My Rain

In the cloud of my rain

was nectar attenuated

it was laden with tar

that had stiffened in the heat

Stirring vigorously was the spoon

and a cluttering sound it made

and the rain fell drop by drop

quenching the river

When it was sunny

the honey was granule

the nectar stale

and the river polluted like hell.

Missions

‘Leave me alone’ she said with a smile

Thinking of a trip to the Amazon and the Nile.

Away he walked in some relief

Made his way to the coral reef.

She rode on boats of waves and rains

He walked alone in mounts and plains.

Further as she touched the banks

To many more suitors she said “No Thanks”.

He befriended men on distant lands

Clicked naked women wearing flowery bands.

As affairs blossomed, she grew in repute

As wisdom dawned, he allayed dispute.

These journeys brought them together in the rain

They promised to each other “No quest again”.

They lived and loved in the city forever

Lost in the crowds very high on fever.

Till one day when arose disbelief

Knowledge or bliss was the contention chief.

He knew of nothing he had ever felt

She had no feeling of all that belt.

Leaving the world they landed in space

Dwelt thinking and feeling of love and race.

The oxygen depleted and she had no clue

His hope had died long before he knew.

Breathless they ran and hugged in the dark

No flowers bloomed and sang no lark!

Strikes

Thank heavens! Infatuations last but hours and minutes. God forbid the outcomes this churning of the being would have had if it were to extend into days of my life that are to follow?

This ambience arrests the mind and soul, imprisons it for a phase. Yearning as Wells says in The Time Machine has a fourth dimension too. One yearns only because there is a duration through which one yearns. Imagine yearning in the absence of time or through the entire expanse of it. Sincere thanks to the creator of our psyches. Thanks for it is intelligently forgetful of the most venomous of arty sensations. That face impresses  in the most ordinary circumstances. No flower beds and no waterfalls are called for when a heart has to fall for the falls of the tresses of a beauty. When that grace flutters around, the heart stoops down to the dirty, slimy ground, gathers every bit of it in the pockets of the clothing I wear to transport it back home, to kiss it when alone and to sleep with the scent of those floral prints, head meshed in thought while the arms hold tight to the moment still alive!

These faces are peculiar. They seldom speak. Even if they do, one does not actually get to hear of that tone and modulation. Lips move at a distance, rarely uttering anything audible. Most of the time, they chew at the helplessness of the onlooker.

This person assisted. Because of her being there, the journey back home free reeled into the circles of energy that engulfed. All along the lengthy road back to the abode, lingered in mind the coziness of the bed where I would lie at ease, recollect the scene, admire the eyelids, inject myself with the charm once more in the most private ways I would like to. The dogs barked in the dead of the night as I walked carefree, humming the tune of ten instruments mixed into one. Fearlessness.

These grace fountains are deceitful. They dry up once the eyelids feel heavy. In dreams appear crocodiles, snakes and lizards- never those heads. In gardens bloom roses and jasmines- never the little flower on that print. In libraries are stacked books- never those words I could not hear those lips chew away.

To prepare oneself for the next entourage is mindlessness. The uncertainty of the frequency of its occurrence just kills. A sex machine alone can truly guess when another of her like would next come calling to stir and shake. To think of a cure for this disease would be suicidal for the malaise creates a life enough!

She Walks In Beauty

Sharing this poem written by George Gordon Byron that I immensely like. It would be great to hear of your thoughts as they occur to you while reading this. I feel that it is quite interesting an idea to have an inkling of the different ways in which we all tend to read and respond to a work of art specially when it is as monumental, imaginative and provocative as this. Please do share what you feel. Thanks 🙂

————

She walks in beauty, like the night

   Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

   Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

   Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

   Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

   Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

   How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

   So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

   But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

   A heart whose love is innocent!

Stale Meat

It was really nice of Tuhina Ganguly to have sent me this poem she wrote for my blog. She is a dear friend – very cordial and humble. In my opinion these words of hers bespeak of a tension between acute aphasia on the one hand and easy volubility on the other- predicaments encountered invariably on so many occasions in life.  I quite enjoyed reading it. Hope to hear from you what you feel!

STALE MEAT

“You must wrest

my words from me

As if tugging

at a fisherman’s hook

lodged in the centre of my throat

Pull at it

as you would

a foetus the wrong way around

Blood gushes forth

gurgling like a tiny stream

splattering across your chest

hot and humid

but they are only words

my words against your chest

pulling out your hair

in tufts

No! Don’t scream

they are only words

running amok, piling high

crushing you under them

my words

my words

my words

my words, rotten

my words, fresh

my words, strawberry ice cream

my words, metal against fire

my words, salt, pepper, red, blue

my words, for you

my words, my life, my last breath

my death, my redemption

and the smell of stale meat

burning at my pyre, my words

those too”

Falling In Love

 

Tacit insults

to which even the canine blinks,

Explicit adulation

to which the countenance goes pink.

–

Such is being in love,

when secretly he thinks

of how openly that it stings?

–

Mildewed thoughts

that disgust the self,

Fresh leaves

that amuse the little elf.

–

Such is being out of it,

when to oneself she links

all the pain life brings.

–

Imprisoned lines

that free the heart,

Released sighs

that did us apart.

–

Such is being unsure of it,

now to themselves they drink

while those universes continue to shrink.

PF4RUNK78ART

A Gift

Sharmishtha Basu is a very dear friend, a valued fellow blogger and an extremely accomplished poet and artist. It was extremely nice of her to share one of her lovely works specially for my site. I have always enjoyed visiting her blogs and looking at the marvelous images she creates using words and the paint brush. I have requested Sharmishtha to be a part of my Showcasing My Friends series and she has most kindly agreed. I am quite excited about that interview with her and hope to post it very soon. Meanwhile, the following work of her in my opinion speaks volumes about the creative acumen and the talent she is.

Dear Sharmishtha, here is a very big “thank you” from your friend in Delhi!