From Pages Of A Poet

Upon a painting by Noopur Dogra

2011-03-19T19:16:00.003+05:30

A Beggar

2010-05-21T22:41:00.000+05:30

A Beggar’s Dream
I broke myself over a beggar’s dream;
On ragged clothes and imperfect eyes;
Indifferent to the world, to me and I
And when I found out every single way
To make every single wrong decision
I could have made,
I shamelessly felt ashamed to bring myself
Down to the ground where I can look at that beggar and his imperfect eyes;
Wearing ragged clothes; indifferent to the world and I;
And I broke myself over his dream.

If there was a story about him, I swear
I could have seen it written over his body.
He kept on scratching his ring finger as if
He is missing a part of his soul, maybe he was.
Maybe I was the only one who saw it
I am at his level now, am I not?
Only hugs he receives now is from his own self
During those winter nights when he has to crawl
And become almost meaningless, like a stone.

People keep on staring at me no…us, for being at that level
I feel like screaming at them –“Your eyes are as imperfect as mine.
Perfectly imperfect as mine.
You break yourself onto some dreams too.
Yours or somebody else’s.
And what difference is their between us? You have an iron leaving
Its scent on your clothes this morning, he tasted iron this morning
That was in that policeman’s hands. “

We sat and spoke then, after being equally bruised –
He spoke with much wisdom and an empty stomach.
I took him to a tea shop – the shopkeeper did not allow him in
So we took a couple of chairs outside. I saw him lean
On the chair – like a man he once was, or maybe still is.
I thought the sugar was less in the tea. He closed his eyes
After the first sip – I think he discovered his entire life there, again.

I could see his story – a photograph
Hidden clumsily between his half torn shirt
And his chest. I could imagine that photograph
Clutched in his hands as the only bond
That he had left with himself. For a moment only though
I understood how your entire world can exist inside
A crumpled piece of paper showing a
Blue eyed girl in a yellow skirt hugging her favorite teddy bear.

I saw a dream then, in his eyes.
Imperfect as the world and I.
A dream I need not put in words;
Only a fool would not know it in world.
You heard it when the old men spoke,
Or you whispered it as an evening joke.
That dream you find in the beggars sleep
Or in your eyes when strangers weep.

Upon Lost Belongings

2009-07-04T14:40:00.001+05:30

Bend and gather the lose and the last
Of my belongings, as they shall,
Pass amid those rising masts
Those drift them afar and swell,
By the broken wind and word,
That stood gaping against the shore,
Treading upon the sands no more.

While my belongings break their customs,
And rise high and low, like dancing sails.
For once in their raising, lay unaccustomed
By their meandering and manners pale.
Pearls and pearls -measured in stooks.
Why their say be a languished truth?
Like bartered conceptions of the youth.

In the gathering the lost is lost,
Founding only in the memory, remains.
Yet I seem to carry the cost
Of the losing and it’s following claims.
They be set for a journey now.
The journey of mine, broken, ceased,
Bend to gather – belongings or peace?

Upon Wandering Thought

2009-07-02T17:25:00.000+05:30

I have left a thought wandering,
In placid silence and reflections.
While the dust lays, timidly, gathering,
I seek pleasure among other creations,
That float and stir the peace within
And mellow with those falling debts.
Have they been those sights unseen?
Ah! The conspiring soul of mine! It lets
Them inside that tranquil place.
Unknown to all, where the ripples they,
Move farther and farther to embrace
A thought left wandering at the bay.

From Pages Of A Fool

2009-06-30T14:21:00.001+05:30

The Narration:

A voice there remained so unsung
That it saddened to depth the day.
While marching men’s armors wrung,
He ate on a hill with wine and played.

The Marching Men:

The tapping of our feat is one,
You fool, you fool and your flute
Pray rot with your wine and bun.
It’s to our names folks sing and salute.

Our blades are fine and arrows sharp
Our strength is greater than of any beast
While with wine and bun you lark.
We shall march for an eternal feast.

We roar louder than any thunder
Come! Enmity with all its may.
With your wine and bun do wonder
Against us immortals what is your say?

The Fool:

I saw the men of song and salute.
I saw the men of eternal fest.
I saw men claiming immortality
I saw the men of souls unrest.
I saw them all lost, not won
I, therefore, play over my wine and bun.

