Archives for posts with tag: poetry


Bright as a daffodil

With a smile

To gladden the heart

Earnest to the core,

Picking up your broken parts

To put them together once more.


Always positive

In circumstances most dire,

Nothing defeats her.

A fund of energy

Like sparkling sunlight

Playing on wet leaves

And flowers

The soul of my life,

Its purpose and priority.


Always busy

Keeping the house tidy,

The dinner warm,

The prayers persistently

Beseeching blessings

For the family.

Always concerned

For the well being

Of children far away,

call them now

It’s Sunday.


Ready for festivals

Brimming with enthusiasm

 And fervour

In her best dress

To honour the Gods,

Welcoming guests

With joie de vivre,

Attentive to the needs

Of friendly neighbours,

My loving mate

Always considerate.


The spirit of the home,

Propping up a picture,

cleaning out a comb,

Dusting every object,

Daily routine,

Nothing left alone,

Full of zest,

At her very best,

At all times,

Awake or at rest.


Where would I be without her,

My diligent and avid helper,

My heart and my soul,

Always making everything whole.

Were she to go away,

I fear the coming

Of that dark day,

But she consoles me,

Not to worry

I’m here to stay.

And when the time comes,

Together, never apart,

Hand in hand

We shall depart

And be on our way.



family 1

We return each day to the television

To watch a spot of sweet light.

When the same child comes running up

With a lesson done well, we delight

And kiss away our worries. She comes looking

After you with what is known to please,

Her happiness is sunlight.

And Sunday comes and stills time

For you to move at will.


The expectancy of these

Help us fulfill the long hours.


And if these fade away

The hours lengthen

Until there are no more any lessons

And her interest is kind of diffused.

But Sunday comes still

And you are forced to move at will.


Gorgeous flower anemone,

Body is venomous,

Pretty faced hegemony

As the prey approaches,

Brilliant coloured anomaly,

Overwhelmingly odorous

As hidden mouth ravenous

Probes its victims body,

Consuming carnivorous,

Holding in pink tentacles

In enchanting paralysis,

Entirely lost

In gorging flower anemone’s

Colourful nemesis.





A broken thread of trust

Must knot and knot again.

A dark indelible stain

On a white sheet is shame

And boughs that will not bend will break,

Volcanic emotions erupt,

Fiery tempers incinerate,

Still waters run deep,

Resolutions stand like rocks,

Careers at their peaks,

Civilizations that rise must fall like waves,

And males and females in fact

Like opposite poles attract.


Prototypes in nature

Frame our very circumstance,

Fix our reflex,

Are the alphabets 

That spell out our context;


For problems do resolve like solutions,

Crises precipitate,

Catalysts are also human agents,

Chain reactions can devastate,

In history as in chemistry,

As elements compound 

So issues complicate,

Like an organism

Ideas too can proliferate,



How curious

that physical analogies

Ring true of our predicaments,

Exist like primordial metaphors,

Define our contours;

The paradigms reaching across

A far flung cosmos.




Comet in the sky

You smite me distant traveler

With some strange nostalgia,

Far away going away

Every night for a while.


Comet in the sky

Your light has tanned

My naked eye,

Touched my retina

With a new age,

Burrowed into my mind.


You surprise

Like a distant train

In the wilderness

Hurtling on its way.


Siberian crane

You fill me with compassion

For your lonely furious pilgrimage

To another millennium.


Visitor from another age,

Your searing glorious passage,

Primordial image,

Like a messiah come

To  disturb our settled equilibrium.





Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up
Into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason
Has not lost its way into the dreary desert sands of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action—
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.


                                         RABINDRANATH  TAGORE

                                       Nobel Prize for literature 1913



Thoughts do not sprout,

This is a barren season,

The morning holds no promise,

And night thankfully

Brings oblivion,

While the day extends endlessly

In routine.

The heart has closed,

The mind still,

Not a whiff of air,

Something cold in the breast,

A grand emptiness everywhere.

