Umbrella

Outside the window,

snow falls.

White on green grass.

Green encrusted with white.

It falls,

soft cotton like plumage.

Covers the tarmac,

the wooden rooftops.

Beyond the pine covered mountains,

stands a chapel.

A bell

chimes.

Echoing

through the valley.

Snow thickening,

Standing,

leaning against the

window,

without  batting an

eyelash

she

is silent,

listening to the changing notes of chimes,

seeing the ballet of snow

and pine leaves.

Its twilight,

forever twilight here,

like in a Grimm tale.

A glass of wine in her left hand,

twilight,

snow,

bells.

A knock on her door,

snowfall is hailstorm,

the pine trees come rushing

like an avalanche.

She doesn't turn,

wine turns from red to magenta,

the glass tilts,

coloring the snow below the window.

The avalanche nears,

twilight

turns to

dawn.

She wakes up

in an London hospital,

a patient,

hope had long left.

Lou's gone

It ends where it all began-

Sunday Morning-

Lou Reed passes away,

like a single chord guitar sound.

The poet from

New York Central.

The Velvet Underground's Revolver,

Warhol found him sometime in 1967.

Listening to Walk on the wild side,

gives a peek to Warhol's factory.

Drugs, sex, rock & roll-

key ingridients of a simple Lou Reed single.

With all the imperfections,

he still managed to make us see a perfect day.

Some 50 odd years after

the release of Transformer,

I don't know,

if his poetic allusions

required moral justification.

Lou was always the progenitor.

Title yet to come

The rain comes with
all elements of silence
and music,
intact.

After the downpour,
a frog snores
somewhere in the distance,
a lone sound in the silence.

These are strange hours.
But still, there is a thread.
between the rains and sun,
between mornings and evenings.

between dusks and dawns.
I hang by it.
It tries to slip away,
I still hang by it.

Someone lights a candle
in the hut, far away from here.
Its flame blinds me,
in the darkness.

I still hang by it.
The thread has made
deep impressions in my skin.
I still hang by it.

Untitled

What is it?

Its so smooth,flowable at times;

then trivial, ever esoteric.

The pretensions, they haze

what is real.

There are thoughts akin;

There are things to be said;

There are dams to be broken.

And then, 

I expect a surge,

a blissful one

bearing all the sweet fragrances.

Autumn is giving way to winter

outside my window.

The yellowed leaves, 

no longer falling,

no longer visible.

A layer of soil 

now graves them.

The sweet chill in the air,

its not reminiscent of anything.

All this is new.

The moon,

still hangs by the old tree's branch,

now only, I hear its conversation 

with the night.

Here, I dream when awake.

I barely sleep, with my mind empty.

There is beauty

in everything.

There is a bliss

in every second.

The Alchemy of poetry

How does one write a poem?
The alchemy.
Emotions aren't manufactured.
They come out,
oozing,
bubbling,
haphazard.

Its their streamlining,
its the shoring and streaming,
and a poem is made,thus.
Everything, but poetry
is contrived.
Its got no concoction.
Its the pattern out of incoherence.

Kafkaesque

All these faces,
the sets of caricatures,
swimming around.
I, impassive, invisible.

Every hour and moment;
every strand of space and time,
every breath that I take,
it is a riddle.

Everything is pointing,
directing to something.
The final clue,
rests in my self insinuation.

The clue will die,
float up to the surface.
Long after,
the riddle has lost, what it prized.

Ghazal

If the sun refused to shine,
I'd still be loving you.

If the rivers run dry,
I'd still be loving you.

If the mountains crumble down to pebbles,
I'd still be loving you.

If the oceans turn shallow and overturn their mysteries,
I'd still be loving you.

If 'ifs' mark my way beyond,
I'd still be loving you.

If this verse be too short or lame,
I'd still be loving you.

If, I someday, run out of words for you,
You'd still be loving me and I'd still be living you.

P.S. : I'd so have liked the first and third couplets to be my creation. Led Zeppelin's 'Thank You' owes a thanks and is the genesis behind this ghazal.

Cezanne's immortals

Eyes downcast.

After the day's toil.

a country looking cigar

in their mouth.

Decrepit tavern,

a brownish tablecloth,

some unknown country drink

sits on the table.

Or

it must be wine.

It's France, after all.

Orchards are replaced by vineyards here.

Both of them,

mill workers or ironsmiths or carpenters

or peasants,

their eyes intent,

on the game below.

They will not lift their gaze,

they will not take another sip of wine,

they will not part the cigar from their lips

until the game is over.

Cezanne ceased the game, forever.