“I have been a king.
I have been a slave.
Yet I know
Same taste of the grave.”

Upon Reasons Of No Questions And Answers

2009-06-28T15:49:00.000+05:30

To see more than the depth of the day,
Its extended hand over the longings
So profound, yet they voice-timid and small
But brave enough to gather the length of
The morn, the noon, the even...while all
May succumb to the lost light; the brighter one;
To the light found, only enough to draw
Lines around the solid self’s, of mine and
The one's I have left long behind.

What it becomes to wear a reason
For a question untamed? What it
Becomes of reason that cannot
Conceive an answer.

A Passing Thought

2009-06-27T18:28:00.000+05:30

Trace to me the losing words
Grasp them with a hint of pain.
Never together...never the same.
The falling be so cruel yet kind
It offers a lesson in nothingness, so
What is it to you that binds
Over the courteous fragments-low
Hung over the even sky
And the curtained mist and aimless rain.
Benevolence be so graced so rhymed
To sooth away the will of pain.
But has the dusk ever chased
Anything else but the dying sun
Or the dawn have been in play
For a chance to man to be the one.

Upon A Prince Who Is Set To Be A King.

2009-05-18T01:56:00.000+05:30

Flaming cornet of the orange bloom,
Come my prince…have you come soon?
The winds are yet to leave May’s bosom
And the cackle of the infant blossom.
So stretch and stretch your majestic hand,
To hold the flames of the withering noon
And the times of the gray sands,
As they cover your gentlest passions,
So be not timid; be all you can stand
And you shall have your kingly lands.

Upon One Rainy Evening

2009-05-07T14:38:00.002+05:30

The rain-she rebels again and again
Against the window glass though,
The gallantry falls all not in vain,
As a few trickle down my brow.
Careless she is; once carefree she was-
Last spring; come mid August
She claims the rattling leaves, alas!

The myriad streams carve their trails,
On the glass and off on the lea.
Not from the clouds do all they hail,
Hark! I grow too blind to see.
So I wonder ‘bout that graying stone,
Standing against the crossing brook,
To drown without a sigh or a moan.

Dear twilight of a misty shade,
Falls clamorously yet steady, so
All that stays from all that fades-
Whispers of the bent trees’ woes.
Their pride, now, wears not the grace,
Of the days of their purple bloom,
They be no greater than the thunder’s mace.

The night’s colour remains unbothered,
Unlike the changing moods of the day.
Upon the glass my imprints are cottered
To the trails slowly waning away.
Though, by the wee hours I forget my rue.
And know the night as it is-
The night is true…the night is true.

Upon The Past Winter

2009-05-07T14:36:00.000+05:30

The day is gracious, warm and soft,
A tender breeze that greets the morn
Ah! Last of the leaves wearing frost
Rattle, O! why shall they mourn?
Amid the memories are they lost?
Waiting yet…Waiting to be reborn.

For the winter’s left its frozen trails
Delicate, delicate, delicate…so
Collapses below the leave’s mail.
With every passing they shall know,
The imprints of the hands must fail.
Deep is the impression of spring, lo!

Fall Of An October Leaf

2009-04-23T08:11:00.004+05:30

The sward swells where it lacks the green
Bears the dew where it does not, so-
An impression where a magpie had been,
And a squirrel’s trail’s left briskly low.
An October leaf falls in between,
Which way to go? Which way to go?

Her touch is gentle, soft yet weak.
The ground may not yield her call.
So to the blades of grass, it meets
Alas! They shall not let her move at all.
The winds must carry her to their beat.
And so an October leaf must fall.

So an October leaf must fall.

Upon Silence

2009-04-22T10:33:00.000+05:30

Imitate the silence within me.
Be it the falling of autumn leaves.
The impressions on the snow I see
Or dreams that saints may weave.
Be the fragrance of the velvet mirth.
Be a stolen stone from the earth.
A shade of darkness and so it be
The silence that is left in me.

Tread On My Soul

2009-04-19T12:09:00.000+05:30

Tread on my soul, shall I fall?
Like those who have fallen before,
Or like those who shall fall again.
Be not but soft and tender and light,
for that is not the way of pain
I shall be wronged and not be right,
Though I will grow right ever more
More than any soul that falls.

