O Silent Intruder!

O silent intruder of my dreams,

From where do you hail?

Are you from the babbling waters

Colliding against the rough cliffs,

Or from the densest greenery

That man has ever beheld?

O silent intruder of my dreams,

From where do you hail?

Are you from my native place,

Beside the golden mountains?

Or from the shattered huts of love,

Where man thrives not?

O silent intruder of my dreams,

How do you live?

Do you live by the music of the current

That buffets against the silver shore?

Or do you lie high in the trees,

Silhouetted by the last sunset?

O silent intruder of my dreams,

I bid you: please free me.

Free me, from the endless tangles

Of feelings intertwined;

Free me, from the trammels of life,

Which let not my actions proclaim truth.

Free me, from the barbed wires of memory,

That haunt the lost mind on its journey.

Bound am I by something unexplained—

From the depths of mystery,

From fathoms of complexity,

I strive for it:

“The hill that was close until you reached it.”

The days, the nights, and the twilight—

And the sunrise and me.

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The 2nd Binnacle Anniversary

Whirlpool of regrets again swirled within the cranium;
A smile decked the lips,
And the surrounding looked still-
With only me pushing ahead.

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Inanimate Life

Lifeless, stood the clayey fetish

At the eastern corner.

Valueless? I asked myself.

They say it’s invaluable,

They say it’s life.

But what eyes have I been born with?

A blur of objects floated before my eyes,

Indiscernible to the banality of logic.

They say it’s the measure of love,

They say it brings you up.

But how do I care?

A carefree life I do lead,

Devoid of the falsity behind idol worship.

They join hands every day,

Every night;

They join hands to pass

The trivialities of life;

And some join hands to get their mother back.

A sense of urgency lingers on,

A sense of compulsion drives them;

They say it’s their dedication.

But time has come for me to speak:

No, it is not dedication.

Something of custom pushes them on,

Rather than the canon of spirituality inside.

Values have been forgotten,

Relations have been discarded,

And lives have ended mercilessly.

What has the lifeless fetish done?

Savored the sanguinary sight?

I don’t know.

They say everything happens for good.

They lie.

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Winter Again

I love the mystery of life. My vision of the night gives rise to speculation profound. Poetic snowflakes dot the rooftops and the lines “O What fun it is ride” stream from some place nearby to the sensitive ear. And the mind embarks on a serene journey through the Land of Dreams.

Some thoughts flickered through the state of my mind, reminding me of Thoreau’s immortal lines:

“When in the still light of the cheerful moon,
On the every twig and rail and jutting spout,
The icy spears were adding to their length
Against the arrows of the coming sun,
How in the shimmering noon of winter past
Some unrecorded beam slanted across
The upland pastures where the Johnwort grew;”

From behind the fleece-like clouds, when peeks the morning sun, the warmth of winter touches every vein. With idle hands trying to peel the orange and the indolence of waking-up every new morning, Life gets a new colour.

But somewhere the tunes of Christmas

Bear the face of Death’s song;

The sensational poetic lines lose out:

And what lines can make them live

The Joy Of Life?

Tears induced the flow of verse;

But what verse for them if Life is tears?

The hoar that lines the morning grass,

The fog that blinds the vision,

Winter that evokes the poet within,

Shall not understand their dire mission.

It’s bizarre that merciless Winter could serve as an object of Poetry. Or the melodrama of Winter could be so harsh.

Robert Frost’s beautiful lines pose but a very poignant situation in Winter:

“And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt

Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,

And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.

One aged man — one man — can’t keep a house,

A farm, a countryside, or if he can,

It’s thus he does it of a winter night.”

But the timeless words by Walter De La Mare:

“The rayless sun,

The day’s journey done,

Sheds its last ebbing light

On fields in leagues of beauty spread

Unearthly white.”

Are but the sweetest of all.

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It's The Time

A gelid zephyr swept in through my silent window;

Fierceness personified, it doused the boiling fire inside.

The harshness of the wintry air had arrived,

And with it, the bells of Christmas.

Yes. It’s Christmas time all over again. Mistletoe, confetti? Not quite. On the other side of the Earth, the Kiwis are enjoying a hot winter and the Kangaroos are celebrating Christmas amid their desert. It seems we are lucky enough.

Festooned streets and lively alleys,

Replete with the hubbub of busy mortals,

And shopping sprees of fervent families:

It’s the time of Christ.