The game, the peasants,wine,tavern,cigar

and Cezanne himself,Immortalised.

I see the painting.

They're unknown figures.

They'll remain unknown and

immortal.

P.S. : Needless to say, the above masterpiece is Paul Cezanne's The Card Players.

Random

Why else do you think,

I write?

What is me,

is the poem.

Things reflected.

Emotions pellucid.

Eyes can't see through my poem,

your heart can see through it.

*

Hand in hand,

mountains behind,

oceans waiting

to be tread.

The sky turns

empty.

The clouds

hide themselves.

*

Wait.

Wait for it.

It'll come.

It should.

Its due,

forever.

It should come,

wrapped up, ribboned.

P.S. : Random verses, thanks to the * .

       

Letters

A closed envelope
sits in my mailbox.
Yesterday, early morning,
when I was still warm, sleeping

between my quilt and bed sheet,
a postman had come,
his creaky bicycle, rattling
on the winding,

leading to my house.
He dropped it,
in my mailbox.
Who is it?

Who has written to me?
Whose fragrance does the closed envelope carry?
Whose handwriting adorns the letter?
Whose hands have touched this letter?

Which town is escaped in it?
Who has written to me?
The answers sit in my mailbox.
My curiosity is peeked.

I undo the glued envelope.
The letter doesn't bear the sender's address.
The letter has only one line.
I read it and re read it.

I can't understand,
what it says.
It says
"I couldn't simplify myself".

Whitamn's America and Ghalib's Delhi

For Whitman,
America seemed interminable.
For me,
even Delhi is interminable.

When Whitman
sang songs of America,
what was it
but the blooming youth of a nation.

Here, in the ruins of Qutab
and in the imbecile Tughlaq's
incomplete stone palaces,
its the afternoon of time.

It strikes me,
as a poetic fact,
for Whitman and Ghalib lived
so many miles apart

oblivious of each other's
existence,
once muse burning with
a flame to lighten the world.

while the other's
dying,
burnt to ashes,
its phoenix alluding it.

I see translated America
and I see Delhi.
I read translated Ghalib
and I read Whitman.

Poetry,
poles apart.
One of winy grief
and the other of golden hopes.

Translations
conceal the congenital.
They are hiding something,
I can't put my finger on.

The Artist : Part II

There are some places that become the trademark of a city. Champ Elysees was one of those places that took the name and face of Paris to the remotest corners of the world, often through postcards and tales of foreign lands.

Paul and Dr. Dupont had decided to meet at 7:00 pm in a cafe standing halfway through the street. Paul left his home a little early, as he wanted to take a stroll on the street; soaking in the faces, noises, aromas; all of from which he had been isolating himself in his salon and house, located in the southern Paris suburbs. He had bought the house at the height of his career. The house had belonged to a cousin of Cardinal Richilieu, the astute sixteenth century prime minister in the court of Louis XIII. Paul had bought it with all the furnishings intact. Life size portraits commissioned by Richileu hung in each of the rooms. The butler had later informed him  that all these were by Phillipe de Champagne. Paul had settled himself in the master bedroom and established his salon in the living room. The master bedroom overlooked a lake, which was part of the villa. A painting of the lake in the room which showed the ducks sauntering in the lake. He often made it a point to tell the butler about having some ducks in the lake, at least during the summers, but it always slipped in the rush of nothing, in that empty and lonely villa of his.

The sky bore a reddish tinge as the twilight was slowly melting into dusk.The gas lights had just been put on and snow was slowly falling on the streets. These gas lights had been in Paris for a long time now, the first of its kind in any city. " How would this street have looked devoid of these beautiful yellow lights. It was the soul. But then, something always kept its charm." Paul thought. The little droplets caressed his face. A shock ran through his whole body as the snow touched his pale skin. He suddenly remembered his childhood, largely spent in the English countryside where snow always meant the closing of schools and the time for Christmas. His father worked in the Royal Navy. He was an admiral. People in the town often talked about his father with respect. Even the Bishop of the local church, spoke of him with utmost respect. But, it was only on Christmas, for a period of three months, that Paul met his father. He went to places all over the Atlantic, Pacific; taking the Imperial mission to those dark places of Africa and Asia that Paul studied about in school.
"What is the Imperial flag's mission?"Paul often asked his father.
"To civilise those who didn't have the fortune to become civilised"his father replied, looking straight, deep into his eyes.
" And what is to be civilized?"
" Being civilised is when you treat your fellow human being with all the respect, that you yourself as an intellectually prudent creature expect".
His father often bought artifacts from faraway shores and lands. One Christmas, when he was  seven and had just started to show inclination towards arts, his father turned up with the Japanese woodblock  prints. This was not the conventional art form of which he was aware of; this was not even the straight forward canvass painting. But, something about the the wise old monarch printed on that block got his attention. The monarch was looking ahead, while his head was sideways to the viewer. There was a calmness in his eyes. It was as if at that moment, Paul had decided what was to be his ultimate aim in life. All he wanted was to achieve that calmness and peace in his art, although, he was unaware of it at that time. There were several other smaller woodblocks, each showing small intricate designs , brightly colored, but it was the old man's piece that was to survive with him for the rest of his life.