Brave Men

2009-04-15T10:29:00.001+05:30

The fragile words float astray.
Men’s weak hearts and so are they,
To dwindle like the grass in a storm.
The worlds they know or are yet to be known?

The brittle acts float astray.
Men’s weak hands and so are they,
A lance that cannot be held up high
A fallen man bears a fallen sigh!

The pathetic lives float astray.
Men’s weak hopes and so are they,
Why shall only a few be brave?
When all are set to taste the grave.

From The Diary Of A Traveler

2009-03-24T20:28:00.002+05:30

Mountains are not far away
From the valley I can smell the snow
The grass here refuses to sway
While the fir up there takes a bow.
A distant song of the nightingale
Echoes across the ridges and the vales.
I shall rest here today,
With colors as even sun plays.

The raucous creek is noisily profound
I dream it to be silent up there.
Where the fairies fly high and unbound,
Secluded from malicious leers.
The dew confuses me with the grass
Cleaner than any crystal glass.
To the blades, the drops are bound
Like a king newly crowned.

The night is escorted by its playful mates
The mist floats down like a troop of ghosts.
The moon appears behind the horizon’s gates
While the breeze raises its welcome toast.
They conspire amid the howls and the hoots
Forbidding trees to either blossom or fruit
Mournfully, yet so, the grasshopper grates
Eluding the judgment of its icy fate.

The dawn breaks with a joyful glee
Against a sky as clear as sapphire
The mist vanishes among the trees
And the poltergeist breeze begins to tire.
My trail is narrow, coarse and bleached
I smile to fill the silence of my speech.
The nightingale sings, again, so free
Her song echoes, for long, in me.

Three Seasons

2009-03-18T06:21:00.003+05:30

(The image is one of my favorite places back home.)

Alas! The perch is empty now
The twitter has long gone
Stooping below the chastened brow
A creaky, withered, frozen rone.
Died, has the, jay and sparrow’s row?
Epithet: a brooding splintered stone.

Ah…the pompous springtide glee
Lads and lasses’ frolics on the sward.
They knot and knot…a gluttonous spree
Tête-à-tête! Sympathy begs the wasted lard.
Who shall care for the bauble vee?
Epithet: wisdom’s diadem of an ancient bard.

O The Carpet! Of twigs and twines
The whistle of the wind, high and proud.
Aloof stands golden forest lines
Dead and silent, though glittering loud.
How long for a chirp? O Time! O Time!
Epithet: Shadows fallen, hunched and bowed.

Mystic Dawn

2009-03-02T07:18:00.008+05:30

All credit for the photgraph goes to aspen (http://barbedwireandroses.blogspot.com/) whose pics are a great source of inspiration. Thank you for allowing me to use a pic from your blog.

Waiting awhile for the mystic dawn,
the green pastures wake up with me.
The prairies, the breeze, sing along.
A romance world's too blind to see.
The mountains slowly then unveil
all their secrets and their sounds.
A yawning rose's fragrance I steal
and innocence with which it is bound.
Clouds cloud the sky so often
that they cloud my soul with what they say.
And as the moon slowly begins to soften
wondering it will...or may?
I see the sun arrested by the dew.
A thousands colors that linger on.
Words those are lost amid morning’s hue.
A soul that softly hums along.

An Old Man...

2009-02-27T11:12:00.000+05:30

(Tribute to an old man i knew...he made me who I am today. God Bless his soul.)

I know not what an old man says…
His words are feeble…they dwindle
Like a flickering flame in the twilight.

I know not what an old man sees…
His eyes look so weak and deep
They sometimes turn as white as snow.

I know not what an old man hears…
Shrills and screams mean nothing to him
He remains silent, mute as an iceberg.

I know not what an old man thinks…
He laughs sometimes in an empty room
He says he talks to angels and ghosts.

I know not what an old man is…
For he is old and I am not; I’ll know not
Not till the day I am old.

The Trilogy

2009-02-25T07:32:00.000+05:30

I am working on a new trilogy and have completed the first poem. the plot is the romance between the mist and the smoke.

The Journey.

A quenched fragrance

Is all that’s left

Of the mist. That once

Flooded the woods-of pine and cedar.

Like a crowd on the street.

She was silent yet warm.

Fervent yet tender.

Nor for once did she speak…

Not to the petunias;

Guarding the gates of the woods;

Who inquired the council she sought.

