Withering suns...

As the night just 

got stuck onto you 

I try harder 

to pluck the day

out of the moon-tree. 

It is then a thousand suns 

wither like autumn leaves 

only to make you smile 

which in turn brings 

my last boat. 

I now start sailing 

to the banks 

of the spring.

,..

Spillover

It takes exactly the same time
as drinking a cup of tea
to write a poem

As one takes a sip
the words fall into place
one after another

And then a poem
just sits there
as an empty cup

,..

seasons...

Showing the withered flower that day,

she told me

'You should write a poem about it'.

I just nodded.

There were then more springs

and many more autumns

that passed in this meanwhile.

Suddenly by remembering her suggestion,

she queried

'I asked you to write a poem

on that withered flower?'.

I just smiled

'Where is the poem?',

she was serious.

I looked out through the monsoon window.

There were more flowers and many more poems.

'Oh my dear!

They both,

the flower and the poem

are quite drenched at this point.

Shall we get a bigger umbrella

and start picking one by one?'.

She looked at me

with her piercing eyes

as her eyelids resembled

an even bigger umbrella.

It still rains...

,..

naturally . . .

I keep a pile of words

on your sleeping eyes,

which then start playing

with your rhythmic breathe.

When you wake up,

trap them with your smile

and put them on your

yet-to-finish breakfast table.

Let the morning sun

savour some meanings.

,..

-------------------------------------------------------

Once, by listening to the wind,

you said that I'm also with it.

And when asked

how did you know about it,

you just started telling about

your journeys on the wind in return.

Not sure if the wind did smile at that.

,..

Word of rain . . .

The chattering wind was still around then.

It carried no song of love,
but our discourse was full of
lovable words.

We talked about
all beautiful things
in our sphere.

About the sun that hides behind any white cloud,
about the bullock cart
that starts in the morning
to drag time to reach till the night,
about the boy who drew the vast sea
and a small boat that carried us to
the other shore,
and so on.

When we started drinking
silence from our tea-cups,
the sky turned dark with
burdened clouds. 

I tried to disown any sense of belonging,
and was just staring at you
as a child sitting amused
on mother's lap.

It was then you said
'Let it rain' . . .
and it rained.

,..

Fill in the blank . . .

Silenced by
that morning's pink sun,
her mother was
sitting calm,
when I visited them
last evening.

I saw the girl
looking at the sky
and counting.

'Are you counting
how many stars are there?',
I asked her.

'No',
she smiled.

'Then?'

'I am counting
how many are yet to come?'

,..

The pink sun

'It's the same sun
but another day',
she was trying to
convince the child
this morning.

'No, mom!
It's the same day
but another sun',
said the child decisively.

The sun was of pink colour then.

,..

Possessed . . .

'I have started morning walks',
the poet was telling his friend
last evening.

'You must be writing more poems these days'
responded the friend.

'I don't write poems'

'Yeah I know . . . you must be capturing
the happening poem'

'I don't capture either,
actually, it's the poem that captures me'

'Oh! so you want to say that
poems are capturing you more frequently
these days!'

'No. I select different paths on different days
to avoid being captured by the poems'

'That's interesting.
How's it possible?'

'It's not that difficult,
poems do have seasons.
During the pre-monsoon,
poems come to you
on the wings of
white little butterflies.
One needs to select
the desert path then'

'mm...'

'During the monsoon
in the neighbouring land,
poems come to you
on the mischievous wind.
It tries to enter you
disguised as dusty sand.
One should then walk along the river 
as its flow
will silence the chattering wind'

'mm...'

'During the spring,
poems get into the fragrance
of wild flowers.
It's then better to walk
on the sides of broad highways,
where the air is filled with
the smoke of modernity'

'mm...'

'During the winter,
it waits right next to your doorstep
as an early morning thief.
One should stay inside the house
covering oneself fully with a blanket
and pretending to sleep.
Never come out till the day is warm'

'mm...'

'When it rains
the valley gets filled with poems
and it's wise then to climb the hill'

'mm...
that's why I saw you
climbing the hill the other day'

'Yes'

'But you still posted a poem
that day'

'True!
I climbed upto the hilltop
and was coming back.
After a little while
I just glanced over the valley
out of sheer curiosity.
It is then that poem recognised me,
flew across to the hilltop
only to jump on me from there'

':-)'

,..

few more drops . . .

This morning

I overheard the poet

talking to Sumi.

'Last night's rain

restored my imagination', he said.

'Oh!

so, how do you feel now,

a winged bird?'

'No, a chained dragon'

,..

prisoned longing . . .

we lost ourselves

in the street of longings

and could not discover

till we met

in the corner of a prison

,..

rain shadow . . .

I live in a far away dry-land

and you in the midst of the rain-forest.

We could still relate to each other.

I thus started weaving a carpet

to lay in the sphere in between

so as to make our transgressions

a comfortable affair.

I did of course weave the carpet with

facts and fiction

which you preferred to call truth and lies.

On your way to reach the middle-path

you admired those fictional threads

as shiny and smooth.

But when you are back in the rain

you are telling me that

I should have not lied to you.

I have nothing to say in response,

just remember those little violet flowers

that have blossomed on both sides of the way

when you headed back.

,..

let it rain...

when it rains,
it rains till my present gets washed away
and your face starts floating
on the surface of my soul...

,..

reversals...

Our sea of time
still flows towards the mountain top,
where we once got drenched in the spring rain.

Life has but moved us to the autumn valleys.

We can still talk about
being you
and
being me
and let people to name it
'The Sermon of the Valleys'

,..

play it out

in and out

out and in

the play is endless

just that the stage is empty

all the time

,..

from wisdom to freedom ...

Bodhi tree of the Autumn.

Buddha was sitting with his eyes closed,

under the not so intense branches.

The wisdom was waiting to fall

as one among the withering leaves.

‘What the fuck is he doing, sitting here?’

started thinking

a crow on the tree.

If withering is wisdom,

then flying is

F

R

E

E

D

O

M.

yours and mine

There are too many stories floating around.

Just that one never gets to read all of them.

,..

musically...

life's music can never be heard
but to be listened...

,..

road to all directions

I just can't reach you
not because I can't travel
not because I don't know the route
just that
I lost my sense of direction a long ago.

,..

isn't it now?

sometimes life is so simple
and that time is now

,..

just another fall...

Stars falling from the night sky
is quite boring now.
How about the sun falling from
a day sky?

,..