Now as I stumble on

Now the signs of the awaited one

To adorn the mother-earth alone—

Disemboweled crippled. Thy Love,

The motherly sacrifice all above…

Lo, the signs, how the numbed ones breathe!

Every pleasantness by thy toils bated breaths,

A period of fun for her children ill-starved ever

How we ones’ weekly fair here piazza-fever—

Fed up with thy heavenly gifts taken granted,

The crisp leaves of glossy colors, melody-notes,

Those clusters of white-pinkish flowers laden,

The awakening sprouts, buds dainty maidens,

The azure speckles blue void, fleecy clouds,

In essence, the warmth all senses to nods…

The diabolical greed to be fed even more:

 Like, Lo, those rolling lines of sight-sores,

The full-body chickens on rods rolling fat-burnt,

Yellowish, in those stationed steel cabins grunt,

Within the showcase-ovens busy rolling greed,

Those mouths to be fed. Oh, innocent lives fated!

To slay, burn, roast, crunch, is this greed,

Insatiable, ungrateful of us, genius-breeds.

Oh, send down the shackles to bind them,

To let see in the other realm pale and burning.

The din can’t be taken more.

The footpath stretches up there,

Across the waistline of the calm wooded ridge.

Better be there alone and vent down the grudge.

They Said

In Tibet: A nomadic pasture land in Amdo Ladrang

“When taken to the stream,

It’s bound for the river agleam;

There to the bastion of vice

Infested with insatiability-lice.

When taken to the tryst,

It’s bound for sound twist;

Up the overlapping steps

Thus mortified, up sweeps.

Pamper it or save yourself.

Pamper thus to the tune,

Ill-inspiration or Love yourself truly.”

Yes, in such sense, there is the other version of Self-Love rather than that as the offshoot of foul selfishness, arrogance, conceit… 

My Prayers

Courtesy: Yahoo news

For the current mishap in Boston, the twin blasts at the finish line of Boston Marathon 2013, and for such incidents at large caused by nefarious blinded hearts.

May the perversity meet the touch of empathy!

May the festering cruelty be subdued by the true beacon,

The exaggerated Love—may it be felt at the juncture

In the form of this feeling that acts at the moment crucial!

May those affected by losses find the path illumine—

Resignation instead of vindictiveness, the true nearness

At his divine feet, under his sublime guidance ever!

May those sinners, may be inundated by blind euphoria,

The moment blindness, find the unbiased sense to see

How foul, ill-motivated, blind their monstrous miss-deeds,

Inflicting such pains upon mere innocent souls, hearts,

Whose wails are wails that can’t be overlooked as victory,

Blind, timid, silly in true sense for the true victory,

As in his preaching, means to be the otherwise,

Resignation, forbearance, Love, empathy, unbiased sense…!

May my prayers be met as driven by such sense!

A Walk

In the roadside natural park, Porcheville, France

The initial a couple of months and half went in a melee of personal straits--the hardship of getting adjusted to the new makeshift sort of dwelling when an acute longing could be felt at every step to go back, but where; when a respite of time, space and distance for doing something was like the possibility of stealing a peek towards the other way during a point blank distance face off--but the later almost a couple of months had in store the cushioning tenderness during when a refueling happened to read and express in some way. But the latest 25 days in the new place was another probation but during when there were in store those intermittent moments for straightening oneself so far... The predominant numbness that veils and distorts is like an iron monolith before and that's what to fight against even with the left over meager strength.

A call yesterday was like a summon, a miracle that let me scan myself wholly and ponder over: to let go so or go there at the lesser familiar lair to put myself at its disposal as it wishes so, thinks that I can play a role there. A sort of savior can it be? Who doesn't need a savior? But the true savior with golden halo, deeply embedded amid the self-created quagmire, is too dim to light over the present darkness.

A thirst to quench,

A moment of respite,

When a feeling despite,

Like a drop out wrenched.

Mouthing a sincere prayer,

Less self, a jumble sleeps,

Glimpse thee in peeps,

A moment yonder.

In those words like the mirrors,

When a self-portrait is set,

When a line fits mind-set,

A swelling joy wave pats the sailor. 

The Oddity

Is 'silence' the best answer? Then, under the aegis of the means known as 'telepathy', can such be felt, confirmed and responded in sequence? No way or yes so seldom. But, yes, the interplay of the minimal dedication--unyielding to this isolating trait--of the sort is practically needed for us rather than counting on such sublime means reserved for ones with introspective clairvoyance of the sort.  And for being so poorly gifted with this quality of ‘opening up’ for more convenience in reaching an end, a decision, rather than locking up for nothing I wonder how I can make such remarks. I find myself who can remain pondering on to the end of one’s life, when the way back is all grey and modest in retrospect. When, as it’s said, only the major events of one’s life, from the best to the worst, can return as the flashbacks that shape the mood of the leaving soul.  I had been absorbed so again in such muse that enabled or made me stand or remain in the same position or place for the moment when I could get back to myself or someone might wake me up accidentally. It was her who hurled this question at me across the glass-topped dining table. I had no idea how long I had been in such trance but felt sorry for leaving her so. I felt this growing self-consciousness, the acute spite for my abnormality but it had soothed me a lot, what she might have thought of me or how she had seen me.