Something has snapped somewhere,

It is low tide,

The moon of the mind

Has set,

But there is not even anguish,

Not even hurt, no emotion,

The leaves do not stir,

There is no storm,

Just an impotent silence here,

An emptiness,

But it is not tranquil,

It is the stuff of vacuums

Of nothingness

Of casting a net

Into a fish-less sea,

With a ringing in the ears,

A restlessness

Of ennui.


I have this icon

Looking down at me

Wings outstretched till the ears

Eyebrows joined over the nose

Gaze steady

Into my soul.

Crop of curling hair

Tumbling down from a tiara

Wand held firmly

Behind the head

Palm outstretched

In a blessing.

Thick brown stole

Over green tunic

Smites my heart


Child-smiling (1)

Many people both spiritually inclined and ordinary folk wish somehow to have a vision of God. In India this desire is called DARSHAN. Worshippers and ordinary people also who have no great faith, visit temples, engage in prayer, visit centres of pilgrimage, take baths in rivers during the Kumbh festival, perform rituals, meditate in the hope of having a vision but more ordinarily to ward off  the inauspicious circumstances that are a constant reminder of the need to seek divine protection and blessings. The great saints of India hankered after vision as expressed in their songs ballads and poetry. In the Gita Arjun asked his friend Krishna to reveal to him his eternal cosmic form not satisfied with all the truths revealed to him and the grand philosophy of the Gita – he had to see to believe. There is a beautiful Sufi song sung by the great sufi singer Abida Parveen which complains to God not to hide behind the veil of  the world, for she is a seeker and lover who yearns to have a vision ( Ghungat ole na luk sajana main mushtaq deedar da hoon)  Courtesy You tube below is the prayer song.


The poet saint Kabir similarly asks seekers not to visit places of worship, engage in rituals, go on pilgrimages or meditate in distant tranquil spots for what you seek is within you. This poem by Kabir is a kind of revelation where God asks where are you seeking me? The beautiful song has been sung by Mitali Banerjee Bhaumik  :And I present it below courtesy You tube.

Many people believe as I do that Darshan or a glimpse of God is quite common place and occurs daily even though we do not realize it. When an innocent kid looks up and gives you a bewitching smile – That is a vision He has given you, or when two people deep in love look into each others eyes that too is a vision, or when we behold an extraordinary natural scene of great beauty, that too is a vision, or again when mother and son meet after a long parting both share the vision. Inspired by these thoughts I composed a poem when i came across this beautiful picture of a little boy smiling.

                       FINDING  GOD

The pristine innocence

Of that look.

Nothing in the lips to suggest


Eyes that do not blink

Full uninhibited moons,

Like those of a sage,

Piercing through you,

No subterfuge in a gesture,

No craft in a prank,

No device in a smile,

Just trust


You could never betray,

As you hold hands

In the little clasp

And relieve  your complications,

Inside its firm grip

Of love.


Hold a child’s hand

And look into his eyes


All your laborious meditations


All your remotest explorations,

Surpassing all your knowledge

In one moment

You have found God

As you let slip your mask,

Forego your tricks and treachery,

Shed your skepticism

And transform into a child.




Some say we should live

In the present.

But what about memory

That make up our thoughts

From remote corners

Of the mind?

And from that deep ocean

Arise whales

Sharks and leaping dolphins,

Octopus changing colours.

Like the producers of theatre

We conjure

 Costumes, protagonists, themes

 In vivid detail 

In fabulous dreams.

Thoughts sprout from nowhere

From the distant past suddenly

Transfix one neuron

Into focus on

A personage long gone

As if he were here,

Juxtapose a face to a name forgotten.

Songs follow one another

Before one closes

We can hear the echoes

Of the next one.

We thrive on the past

The structure and foundation

On which the present stands.

We remember

We recall

The deeply imprinted marks

Of our footprints in fossil

Fingerprints in amber

DNA in genes

Without them the present

Would be as meaningless 

As a seizure

Of Alzheimer’s.

The past is indeed 

The present

The present is the past

We cannot live in a present

Never without the past.

Let no one say

The present is all

For we are what is memory

We are what are thoughts

We are what is the past

The present is thus recast.



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