Sunday, April 12, 2015

The Sad Life of A Cuckoo

A clear chirp. The morning chooses to
suffocate itself in a maelstrom of
thickened, but mostly thinned, air.
A cuckoo meets itself in the midst of fields,
a silent chuckle — too early in the morning,
farmers are not awake. The lucid sound,
travels to the farthest of farmland
to remind himself that the highway ahead
is his own enfer. The sad, lonely reminder
that he owns the place. An unwavering
chirp, again and again, strikes the imbalance
that the ripened grains accidentally trigger.
A clear chip, continually resounds itself
until the end of day, reminding people the
sad life of a cuckoo. Yet nothing echoes.

Friday, April 10, 2015

Befriending a Leopard

I walked on a chilly, slow road everyday.
Pace usually shudders to halts.
Why? — Waiting for surprises to hit me,
while expecting nothing but cool,
invisible flames roaring into my body.
Not eroding me. Though that never happens.

Sometimes, the road can be too placid
to accept a man, or a woman,
weeps, or laughs. Like a leopard,
it enthrals me to break off from the tangents
that can stop me.

It used to chase me. Yet he would
not come close; not close to
biting me. His wintriness
bites the air; I cry when the pain
of the frostbite eats into my flesh.
But tears freeze into droplets in mid-air,
supplanting the filigree, on the
ragged piece of cloth he carries along.

But, time passed. He started to turn
warmer, though still enough to bite.
But he is more mild. He is more caring.
Now sees me with no indifference.

Though the dense air does reminisce
the way that he used to stare at me,
he — the dandelion — grows fluffy
around me. Maybe touch is too true.
Maybe too fake.

But this is enough for a friend, like him;

for the friend who saw me. And sees me.

Adjoining Way

The stupor air always lends itself
to extend the long mile
I walk every day to bus stop

To the lengthening mile,
I always treaded my steps with care,
for even the slightest misstep can make
my grandmother, who sees me
from the balcony in metres high
above me, chatter or blare
at her star’s face.

Choirs of birds
clears the cold,
sleeted isle of enclosed doors,
and thaw the frozen bulbs of tears.

The brick-paved ground
cuddles in solaces,
and entwine themselves
with a deep, unspoken word. I knelt,
to feel its grace again,

only to find weeps will not
give back the golden,
brittle stares at the mirror.

The adjoining way, now silent
without chatters.

Monday, April 6, 2015

Eulogy to a Past

Loquacious sun
retelling stories to the
land, one after one, again
and again, never feeling tired

One day, a man traverses
through a mystical land
of only two flowers,

One is a reserved bud, a shy,
terse flower, speaking itself
some monologues
to stay alive

Another is happy,
outwards, unafraid
and chatters of rosaries

Both outside the autumn
field of life, of vitality

Both hurt from the light,
the sun of stricken time

Both leaning outwards
perpetually, standing apart from each other
and never seemed to bear colours

The sun felt tired to retell the story.

Friday, April 3, 2015

A Quiet Day in City

Cars do not work like horses
let alone the car honks
People do not fight over
            frivolous things
Shops are closed
People are at home
talking to their loved ones
or ones they loathe
to resolve their problems

This day
animals or insects that always seem
to reside to the corners of buildings
to run away from dust and noises
now breathes happily
without grey or black dirt
that dominates the air

Littlest contentment goes
a long way to make me
the most delighted man
on the surface of Earth

Angels flying away in the sky
drawing up love signs
to reveal their joviality
towards such quietude

There may be just a few dancing

But all is worth the quiet day in city
the day of rest

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

The Seine at Lavacourt

Fresco. The Seine at Lavacourt
sways with the fiat of the
artist, at his hand, with his

Reeds. In the centre of the river,
marks the objects where
lives circle around, with their

Houses. Where the workers of
the river would entitle
themselves to luxuries, with their

Scene. The Seine at Lavacourt
sways with the fiat of the
artist, at His hand, with His