She was in the same tight dark jeans and a pink woolen pullover. The palms of her hands clasped against each other with the one thumb on the other, the tops of the clasped fingers pressed between her thighs nearing knees and she was slightly moving like trying to pull them out. She was looking at me. Her feet in the felt slippers were slapping on the floor like waking me up. She was waiting for my answer. But, as she thought that I hadn't got it, she asked me again.

‘How old are you?’ Her eyes dancing with the sort of conversational jest behind the glasses, her lips parted like about to add something or make way to a friendly grin.

‘Oh, sorry, I am 34,’ I replied tersely and observed her expression.

‘But you look much younger like 24 or 25,’ she said with the same jest in her eyes.

‘What do you think how old I look like?’

‘Like 22 or 23,’ I speculated with a mind not to say higher.

‘You’re right. I am 22,’ she said with her fingers up making the sign of ‘victory’.

I got that I could say the right thing that she looked pleased. Yes, when dealing with a woman, I tended to care not to hurt her out of a gained knowledge that a woman is always so sensitive. Even for her being more open and yielding to what I took as the start of the sentimental torment or joy I found myself holding back with a sort of isolating trait. I just wished everything could be settled by ‘telepathy,’ the damning obstinacy for more complex convergence. I got that it couldn't from my past several encounters. But a faint dawn was almost on, a way to walk ahead to take someone by surprise not by this habitual muse but by another means, to listen attentively…

She was staring at me through the same jest in her eyes and with the same parted lips. Oh, she must be surprised of me, the way I behaved… I couldn't stop thinking so and found myself choked finding nothing to strike up a conversation but getting a sequence of fake telepathy occurring between us. How such could be possible? She seems to be communicating through it but how she could get what the nonsense I hold, I felt sorry for I couldn't stop going into such trance again that the circumstances entailed for me.  Her parted lips, jest in her eyes were there as the backdrop during the moment taken. The whole moment was something for me and something another for her, I sensed.

*

Naked

I wonder why I somehow favored to write in those broken free verses with odd rhymes that tried hard to get fitted at the ends of those lines…!

 

A sort of rustle,

A sort of shudder,

A cry after all,

I found those stripped feeble trees

Around and crowded on those low ridges like odd bosoms

Forced to chaff their own thin multi-twigs one another,

The tormentor, the formless shrilly voice sharp-cool

Blowing sporadically to move them into a groaning cemetery-dance.

The untimely or timely fresh buds like a cub’s claws,

How ill-fated exposed to seasonal cruelty—

May they come out as the whimpering bearers’ wishes

To adorn them and to grow into their own, the posterity!

Can a sincere prayer be responded?

A sort of self-image,

A sort of self-understanding,

A feeling after all.

The saints, the escaped ones, are those grey pigeons

Attached on to the steep ridge-roof of that four storey maison

With steep gables, reddish mud-tiles roof, unpainted chimney stacks,

The two little attic windows capped with the same tawny mud-tiles roof.

Taking a round nearby, they hover over it, land on it and remain there.

Their days seem to be in complete musing pose

Except a random habit, the dark little beaks on the swiveling necks

Poking at an itchy spot on the back…

Real in peace, but where do they return at night?

They draw this stare,

Again today there they’re,

In complete placid pose.

Or the tomb yard overrunning the slope,

The tidy glossy marble panels

Inscribed memories and the flowers…

Are they bound here for those gone ones?

The only clothed one,

The odd cedar with three prime branches

Without any scent but flaunting at the odd time.

The stripped ones and semi-stripped hedges numbed,

The odd fans for its peremptory call.

And oddity as naked as ignorance.

Uprooted

Thrown overcrowded in a familiar white block,

A whiff of uncertainty along the narrow corridor,

A heavy native accent adorns the tried medium,

The tool of survival, the tongue to have wider view.

At every nook and cranny, at every pub trendy,

In grey loose plush track pants or an over-sized jacket branded

With its attached hat thrown back ‘I don’t care’ and

The striped rims accentuating ‘What I wear’ over branded shoes.

The others from narrower backgrounds follow suit so,

The same uprooted ones doing the same gait,

In a sort of hopping, knees bending more with springy effects,

While the head and shoulders plunging more forward

And the hands half-tucked in pockets, the pondering zones

‘Where gonna end up before the other day begins…,’

How mimicking is going to fare for this pale hope

So full but easy-going as this trash I cope with to present.

In bleary yet struggling eyes heaps of insecurities dance

To the tune of how the funky vibe turns on,

The only solace left to flaunt ‘I am no less,’

But the more worth-endowed left to rot this way.

‘You Chinoise?’ A volley of verbal attacks

For a sniffer as I who study their ways amid personal struggles.

I wonder why many hurl at me this silly question…

Despite my being displaced by the same one they think I am!

Whatever merits there’re for being among the uprooted ones,

There are things under one’s nose not to be neglected as well.

For a fit of emotion can be turned inward only—

The less cushioned inmates against any possible blow,

The despairing cries of fated underprivileged ones on loose.

For the granted ledge has to be maintained in swiveling attention

With every means for crueler the world tends to be,

But, the other day, how warm and yielding ones at ease seem to be.