look outside the window
To catch a glance across the aisle
Of Somebody I used to know

I get reminded of the train
And the last echoing cry
Which still refuses to wane
Or the teardrops to dry
Awaiting a short and swift wave
Sometimes I look outside the window
That light I try hard to save 

Of Somebody I used to know
Of Somebody I used to know
Somebody I used to know....

LIGHTS OVER CHANCERY

The lime lights over Chancery
Were brighter yesterday
Under the sky so sprightly and merry
In pensive spirits I lay.

You did come as delight afresh
And by me you stood all the way;
When tears bothered the sunken mesh,
Your soft fingers were there to allay.

The lime lights over Chancery
Seem somber today
Under the sky so soulless and wary
With a little hope though, I lay.

That you shall come again to appease
And rally the insipid nerves of mine-
You were nowhere to see, my hopes did cease
That now faded into the horizon line.

With a little tremble, as sharp it could be,
My long dream ended in a flurry.
Yet through the curtains I could see
The lively lights over Chancery!

INFINITUDE

Sunset over the hills that I see
The flamboyant flocks of birds in glee
The tranquil river that flows by my side
And the splashing waves of eventide.

Glory of the nature that I behold
The countless tales of life still untold
The nonchalant tree of Gulmohar in my alley
That still is oblivious to melancholy

Lifeless beauty of the almighty that I visualize
The chores of my routine find hard to realize
The abstract masterpiece of dusk in my sight
That is dark yet lively and bright as light.

Sitting by the cemented edge of my windowsill
I know in no time the sun will set behind the hill
The allure of the craft will soon be no more
And the darkness of night will knock the door.

This little smile, from the lips of life, will not be joyful as ever

Still I crave for more, even when I know-“nothing lasts forever”.

CAN I TRUST YOU?

Think over ......

Flickering through the veil of nature,
The faces eternal and bright;
Where one blossom smiles upon the other,
And showers faith when sunk in plight.

Also skimming through the race of humans,
Oh Lord! They were set forth by thee;
Where by no means you wanted to see;
A race among others, yet so far apart-
Where "TRUST IS A LOST ART!

BROTHER'S LAST CALL

Running on errands with you
Was never so wary
For it should be the last two
Lines in the diary

You came with a smile 
And light of innocence
Which rests many a mile
Too far o'er the fence

Every little craving for more
Every time you knocked me with a punch
That hid me hard for a sore
So bad you sulked, your teeth did crunch.

Through the tears I could see
That genial glow of fun
It is now quite for me to agree
That you departed with the setting Sun.

I still see you dipped in laughter
Flavored with grace and delight
Those wide brows still do sign disaster
For all ill-fated chaps in sight
And for the remaining lines
You be the writer, hereafter.

The Night of Ninety Nine

Long ago in my alley
Did sing a solitary maiden
Out amidst the long lost valley
The numbers dropped like rain
The final drops of heavenly dew
Did plummet over the waters
That formed her melancholy strain

All the trouts with bubbles afresh
Now danced over the crimson rays
Making way through the watery mesh
And leaving traces of bygone days

Yet so lonely they stretched along
For oft the life did lose its name
In their shady haunts for long
Life came with a life-like game


Seldom sets the yellow Sun
Between the mates of might
For its glow seems undone
By the furrow of a latent fright

As of now lies the drops of tears
Against the dew drops on the window
Wet it seems since a hundred years
Wet by rain or by sorrow?

I wish I could retain her tone
In the crystalline cage of mine
A few words of love alone
Made up the night of ninety nine.

I no longer write..

The water still flows
And the birds still glide
Over the massive blows
And the jumping tide
It does overwhelm
This wonderful sight
But in my empty realm
I no longer write
I no longer write

The clock ticks life away
The silence creeps
The leafy caravan's day
The eerie breath weeps
It does slowly prey
My miserable plight
But in the emotion of clay
I no longer write
I no longer write

A thousand trees wave
A million skies shelter
A few rocks pave
A few stones better
It lies beyond my place
To know what is right
But through this people's race
I no longer write
I no longer write

The stormy days last
The dark nights rest
The heaven so overcast
The hearts mighty test
It is the living story
Still a wonderful sight
But in my empty realm
I no longer write
I no longer write

THE PRESENT IS INDIFFERENT

Nursery rhymes seem obsolete
The trodden steps of  joy
Loving care is nowhere to see
The fading face of childhood
Remarked to be growing up
It's the process to realize
Challenges come your way
But the world is indifferent.

The rain when comes
Washes the wounds of the past
And the silent drops that fall
Freshens the worries of the present.
The Sun that shines
Will glorify the day
The stars that also shine
Will pacify the night.

The poems of glory 
That lie eternal for generations
The songs of  love
That make you cry.
All exist, somewhere in the vicinity
It is tangible, to the heart I believe.
They are to be won back
By you and by me.

The face of life
Is evident  to us.
The loss of love
Is reasonable.
The cries of  glee
No more do overcome.
The world shall change
And so shall you and me.

WHITEMAN APPREHENDED

Once with certain resolve Whiteman to his men

Uttered the words,”At cost of life shall they be mine

Over to you my nobles, my desire shall ensue then

With your might and wisdom, but to the world as my sign.”

