Epitaph to Poetry

I wonder why we don’t appreciate poetry any more?
Is it because everyone’s wounds are just too sore?
Sometimes, I believe it’s because we have lost all our rhymes
Little twinkling stars have been replaced by paeans on crimes.

Or maybe it’s ‘cause our Hours have become fleeting moments
In the blink of an eye day dreams melt into night time torments.
How will we gain succor from the tales of yore
If we can't even feel the cold hardness of feet above the floor.

Poets had wings, they could soar and swoop,
Now humanity is nothing but chickens pecking in their coops.
So, on and on let us through this tiresome tide troop
Even philosophy won't help untie this vicious loop.

Still wondering why we don’t appreciate poetry any more?
What can we do? The wounds are just too raw and sore.

Cords

I wish I could dream all night, all day,

Untie the cords that hold my restless thoughts at bay.

Let my mind explode in all directions,

Unleash its power without any restrictions.

The grass, the sea, the planets and the stars,

The little drops of rain, the sunlight and the flowers.

I feel so muffled, so heavy and constrained,

My life seems so tiny, within the life in which it’s contained.

I want to touch everything, to see, to hear, feel and perceive

But the cords are too tight; all I can do is grieve.

At times like these I fervently hope and pray

That our soul is truly immortal, as the learned say.

Because I know that even a thousand lifetimes

Will not loosen the cords enough to reach life’s confines.

Nights are Young

Nights are young but days are old
Old, older than the skin covering my bones.
As ancient as the endless pit that lies beyond the eyes
Why does gravity its strength belie?
Why only half way and not pull us down deeper?
The force feels sharp underneath the feet.
But outside there are no visible signs.

So we keep moving on, and on and on and on,
Darkness is warm but cruel is the dawn.
Nights are young, the young sleep sweet
The others just stare at the clock and keep time with its beat.

Storm

Is that gold I see; glittering on the crest-leaves
                         Of those far-away trees?
Are those broad trunks, swathed in silver skeins,
                         By invisible, dancing fairies?
The heavens are shrouded by a rich black mantle;
                         Timeless, deep and dark.
All will soon be blown away by the winds;
                         Washed away without a mark.

The roar of the thunder, deep rolling growls;
Will smother even the fiercest wolves’ howls.
The brilliant flashes of blinding white and blue,
They are not a magician’s art, they are immortal and true.

I revel in this show of power, Mother Nature’s rage.
More than all the, light and sound, display of this age.
Pomp and splendor devised by mortal hands;
One day in near future, will be wrenched away,
From the very pedestal on which it, today, stands.

But in your angry growls, Mother;
 I find solace and peace.
Your dreadful dances of light, Mother;
Lulls my trembling heart to sleep.

My City the Way I Want it to be

I pay no heed to your sneering, scornful pity
I will always love my beautiful city.
Where all are hailed as “Dadas” or “Didis”
Whether they are on foot or riding their Mercedes!
Made from three villages only a few centuries back,
My city is bound to be off the beaten track.
Its skyline would inspire Shelley’s skylark’s song,
Through the streets Eliot’s “insistent feet” trample along.
Fervent speeches are made here, on porches and in malls,
While rats and cockroaches entertain in the town halls!
“Hookahs” are equally popular in cafes and in slums,
Feet tap unconsciously to the beats of “tablas” as well as drums.
My city folk are not always as sugary and sweet,
Many varieties of which they love to eat;
“Singaras”, “Luchis” and “Cutlets” are their favourite too,
If you offend them I wouldn’t want to be in your shoe!
The pious and the aesthetes flock at Kalighat, Nakhoda and St.Paul’s,
With the less spiritual, night clubs, bars and the parks crawl!
Cynics may complain that it’s no longer Lapierre’s joyous city,
But it’s still the city I want it to be, from now till eternity.

Only in Dreams

The touch of an arm bent in a loving circle
Warm, strong..with its comforting fragrance.
A smile of pride caught from across the room,                          
A wink, a playful blink..
The voice of reason in the midst of turmoil..
Only in dreams.
A whiff of a tear, no fear, never fear.
The hard ground beneath the feet,
The soft lump of a moist palm..
Coolness, the untroubled calm,
Found both in hot seas and fresh springs.
Only in dreams.
Such tender emotions..such pain,
So much joy.
A whirlpool of colours, images
Each with so much meaning
Forgotten soon enough..yet remembered somewhere.
Only in dreams.
The leisurely walks, conversations,
Bursts of laughter, heated words..
Promises sealed with kisses,
Soft fleeting brush..of fingertips.
A day, an experience, a lifetime.
Only in dreams.
The young have fairy tales,
The old..in years and life, have dreams
Wake no more when all you want to do is sleep,
Dream on...only dream..

Paint

Close to the heavens….
In the land of hues
Where colours mix and churn
To create dreams
To create love, desire, hopes and laughter
The colours are like clouds…
Light and floating
They play around me, enveloping me,
Comforting me
But when I flail my hands my fingers grasp
Emptiness….
The colours smell sweet…
The fragrance reminds me of shimmering grass, blossoms
Babies in their cradles and
The playgrounds of my childhood days
The drops of colours are strewn all over
They wave in front of my eyes
Like a silken curtain blowing in the wind
I long for them…I crave…I have them…
But what shall I do with them?
What use are they to me?
I thought I lost all hope....but maybe....
Then give me a palette; give me a brush…a canvas
Let me paint