There was a slight chill in the air but Paul was comfortably wrapped up in his tweed jacket, a travelling coat, woolen hat and muffler around his neck. As he was passing, he stopped near an artisan, whose entire salon seemed to take just two feet of the pavement. The artisan had a peasant look about him, covered in ragged baggy pants and jacket. His boots were soiled and he was covering himself in a piece of linen. He had clear blue crystal eyes. He was painting something on his canvas; his eyes tracing every moment of his brush with a calm fervor as if he knew where and when he will put each stroke. Paul was standing facing the back of the canvas. He didn't know the theme of his painting.
"Who are you?" Paul asked him abruptly.
Lifting his gaze, the artisan met Paul's empty eyes with a welcome smile.
" Good Evening monsieur. What shall I paint for you?"
There was a roughness in his tone which suggested  his recent migration to Paris. He was trying to get acquainted in the accent used for addressing the elite class of Paris.
" Nothing. I was just interested in the movements of your hands during those brush strokes."
"Oh. That's my pleasure monsieur. But, would you not like some of my amateur pieces?"
"I shall see them, maybe afterwards. You go on painting, what you were painting. I shall stand here and watch, if its not a problem to you."
"Why would it be? Why would it be, monsieur? The honor would it be all mine".
It was only when the clock struck seven that he finally moved from the spot. He paid 200 liras to the artisan and moved from the spot, without saying another word or turning to look at any of his works.

Walking along, further, he reached the cafe, which was just a couple of yards from the artisan, located on the other side of the road. Entering through the turnstyle, which was a new addition to Parisian hotels, he found himself an empty table, overlooking the road. The in house musical group was playing Etudes by Chopin. Chopin and Beethoven were only the few composers to whom he listened and hence recognised the piece instantly. About half a dozen couples were waltzing in the dancing area, languidly buried in each other's arms, shifting ever so slightly with each note. The pianist was giving a wonderful rendition of the difficult piece, each stroke was exact in time and place. Paul had closed his eyes, looking rather conspicuous with his eyes closed, sitting alone, without a coffee. Suddenly, there was sharp tap on his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he turned his faced and faced a young woman in her mid twenties, elegantly dressed in a green ball gown, her eyes shining with the gleam of recognition. She was Irene, he remembered  with a jolt.
"Hey, how are you? Its been like forever."
" Yeah. I've been...actually, I haven't been in the best of my health. I was taking a break. How about you?"
"I am more than good. Got married this Easter to Monsieur Baudin, the manager of Hotel Ritz in Paris" she said pointing to a short and sturdy gentleman deep in conversation with another gentleman, with a glass of wine in his left hand.
"Ah! Good for you."
By this time, she had helped herself, and seated herself in the chair opposite to him.
" I am sorry. But, I have heard some very discouraging news about you. The piece in Paris Art monthly was so biting that I was very worried"
"What was there in that article, Irene?"
"Oh, so you don't know?" she said, looking surprised.
"No, I haven't been reading newspapers."
She drew a deep breath and said " This was published three months back about the time of my wedding, around Easter. The reporter was skeptical of your whole hibernation thing. She suspected how you might be a spent force in art and that you had nothing new to offer and all your works are cliched. She even went on to doubt your artistic authenticity. I guess, your inaccessibility  furthered her bitter remarks. I am glad you didn't read it. It was whole lot of bullshit".
A silence ensued after this, Paul looking outside the window, towards the road, where night was now thickening.
" You know, the reporter was right after all. I am a spent force, its time I admit it."
"No, not at all. You shouldn't be influenced by all these vile and mean remarks by those mean people out there. One good exhibition and all these people will turn the pen other ways for you. You are beyond their pieces. Take your time. Rediscover what you've lost." she said softly, clutching his hands with hers.
"Yes, I understand." he said, in a reflective tone, a faint hint of smile on his lips.
Taking his smile and reassuring remark as a sign to leave, Irene said" I shall take your leave now, Paul. Take care of yourself. We shall keep in touch" and turned away swiftly, her gown sweeping the Marakkesh carpet covered floor of the cafe.
" Irene." he said, a little too loudly, such that a few heads including that of her husband turned towards him.
"Yes?"she asked.
" Thanks" he simply replied.