There was once an interesting story about a goldsmith who wanted to sell a gold coin at an extortionate price as an antique with 5000 B.C. inscribed on it. The customer held it, then returned it. At that time, Before Christ and Anno Domini hadn’t been known. The goldsmith was a downright mountebank. Christ’s birth is so marked as the interface between them. The year Zero maybe?

An unsung hero lies behind us,

Shown the world the same day as Christ,

Who showed the world The Light,

Is none other than Sir Isaac Newton.

Merry Christmas and A Very Happy New Year to all my readers!

A Conclusive Note:

Of conquered hearts and despondent souls,

Of bloomed flowers and unborn grass;

Amid the everlasting green of life,

Amid the hindering dust of the eyes,

There was something missing.

‘Scrumptious’ and others,

Had blown away the shadows of life,

Had shown the path to eternal bliss.

But perhaps it’s not ‘eternal’.

In an away land,

When plants similar to my tree behold me,

I cling to its trunk, not letting it go.

But with a jerk ahead, and with a driving force,

I shall bolster Winter’s Wind,

And it shall drop off all the dust that it carries,

And I shall rejoice like the flowers of Spring.

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When The Wheel Will Have Rolled Miles.......

When the wheel will have rolled miles,

When wrinkles shall fill the brow,

The thoughts of today shall linger

Behind the door of the mind.

What place do the cliffs hold,

When the mountains are no more?

To what heights can the eagle fly,

If its wings are too frail?

How do the hailstones coalesce,

When rain is no more?

Why does the bird sing,

When spring is past by?

The leaves would wear out,

The stories would end,

But the spirited mind shall live;

Clinging to the scent of the erstwhile Spring,

The bowed shoulder shall thrive.

Cues of immaculate tresses

Shall outdo the course of life,

But within, shall glow like the lava red,

The desire to live on.

When words shall fail,

When the fingers shall tremble,

When folds shall wreck the skin,

The blood of life shall flow on still.

But when the singing bird shall die,

When the eagle can no more fly,

Wake up, high-spirited mind!

Live your life again;

With whatever left of yourself,

Stand upright, unbowed to the pillars of the Dark!

O depressed soul, the tresses are not yet white!

Look into the mirror

And hark at the gleam in those eyes!

Don’t they speak of life?

I, the youth speaks

Knowing not your condition,

Knowing not your pains.

My words are but fruitless:

Like the sterile flower that but blooms,

Oblivious to its age.

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Skylarks from Ravens......

Towards the endless expanse of blue,

The skylark flies, carefree and chaste.

The keen eyes of the poet

Spot the bird dwelling amongst the clouds;

While the anxious mortal eye

Sees the world pass by,

Beset with worries,

Strangled by promises,

And bound with chains.

The poetic eyes dwelt on the

Beauty of its feathers,

Softness of its colour,

And the bliss in its flight.

But anxiety was deep founded

In the mortal eye.

They saw the darkness of the clouds

Encompassing the bird, and failed to see

The depth of its reflection

On the waters of life.

A little boy gazed up towards eternity,

And witnessed a bevy of skylarks circling

The rubicund sky.

He asked his father, “Father, can you bring me

That bird from the sky?”

His father sighed and said, “Boy, the skylarks

Know the strength of freedom;

Cannot be bound to mortals like us,

Cannot be chained,

Only the poet can bind them with Immortality,

By the magic of their verse,

But keeping them free

From the worries of life.”

The mind loses out

On the flights of fantasy,

And thoughts cling on to worries—

Hoping to resolve dubiety,

Hoping to delve into everything.

But hope, the crepitating flame,

Flickers amidst the dubious ambience.

Sorrow and bliss, comfort and cheer,

Adversity and life and death,

Hatred and love—the mind and heart

Of the poet sets verse into feelings,

Makes rhyme out of life,

Turns stone into a flower

And ravens into skylarks.

While humanity gapes blankly

At the greatness of the form,

Full of anxiety, full of worries.

But the words cleave

Through the rib cages,

Into the red fort of feelings;

Penetrate the cranium,

Moving mankind’s mind.

And such is the greatness of poetry,

When gapes turn into comprehension,

And blankness finds life in those words,

And sorrow hides its face in shame

And bliss, like the sun of the dawn,

Shines at dusk.

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