Friday, August 10, 2007

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Lost love of a versifier...

I loved her with all my heart,
The muse of my script.
What she did?
She laughed; she scorned and made fun of me.
Without even noticing how it hurts,
She just went on disquieting me.

A devoted versifying soul,
Whose hub of spirit fountain her name.
Crying loud to draw her pity,
(surely) that’s all in vain.
She had no notice of me,
Neither did she know that I adored,
Or may be, with her usual air,
She just pretended…

How can this be true?
That she doesn’t know.
I conceived her granted gaze,
Or was it just a show?
Some blurred images haunt my mind...
Of the days which passed by,
Of the days when she was with me.
When she was right beside,
When my pen made it high,
Lively presence of a heavenly being.

Oh! What were those days,
With you and your terms.
With your fragrance all around,
Days were so glinting,
Grief had no space to fill.
As no pleasure last for long,
So did our love had gone,
So did our merry ended,
And we met never.
But I am still waiting,
Waiting for my muse;
Days will come for sure,
When words will again sprout.

Thursday, June 7, 2007

Cassandra fable...

Baby Cassandra...

Baby Cassandra bubbling high,
Who'll listen to a blurting child?
She is sweet, they call her cute,
She’s a doll, she’s no muse.
Life she knows little,
Little baby Cassandra.
Take her to the fairyland,
So the angels embrace her.

Bumming Cassandra...

A fable in the modern days,
On the roads of a metropolis.
Wandering about in search of nothing,
Who’s she ? A myth from Greece.
Picking up words from dingy lanes,
She weaves a fresh folklore.
You might spot her in the midst of a crowd,
But for sure she’ll ignore.
Don’t disturb her,
Though she is not busy.
Hibernating in the crowd,
She’s meditating.
She is not a native of the city you live,
But she knows this place more than you can feel.

Baleful Cassandra...

Don’t trust her,
The muse called Cassandra,
A demoralizing soul, an eternal predator.
She’s a witch, will enchant your sense,
The poor soul poet will become her pet.
She’ll play to him that she loves…
The day will come and he’ll be downcast.
Save your soul poet!
Save your words!
She is a venomous angel,
A skylark from the fog.

Babbling Cassandra...

Frittering in darkness at temple corner,
She is the princess who foretells future.
Phoebus Apollo loved her once,
Breaching vow she invited his wrath.
Cursed that no one will ever heed,
She is a relic of an ignored heath.
But; she is Cassandra, babbling around,
In a fiery island she was found.
An alternative vision to know your words,
She is not a deity, an ill-omened trollop.

Friday, May 25, 2007

a Parable

I am an innate rebel,
In a war with life;
Fighting the wrong side,
Where oblivion triumphs.
When we come face to face,
Life and me;
Conversation is very little.
But the eyes, when they meet,
(Somewhere) has the desire to be one.
Passionately we fight,
A blood feud you may call;
Merciless cynicism,
Here one has to Fall.

I am a born nomad,
On the road of life.
The alleys I often search,
Knowing not what I want.
Mourn over the things I have,
Cry over the love I find,
Unearth those ghostly souls,
That has left me apart.
If ever I could rest…
Those yellow feet,
The lips that have dried,
Whom the sun has kissed.
What would I find?
The wanderer me…
Caught in the mesh
Of a cosmic city.

I am a ‘myth’
(he says)…
Delusion of every man.
When I walk along the boulevard,
He calls by my name…
An “urban mythical icon”
He called me once,
But the divinity was not blessed.
Just another named one,
(you can say)…
Where, he looks for tranquility.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007 she the guardian angel.....?.....

Monday, May 21, 2007

“There were times when he could not read the face he had studied so long, and when this lonely girl was a greater mystery to him than any women of the world..."

Sunday, May 20, 2007

on Poetry...

It is the language, the language I speak,
Sometimes self-arranged they come to me.
Quivers me within, ruffles my mind,
Whispers in the ear in the ruin of time.
I talk to Him, the erratic language,
I Give it a name, call it poem.
The ballad, the cadence, the vowel-chime;
The ode, the lyric, the poesy-rhyme.

He gave me the life, the canticle love,
Made me pure as a little dove.
The trinity I made, with Him and his Song,
Can now be broken never and by none.
I am not a poet, nor is this an Ode,
The lyric I know little, prosaic verse I chose.
Hagiolatry work it is not, but your praise;
I am your new lover extending your range.
My astonishment reaches the sky
How can some expressions be so high!
Are you earthly or divine?
Might be an angel…
Or just, a human mind.