(For the woods are old and wise

And they; be it breeze or gale;

Would come seeking answers.)

Not to the old trail; covered

With pale threads of pine so thick,

One could not feel the ground below;

That she sometimes took and

Sometimes swept away from.

Not to the golden tress

That imbued through all

That it touch, however

Weak enough to be devoured

And extinguished.

Across she came, a raucous creek

At a yonder from the broken tree,

Riveted to one who survived last season’s storm.

And dew drops bound obediently

To the blades of the grass.

Across she came such generous bounties.

Lastly she sighed, in relief…

She knew she was lost

For she had found the old battered cottage.

Quickly she gulped the entire thing…

Cracked stone walls, olive green roof,

Creaking door, silent chimney; a mysterious hoof;

That ran towards the cottage.

She rested then…listening to the

Soft violin played inside the cottage.

Then she rested…

Lovers Silence Agony

2008-05-13T21:30:00.000+05:30

Silence says or bears no sound.

More than angry words; lovers hate.
Feels like as if one has drowned.
While holding onto a burning grate.

Longing & A Proposal

2008-05-11T21:16:00.000+05:30

(I have written this poem as a sequel to "Why?")

The sky is gray-somber.
It rained yesterday.
Small droplets, still clinging
to the green edges of pine, fall.
Seeking salvation on her skin,
they touch her like a ghost.
She shivers, every time she is
proposed to like this.
She is proposed to again, and again,
and again...cruel drops.

Her white warm sigh,
is devoured by the cold mist.
She gently turns her
head to the side.
Only to find the shoulder
of an oak bench
holding on to her memory…

She sways her hand
gently over “June you are my soul.”
He carved it for her there.
She engraved it on her heart.
Why? She asks and waits
hoping to get an answer
from somewhere...anywhere.
The evening grows colder.
She closes her eyes, breathes deep.
She gets up to leave
And finds herself lost.
She shivers.
She is proposed to again...insane drops.

Nostalgia

2008-05-08T21:02:00.000+05:30

A biting chill.
But the unwillingness persists.
Determined to see the first rays of sun,
lighting the golden face of pine flooded mountain upfront,
hands are gently swayed
over the white powdery sea lying at the feet.
Devouring the shins a pointing focused pain is born,
but the eyes lay greedy as ever.
To see the colors that have not been painted;
crouching tightly over a cold stone;
only sound that breaks the silence
is that of the biting teeth.
The first bird chirps,
and then lies quiet for a while
as she find herself in a place complete unknown.
White powdery sea lying under her nest.
First rays of the sun breaks the tear
into a thousand different colors.
Smell of the maiden, virgin snow
sweet as ever...

Confessions Of A Weird Dreamer---- NEHA CHANDOK

2008-05-04T14:16:00.000+05:30

Confessions Of A Weird Dreamer---- NEHA CHANDOK

Insanity's Contradiction

2008-04-30T18:37:00.000+05:30

(I tried to listen to an almost incomprehensible mentally challenged young girl. God Bless Her…)

Uphold the reverence
For the mortal words,
Who lose their battle
to the grave, everyday.

Embrace those feelings
Shying away in the darkness.
Acquainted only with the
Shadows on the wall.

Pity the pain
Entrapped in the tears.
Those tortured blue eyes
Lay virgin no more.

Disgusted by their sights
She falls in love with death
“Suicide demands conscience”
Insanity contradicts.

Suicide Note

2008-04-30T18:35:00.000+05:30

Crucify me. Let me bleed to death.

This is not the life I craved for.
Let this burn leave an everlasting mark
On the frontiers of an unknown domain of life.
Doubt my own conscience.
Concise the feelings of my shadows
In the words-torment, hate, anger, pity.
Why should someone pity me?
When I cannot pity myself.
Hating hate with hate.
Tormenting hate with hate.
Agape all stand, ready to butcher me,
When I hate death with hate.
Cut my life into pieces.
Shatter my heart down to tears.
Slay my soul, slay it again.
I have seen myself, so I tell them the same.
Suicide is the remedy of pain.

Why...

2008-04-29T20:08:00.000+05:30

Only a trail is left.

Imprints marked

On the broken grass.

I know why she.

Took this path.

She wants to steal

some moments from the time.

The wind asks her questions...

The dew is set sparkling

In the morning light.

