Autumn Moon Page 3
Gathering pictures
of flashing galaxies
and stacking them.
Like the poet,
who traverses the cold
human spaces;
Gathering pictures
of flashing life
and writing them.
Stranger
I come back.
A stranger
to myself.
My soul is frightened,
desires scared,
dreams bruised.
Longings have
smothered their flame.
Who was it
I went seeking
that I come back
a stranger
to myself?
Season
When the snow melts
and the mist clears
from the valleys,
seeds will
open their eyes.
Green will flow
down the slopes.
Look carefully
at the spring;
You will find remnants
of the season gone by.
In the sad eyes
of tender shoots
the wetness of tears lingers on.
Counsel
This poet,
my twin,
has poured into my heart
sands of moonlight.
He has bitten into my soul.
Clawed into my breath.
And poured boiling brine on me.
He professed:
Pain gives
sight.
Enlightenment.
Panicked at his pain.
He tells me now:
Come,
let's commit suicide.
In Custody
When I entered the city,
the evening was hazy.
Time had gone stale.
Silence draped the walls.
The streets wore
not even a shadow.
There was neither light
nor darkness.
Doors were locked,
and windows shut.
Stale crumbs of time
lay scattered in the lanes.
I roamed the city
street after street
and called at each door:
Is anybody there?
Is anybody home?
But no one appeared.
Nobody answered.
All of a sudden
the city has woken up.
Its many voices
have taken me captive.
I am
a prisoner of voices
now!
Promise
A poem
has a date with me.
When pain sleeps easy
in my sinking pulse
the pale-faced moon
touches the horizon.
When day sinks into the sea,
the night is washed ashore.
In the twilight hour,
when the body retires,
and the soul breathes free:
A poem
has a date with me.
Companion
Have you seen the old tree
at the street corner?
He's a friend.
I've known Him for ages.
When I was young
I used to climb on His shoulders
to steal a fruit.
Once I stepped on His aching limb
and He had thrown me off.
In rage, I had thrown stones at Him.
On my wedding,
He had given the firewood
for the havan.
When my wife was pregnant,
He tossed green mangoes to her
whenever she craved for them.
I felt jealous,
when my wife whispered to my
child
he was born of the tree
and she had plucked him off it.
With time
He has grown old
and lost all his leaves.
Whenever I pass by
He teases me:
So, you too have lost
all your hair!
The city-planners
are cutting down
the old tree.
I have no courage
to cross the street corner
and face Him.
Night
Without a sigh.
Without a smile.
Without a flutter.
The night flies past.
The sky slides out,
the river floats away.
The moon keeps withering
in the dust of silence.
You too, I wish,
would wake up for once
and see how it feels
on such nights
of separation!
Compose a Poem
Let us compose a poem.
Let the surging pain
swell the eyes.
Let the lancet touch
the aching veins.
Let us turn
a lapsed crossing
and call a namesake.
Let us compose a poem.
Suvarna
Flying across the sky
I saw the twin towns of night.
Behind the haze
the twin islands of slumber,
Suvarna's twin eyes
dark and deep
like those of Bonolata Sen.
Flying across the sky
I met her on flights
stitching the two cities;
knitting the edges of night.
Her eyes—
glide like two night birds.
Float on the milkyway
like two night sisters.
Suvarna's eyes
dark and deep
like those of Bonolata Sen.
Come down sometime,
Suvarna,
from the pressurised heights.
And touch the Earth.
The Earth too—
has deep oceans
though not as dark
as the eyes
of Bonolata Sen.
* 'Bonolata Sen' is the well-known poem by the famous Bengali poe Jeebananda Dash.
Little girl night
The little girl night
has escaped the sky,
through the thick foliage,
sidling along
the walls of the city,
to go to the fair.
The little girl night
holds in her fist
the shiny gold coin
of the moon.
If only I could
hold her hand
and take her
to the morning fair,
and buy her toys.
Lullaby
When the golden flamingoes
settle down
on the branch of the horizon;
When the evening
leans on your shoulders;
When lamps open
their pensive eyes;
Cover your face
with veil of hayaa.
I will cajole you
to uncover it.
I will place
the roses of your lips
on my eyes
and repeat my dreams
of the day
in the dreamlit night.
The pure one
Remove all traces
of your being.
Not a movement
be felt
when you move.
When you rise,
not a leaf
should stir;
Not a rustle
be heard.
Take care,
no stain, no wrinkle
of life
should go with
the spotless, holy death.
Rite of passage
Breathing is a habit.
Living, a ritual.
The soundless body.
The shadowless eyes.
> The numb feet
keep walking.
Endlessly.
Years and centuries
pass by.
What a strange thing
this habit of living is.
Dreams
Walk gently.
Step with care.
Let there be
no echoes
of your footfall.
Fragile dreams
are scattered
in silences.
Walk gently.
Do not wake up
the sleeping.
