Walking

Branches crunch
and twig and mulch
under my feet
that squelch
from the juicy
warmth of midday
sunlight sizzling
every sound
of gold and browned
leaf.

Autumn air
I chance upon
catnapping
in this shoulder
bend of the hill
full and ripe
with tripe of
bird and bee
in the lee of
year.

Stubborn leaves
lightly stirring
gleam startled white
like tiny mirrors
of a disco ball.
Shadows glide
into light and out
like dark lace
hurled.
.


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FOOTNOTE: It’s warm dreamy weather here and I can’t think of anything better than going on long walks and soaking up sun like a dishcloth.

EDIT: Good Morning! ‘Walking’ is now displaying on the “Front Page Picks” in AllPoetry and so is my poem ‘April’. I already know it’s going to be a good day : )

Bonfire night of 1605

Lore has it that Guy Fawkes of York
sat guard on the devil’s pitchfork,
at the House of Lords, the Abbey;
for gunpowder that ‘neath it lay.

At a place well-nigh and haunted,
the witches on their brooms chanted,
“Hax pax max deus adimax,
King James’ Majesty, may your heart lax!”

And jack o’lanterns rejoiced in laughter
but evil didn’t prevail long after
when warned by a letter, the royal forces
charged to Westiminster on their horses.

No not horses! They were unicorns bright.
Though Fawkes on his pitchfork shot into the night,
he was toppled over and left to rot.
So goes the tale of the Gunpowder plot.


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FOOTNOTE: Happy Guy Fawkes Day to all !

Here’s a Halloween take on the Gunpowder plot to assassinate King James of England in the 1605. I wrote this one a long time back when I truly believed Abbey and lay rhymed. : P Those of you interested in the history of it would want to check out this famous English poem which was my inspiration:

http://potw.org/archive/potw405.html

Dog Days

Stood thoughtful on my table’s end a hackneyed vase,
under dirt and time and other such parasites.
There in the corner of my eye it stood
whenever I would read or write or sketch.
On some days it would hold out a rose for me
And on others a posy of violets,
smearing the air with laughter.
A cluster of basil leaves I found one day
strumming music to the wind.
Sometimes I would myself fill it
with countless niveous daisies.
And then on some days, like today,
it would stand bare and empty and hopeful.

.

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FOOTNOTE: I remembered I have a blog page, so here I am after eight months : P 

Candles

They have pled their case
already, wept off half their lengths
and hang their tears on wilted spines.
All their prayers have sighing fled
the bleary-rimmed eye of the flame-
already.

Now only black clouds pucker
upon their brows, and how certain
from their twisted maws, roars
a battle cry,
how sudden as a seashell
brought to ear. Hear!

Thirty spearheads
slicing in the sweating air.
Is it fear that makes
the glazed walls shake?
One by one, they are
pulled down – kneeling, keeling,
Wholly uprooted; lie splayed out
like dissected limbs on a blood-field-
a deformed white monument.
Dimpled orange motes crawl
in waxy cupped-hand stubs,
like swatted flies, before
being snuffed out, at last.

 

 
FOOTNOTE: I’ve been writing this poem in snatches for almost a year now, and it refuses to come together. I don’t think it’s possible to mend it anymore, so here’s posting an unedited work-in-progress. Might work on it later though, who knows.

April

Slipping down turrets of green
And setting the copperpods to vibrate
Her games trifle varied.
Again and again, skimming over filigreed boughs
She stumbled down in golden shards
And splintered upon a grassy lawn.
What light she snuck from under leafy eaves,
There careless upon the grassy lawn.
Not knowing that seasons change
And another day, to this same hoar-crested patch
Would she turn her steps-
No hoar, no crest-
But for it chirruped louder still;
Stealing from branch to branch,
Proud of her tricks.

 

 

FOOTNOTE: Posting April in July because procrastination.

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The Lull

I didn’t as much heed the clack clack
as hidden hands plucked
on the surface of silver pools
until startled, they stared up blank,
or the trotting drops on the car roof
suddenly stilled.

Taillights blinked back from where
the road, sunken, mulled
like an artist’s sky laid out to dry,
so above, the bereft tar hollow
swallowed the honks of waiting cars.
Air brooded and hung and almost
clung to my arms and neck
like a wet blouse.

Muck clouds kneaded, yielded
the day’s boding, then finally bilging;
no longer the distracted stutter
of my thoughts, but sputtering
in incoherent release, gloating-
waiting waiting.

Pelting, melting on the windscreen;
a liquid halo winnows on the bonnet, baiting-
waiting waiting.

 

 

FOOTNOTE: This is misleading. Rains in Mumbai are less poetic and more apocalyptic. I’m just going to go snuggle with a bag of chips.

A Bedtime Prayer

Lord, as I embrace the bed
I thank Thee for the day that was;
For all the kindness shown to me
And lessons learnt, none the less.
I thank Thee for all the chances
To do good that my way came.
And plead Your forgiving grace
For any wrong I am to blame.
I trust I’ve lived Your will today,
Yet if I haven’t, I promise Thee
To walk my life on Your glory path
If tomorrow I may live to see.

 

Blank Wall

On the drowsing above-bed wall I caught them
Stealing out – like a rook or bishop mid-move- fir trees,
Their long faces stooped on shrapnel chins, leaping
Away from the headlights of a somnambulist car passing;
Then quickly as if to cover up the slip, crouch
Against any one of four edges until
Behind me, the streetlight flickers back on
Offering to read my face-
A neat black blot on blank wall.

 

 

FOOTNOTE: I wouldn’t mind the sleepless nights as much if I could write a poem for every time I’m unable to sleep. 

Ruins

The past is a tumbledown monument,
Red stones of which litter the lawn
And in solitude, contemplate of a whole.
Each while at peace with itself,
Wonders still where it did fit in!
They are as puzzled as I am.

Like a smitten tourist, I often return
And am miffed to find the plinths tanned
And decay sprouting from crannies.
I clamber upon the rubble-tombs
Wreathed with dried grass – a meagre victory;
Or briefly nap against the belfry-wall.
Once in a while, I turn my gaze
Over a familiar brick and try to remember
What it meant to me. Perhaps,
It was placed there by accident.
A random event.

 

 

FOOTNOTE: I wrote this poem from my memory of the ruins of St. Augustine’s Church in Old Goa.  It remains one of our best family trips ever.

DSC_2870

 

EDIT: So delighted to tell you that ‘Ruins’ made it to the Top 100 poems of the Wingword Poetry Competition 2018. 😀 😀

Triolet

A thousand suns my eyes did greet

Upon the languid summer sea,

As lazy waves caressed my feet.

A thousand suns my eyes did greet,

Its Midas touch – a golden treat.

I let my thoughts soar upwards free.

A thousand suns my eyes did greet

Upon the languid summer sea.

 

I let my thoughts soar upwards free;

For long they’d had me in their bind.

Long after day had taken leave,

I let my thoughts soar upwards free.

Again I heard that voice in me,

“Where shall I satisfaction find?”

I let my thoughts soar upwards free;

For long they’d had me in their bind.

 

Where shall I satisfaction find-

True happiness, that inward light?

I searched the corners of my mind;

Where shall I satisfaction find?

And lost in nature’s arms so kind,

I found the answer to my plight:

Where shall I satisfaction find-

True happiness, that inward light?

 

 

 

FORM: Triple Triolet