Poems always come to me
or I feel so.
I usually turn away,
pretending to be busy.
It is as though they hide
at nooks and corners
waiting to turn up
as soon as I come.
The longer I turn away,
the more they arrive
one after the other
in torn clothes
like babies on the doorstep,
like penniless relatives
with stories so desolate.
I’d need a heart of stone
not to listen.
bleed my pen for them.
Each in our own way Bob, we have said yes- to squares of black and white, battles fought and won. You brood over the pawns and knights while I pluck the words and rearrange them insanely. I,like you,respond to echoes, the call of a cuckoo, the wailing of a beggar woman and the purrs of cats. You and I are bound by the delicate laws of arithmetic and the invisible code of grammar. You lead success, while I am accompanied only by the ringing voice of yearning. Give me a crowbar and Archimedes to help, I shall lift the moon and stars. I wonder, how can we lift our dreams, Bob, they’re so- heavy and without wings.Forget Archimedes. Nights, I still float on my dreams, as you- do in the skies. Bon nuit, Bob…….
Heart, you still try to rule the world although I’ve got you identified, caught, bound with arteries and locked in a cage. You are the sole prisoner within my self, and the guardian of my own soul. How dare you beat for somebody else when you’re sure that you’ll not leave me alive?
Why, child, do you choose to remain in the library?
Don’t the antique wood and dusted books
blow up your lungs and make you sneeze?
Are you here, looking for the Principia Mathematica
or a personal message from Einstein?
Careful…People down below may think
they’ve seen a ghost, when they spot you-
roaming or floating through the bookcases.
Remember, Hallidayand Rusnik are too old
to reveal their inner self for kids like you.
I tell you, it is hard to travel through the woods,
And you are no Robert Frost or Shelley.
Oh kid, leave this haunted place and go back-
to where you belong… chewing gums, Harry Potter,
cricket bats, butterflies, video games and colour pencils.
This poem is dedicated to all tiny tots of 5th standard, who have started to prepare for the Engineering entrance exams.
It is discouraging to know that I am a mediocre, And will never do anything of extraordinary value. Like the painter who knows that he is no da Vinci. I sometimes get appalled at the burden of life here living as if I were the whole world, Like the spider who got entangled in his own web… I hate to see things the way everyone do, although it is easier to see things that way around. It is tough to go against what I am told to see or believe. Much of what I think to be true are lies. I am done with the poem. Friends, did I make any sense?
In the evening, the shadows of evergreen trees,
gently spill beneath the tombstones of the dead.
The heaving earth pays tribute to the dead
by pouring down her tears, the heavy rain.
The farmer, who found solace in a piece of rope,
rests here, his debts unpaid, tears unwiped.
The wealthy merchant, who died untimely,
rests here, his dreams unfulfilled.
Blessed are they, the buried dead,
for they are devoid of worries and fears.
They have not, the grey robes of their bodies-
to conceal their soul, in black and white.
Oh, unthinking mind, the graveyard of my thoughts,
did you weep quitely at the sight of these free human souls?
This morning, I woke up to see- no birds in the morning sky, no messages in my inbox, and no newspaper in the balcony. Suddenly I felt so lonely………… Silence had rooted in my backyard garden- and had borne anonymous flowers which sent off a peculiar odour- to ward off all birds, messages and newspaper. So I sat in front of the fogged, frosted glass, and drew figures on it with my index finger, discovering random geometry on a window pane. Who said, “Silence is golden”?
Under the dim light of a kerosene lamp, A girl is studying for exams next day.
Rain is pouring heavily on the thatched roof, The drenched shanty is shivering out of cold. The turbulent river is roaring near the house, Strange insects are buzzing in languages unknown.
Her four year old sister,hungry,is crying for food. Her little brother is fast asleep,his belly unfilled. Her drunk father is grumbling and craving for more toddy. Her mother is on bed,burning with fever.
She is sitting on a soiled carpet, wettened– by rain dropping through the leaks on the roof. She is wearing an ancient frock,torn and dirty, which she had outgrown long long back.
Shaken by rain,hurt by hunger,weakened by misery, There she sits,defeated,on a dirty carpet. Under the dim light of a kerosene lamp, The girl is studying for exams next day.
Your eyes, filled with ocean
are dynamic, restless and blue.
I mistook that the Great Artist, the God-
had made a mistake in His unique creation
by painting them ocean blue, not muddy brown.
Poured in your eyes is the turbulence of the ocean.
I wonder the salty drops you weep belong to the deep blue sea.