Dreams die
when they wake up.
Amen
Give everything away—
Ideas, breath, vision, thoughts.
Peel off words from the lips,
and sounds from the tongue.
Wipe off
the lines from the palms.
Give up your ego,
for you are not yourself.
Take off
the body beautiful
from your soul.
Finish your prayers,
say Amen!
And surrender the soul.
Branches
The plant was green
with healthy branches.
Well looked after,
nursed and nourished,
but never flowering.
Years later,
my gardener complained.
It didn't grow into a tree,
and pulled it out.
Its roots had spread
all across the garden.
Like a relationship
whose boughs were green,
but never flowering.
Never bearing fruits.
Parting
A string snaps
from a sitar.
A silken thread
cuts the finger.
Something ruptures
somewhere in my heart,
when I break myself
out of your sight.
Heart-breaking
is the moment
of parting from you.
Drop by drop
The lump of your grief
had placed on my tongue
has started melting.
I live drop by drop
as the sorrow flows
down my throat.
I'll take my last breath
with the final drop.
Urge
I get an urge, sometimes
to fling a stone at the sun,
break it into pieces
and splash it over the sky.
I get an urge, sometimes
to clamp a hook,
tear open the sky
and see what lies behind.
May be, there is
another sky
lurking behind this one.
The lake at night
The lake at night;
Sad, pious, and peaceful.
There are no ripples.
There is no reflection.
A pain in deep sleep.
Like Mary in Pieta,
A face is taken off;
the feel of a face remains.
The lake at night.
Drawing
Do not erase these lines,
let them be.
My child
has drawn them,
with her little pink hands.
Curved and curly.
What if the lines
do not make a form?
In these lines,
I see my child's hands.
In these lines,
I see myself.
Images
We were in the hall
watching the film.
The actors seemed
alive and real.
They were larger than life.
With eloquent words,
profound thoughts
and heroic deeds.
We were actors.
You took the lover's hand
and bestowed life
on his chest
with a drop of tear.
There was a thunderous
applause.
How real the actors
On the screen.
How false the two images
Sitting in the hall.
Portents
Tonight again,
the moon's forehead
is full of fumes.
Tonight again,
I'll have to burn
in the fragrant dark.
Tonight again,
the pent-up breaths
jammed in the chest
will burst and splatter.
Tonight again
I'll stay awake.
Dreaming of you.
Crossroads
Roads, lazy and brisk
leave this crossroads;
Some go towards
rocky mansions,
others to glass houses
and nests of straw.
A road to the desert
winds into a whirlwind.
Another descends faltering
into the valley of death.
A road enters the jungle
bruised in brambles.
Yet another rushes and jumps
into the unknown space.
I am at the crossroads
from where the roads lead
every which way.
Shade
I walked in the shade
protecting myself,
for I wanted
to give my soul,
a body.
Without blemishes.
Without scars.
A body,
not scorched in heat;
A body,
without wounds.
Without pain.
I wanted my soul
to wear a body
of a soft and radiant
virgin morning.
But, only when I passed
through the blazing noon
of pain
my soul could find
some shade.
Strange is the kinship
of pain and solace—
You find shade
only in the sun.
Letdown
My body rattles
made of bamboo shoots
tied with splinters.
If a string snaps
or a knot gives way,
the body's frame
will fall to pieces.
Poor soul!
It had mistaken
my body for a flute
and had entered
to play a melody.
My shadow and I
We have separated,
my shadow and I.
He complained,
I chose to walk
in the dark
to wipe Him off.
My complaint:
In light, when I need
no company,
He appears to please me.
In dark, when I need
solace
He disappears.
We have separated
my shadow and I.
Model
If the back had been bare,
the clothes tattered and torn,
the lips parched
and the body starved;
If it had shown red
where the scab was peeled,
then,
this picture of the poor
would have sold for sure.
Morning
By the time I get up,
rub my eyes, arrange my hair,
and smoothen the folds
on my crumpled covering,
I find the pretty girl morning
already there
with her saree edge
tucked at her waist
priming to clamour with me!
This naughty, playful
pretty girl morning.
Lonely
The path runs
straight and open.
no walls for support.
No eyes stare.
No faces whisper.
There is no one.
No one at all.
You may find
a few footprints
for a few steps,
but those would soon
be gone, whispering:
Walk alone
with your own loneliness;
No one will go with you.
No one at all.
The path runs
straight and open.
Splinter
A piece of a poem
drifts in my breath.
All day long.
I rolled it in my mouth,
it cut my tongue.
I held it in my teeth
it bruised my lips
like a splinter of glass.
I can neither swallow it
nor throw it out.
A piece of a poem
drifts in my breath.
Separation
You gathered the night
in your arms and
clasped it to your breast.
You sang lullabies,
told stories,
and put it to sleep.
You spoilt the night
by pampering it.
Without you, now
the night sobs
alone in the bed.