Just then, Dr. Dupont made his way towards Paul's table. Sitting on the chair and unbuttoning his coat's buttons, he said" Sorry, I was late because of some university work."
"Doesn't matter."
" Yeah, I know you had company. I saw the lady in the green as I was making my way through the doors. Who that beautiful lady is, might I ask?" said Dr. Dupont, a teasing smile on his lips.
" She is an old friend, with whom, at one point of time, I was in a stormy relationship. She is married now. Her name is Irene. She was just checking on my rare presence in such social places." Paul said impassively.
"Oh! I see, this relationship was before I came back to Paris, is it the case?"
" Yes"
" Dupont, there is nothing to discuss really. I have decided, I am going to America. Arrange the tickets for me on the cruiser."
"Very well. I shall. In fact, the cruiser leaves tomorrow. I shall book you on that. Is it fine with you?"
"Yes."
"Ok, then lets order something. I am ordering lamb steaks with red wine. What will you have"?
"I'll have veal."
They ate the rest of the meal in silence. Dupont, happy with his friend's decision arranged the tickets that evening only.

Not so grotesque

I sit at my desk;
My life is not at all grotesque.
Its good,
in a momentarily sense.

Window pane next to my elbow;
thanks to the assiduous window cleaner,
its stark clean, glassy, clear blue.
Yellow sticky notes,

stick out of files
and thick volumes.
Coffee is getting cold,
its last vapors

forming a hazy pattern
on the glass pane.
An ashtray,
I don't use it.

A dogeared notepad;
a deranged pen,
full of ink.
I write on it.

I sit at my desk;
My life is not so grotesque.

P.S.: Thanks Mr. Brodsky

Every time we say goodbye

Phone blinks,
vibrates.
From what all, 
can I write poetry.

What?
No!
Am I so devoid of muses?
Can't write poetry on my phone.

Let my head move.
Dostoyevsky is killing me.
The green bookmark,
marks my snail pace reading.

What do I want?
Something, Someone.
My heart yearns for John Coltrane.
Every time we say goodbye.

Water Music for sleep

The needle,
the consort of vinyl,
the constant contact,
its point- the touch of reality.

Tracking its concentric circles,
it plays suite no.1 of Handel's water music-
somewhere in Hanover,
King George I smiles in his tomb,

eyes closed , remembering,
the evening on river Thames in 1717;
needle assuming a bigger circle,
suite no 2 starts filling up the room.

The middle of the musical piece,
George I caught up,
in the spell weaved by Handel's music,
the breeze bringing the river's smell,

mixed with the second suite.
Suddenly,
needle overruns vinyl;
Time for B side,


Cover says,
it is musical for royal fireworks-
London bridge illuminated
stars shower down into Thames in 1717

Here,
in my room, sometime in 2013,
needle runs out vinyl again,
light dimmed, I sleep soundly.

Solitude in coffee shops (Philip Larkin stylz)

I
and my solitude,
meet in this coffee shop.
The silent hum of the air conditioner;
soft Brahms piano sonata on the stereo;
Irish flavored coffee,
peppered with an Indian air-
all of these, condiments of my evening;
When I hold conversations with my solitude,
over cups of coffee.

8 lines

Love-
lost count
of the number of times Beatles
used it.

Lyrics turning spurious,
everything burning to ashes,
the ignition after the collusion
searching for allusions.

The lone light source

On a far away mountain peak,
overlooking my hotel room's aluminium framed windows,
shines a yellow pointed light.
The bright red end of my friend's

cigarette clung between his fingers
gives out fumes, tracing serpentine shapes
in the clear night.
"What is that lone light on the mountain?"

asks a friend. I remain silent,
dissolved; my mind far away,
in the search for the light source, leaping
from peak to peak, at times slipping

on the dew drenched grass,
falling in the depths of anonymity .
A cluster of clouds float near my knee,
gives my mind the flight again,

to the lone light source's mountain peak.
In my room here, the question has receded
in the joyous din of the television blaring
out the cricket match.

Rendering me inconspicuous; my body
sans mind, which wanders on the
cloud, conspicuous to peaks and moon;
perched on that peak.

Finally, it has found the
lone light source. The owner
of the light, made a deal with my mind,
not to reveal its secret buried in the mountains.