The nobles had but no choice to make

On them shall rest the mighty’s decree

Had they been asked to move forward

Do it must or the face of death they shall see

Once on his bed with ease Whiteman lay

And saw outside the window left ajar

A house on fire that fed on fumes of dismay;

Curious to inspect the house not the most far

Whiteman walked with his heavy, long steps

To the fateful place that was left only with a scar

Of a mother and her dear, blemished with sorrow

All had they lost,  left only too puny to borrow.

Whiteman was addressed by the pain-stricken lady

“Your Highness we stand fore your mansion

That lies grand with embellished spangles

We also stand by the emperor of Vanderlan

Who exists  unfortunate, poorer a man!

Who knows not what riches mean

As only the corpulent treasures has he seen

Dear Majesty, a man with a broader heart

Stands richer than you, farther apart!”

Hearing this Whiteman orders right away

“All my men off  to fetch me affluence

Duly move no farther, as there you shall move astray

Wealth of true worth I have found in me

That needs no mention, profound as the sea.”

Whiteman's character is referred to the sheer lavishness enjoyed by emperors without caring for their subjects.It is set in the fictional kingdom called "Vanderlan",and goes out strongly against desire for riches

and greed for fame.After the incident, Whiteman changed into an emperor who lived the rest of his life for the countrymen, devoted to their service and his contributions remained significant in the hearts of destitute and poor men and women whose lives changed after the Organization of Goodwill and Compassion set up by Whiteman.

“Life as an art is a priceless beauty.It is the manifestation of your journey through a mixed fabric of black and white.“

I WROTE SOME DAY..

I wrote some day all that I felt

And filled the paper with my day

I wrote some day all that I saw

And filled the paper with what I couldn't say.

I wrote some day when I was sad

And wrote about the one whom I abhor

I wrote some day when I was glad

And wrote about the joy I bore

I wrote some day about what was in sight

And envisaged the scene of my story

I wrote some day about the light

That filled my life with glory.

I wrote some day when I did win

A place in the heart of a friend

I wrote some day when I effected a sin

That took ages and ages to mend

I write even today of all that I wonder

All the merry and jolly incidents

That colour my life with splendor

And leave a tinge of magnificence.


I write for a reason, mostly out of distress and annoyance.But for once, trying out something simple, describing a writing style totally opposite to mine.Enjoy reading...

MY BIOGRAPHY OF EARLY POETRY

And all began when one day I wanted a reward,

For all my endless writings had yet not fetched an award,
So taking the bunch of papers, straight up the road I went
With a hope for fruitfulness, to the awarding committee president.

Skimming through the white sheets of ink-filled paper
He looked right into my eyes and revealed the drawer

Taking out a stamp that said “Rejected”, he said
As though with steaming surge of anger and hatred.

“Your poems are not simple and straight,
Flowery literature interlaced with high intellect”
Might be apt for a distinguished scholar like me
But certainly not for the common man, you see.”

So the next morning, I hurried with an all new bunch
That was simple and lucid and required no crunch
Any common man could read and comprehend
With no slightest sign of poetic device; nor any “emotion-blend”.

Then, for the second time, he scanned the sheets and conveyed
That he was still not happy with the way I had arrayed 
My thoughts to plain and natural expression
“You need not be so straight to get an ovation.”
So the next day, I wrote a few poems on some leading issues,
Casteism and Secularism, and humanism did I choose
This I thought was certainly not what I wanted to do
Oh I said “For the sake of an award”, neither for me nor for you.


“Ah, your poems are excellent, now you get
A foreword and appreciation written by an eminent poet
Then launch your works at a gala public gathering
With people of different views and different social standing.

But there’s one more thing you have to do, I’m afraid!
“The official scanning of the poems”, he said.
So, to ensure your works are well received by the public
You must get it reviewed by a well-known critic.”

So I did as told, and at the end of all sweat that I had spent
A yellow and blue letter to me was sent
Declaring that they were only to glad
To finally confer me the “Best Poet “award.

ALLAN'S MIGHT NOT ENOUGH TO SAVE HIS PLIGHT

Heaven’s grace! “The world is ours”, so said the Majesty

“No, thee”, to say that again you durst O Lord

Replies Allan(Majesty) with grace,”The Sea stands by my glory

And sleeps with my word, so do the mountains with the trust

I say it loud that I own even the particle of dust, even so our God.

With brimming supremacy I say that so do I own  this very crust.

That shelters the blooming flowers and also the dormant sand

And the people of mercy that dwell upon this mighty land .”

With the flow of a storm that moves with fury

Fills with dust and muck Allan’s colossal territory

Rage and annoyance accompanies his countenance

And  this small bit of nuisance questions his sustenance

And then replies Ron “O Majesty, thee owns all

Thus, you go and let them out of your court hall.

Seems by the ruin that occurs, that the storm shall bring dismay

To oppose it with your might and power, if you can then may!”

“Overpower will I this scanty  flow  of wind, it’s nothing for me you see”

Says Lord, and commands the wind to obey his plea.

But against all his valor, the storm that came says nowhere to go

And all day and all night with wrath and passion, it continues to blow.

Suspecting his vigor, he cries “Where is all my power?”

With a gentle  smile Ron replies, “HE is the creator and so shall be the destroyer.”



Allan's character is anonymous and refers to the selfish and egotistic nature of man.When Allan claims to be the owner of the world, a storm comes by and destroys everything, including his territory.When the storm continues in full swing, his courtier(Ron) asks him to stop the wind with his so-called power.When Allan tries, he fails and his feeling of superiority is crushed, when  Ron remarks that everything rests in the hands of the Almighty.