I touch the drops

Lying on the green.

Fragile! they break

In my palm and scatter.

They are soft, innocent & warm.

They are her tears.

Her tears are set sparkling

In the morning light.

I wander deep,

into the woods.

Ballads of the birds

Is why the whole forest

Echoes with laughter.

A feet wide path

Is a mile long.

I walk with heavy feet

As I near the silent stream.

And there she sits

With her hands gently

Kissing the water.

She makes no effort

To wipe the tears

That run down her face.

She looks at me

And softly says.

"Why do you have to leave?"

Her eyes beg me to stay.

My heart begs me to stay

She keeps her head

On my shoulder and whispers

A whisper that only

Wind can hear

"Why..."

Epiphany: Amour Habito Intus Vos: poemflesh

2008-04-28T21:17:00.000+05:30

Epiphany: Amour Habito Intus Vos: poemflesh

A Dedication...

2008-04-28T20:08:00.000+05:30

( These lines are dediated to a very close friend who has made an impression on me. All I want to say is Thank You from the bottom of my heart)

Sonnet of the white.
Fragrance of the snow.
Music of your touch
is all I want to know.
Promise of the silence.
And I hear you speak.
When the moment comes,
more to eyes, you meet.

2008-04-28T19:52:00.000+05:30

Short is the meaning
of human friends.
Tribute to beauty
where coffins end.
Even the burning passion
shuts the chill of death.
On dusty bones, what lovers waste
is his breath.

My Words Cry

2008-02-19T16:29:00.000+05:30

You are my song

and all the things I feel.

You are my smile,

my pain, my heal.

You are my life,

my truth, my lie.

But I don't know why

My words cry.

The Season of Love

2008-02-19T15:57:00.000+05:30

I want to paint your picture

In the snowfall.

I want to ask my questions

To the leaves in autumn.

Why does spring sing your songs

And the rain call your name?

I want to paint your picture

In the snowfall again.

I want to profess my love

In that endless winter night,

And kiss you when I see your face

Sparkling in the moonlight.

My love for you, will remain,

In all seasons the same.

And I want to paint your picture

In the snowfall again.

Kasauli

2008-02-18T17:02:00.000+05:30

(This poem is about a place called KASAULI in Himachal. Went there for a trip and fell in love :). The picture is of the church mentioned in the lines)

The old grey church

Steals all my words.

Morning wind composes

A new song.

Come hold my hand

Don't whisper a thing.

As the red brick road

Sings along.

Poets Who Blog: Do You Support PWB?

2008-02-18T15:10:00.000+05:30

Poets Who Blog: Do You Support PWB?
yes, this was the kind of a group i was looking for. nice effort.

The Wooden Bridge

2008-02-17T22:40:00.000+05:30

(this poem is about a wooden bridge on which two lovers meet every night)

Sharing the burden,
Of a waiting heart.
I feel her tears
And their warmth.
Alone in the night,
She stands for hours.
Stamping me sometimes,
Sometimes gazing at the stars.
She refuses to talk,
When he is late.
Leaves me wondering,
The purpose of the wait.
But here romance is born
Pure as moonlight,
When she lies in his arms
And they dance away the night.
Dawn parts them with a kiss,
And a promise to meet again.
Even if the sky is dark.
Or they have to dance in the rain.

Kiss From A Rose

2008-02-17T22:27:00.000+05:30

Kiss from of a rose
On my grave.
Anguished words
Are lost in dust.
And every tear that will
Roll down your eyes
Is going to make me
Cry again.

A Mile Away...

2008-02-17T22:17:00.000+05:30

There she stands
A mile away.
As beautiful as ever.
Holding her silence,
Saving her words.
Almost a whisper,
that only the wind can hear.
She knows my name.
I know her fragrance.
I can feel her touch
On my soul, saving me
From who I was before.
She never asked for my love,
But that is all I have to give.
I see truth in her eyes,
In me she believes.
The horizon changes
And stars disappear.
The sunset is somber,
As the sky cries my tears.
But she is still there.
Standing a mile away,
As beautiful as ever.

August

2008-02-16T12:38:00.000+05:30

The first golden leaf
Touches the ground.
The gods of autumn
Are marked with rust.
The sky turns copper and
Trees howl in loneliness.
The mist starts its journey.
Let there be August.