GodhuliLagane

A wistful glance into the opal sky,

There million birds pass me by,

Indistinct instincts stir up the chalice of spiritual frenzy,

Mumbling in sinister belief or disbelief?

Pardon doubt,

Pardon Infidelity,

Punish regret or its' pretence

and that I dread.

Hope recoils, uppish nicety,

in greed lurching onto the spills of a dream

Dreamt in the white night of Troy,

in beaming Machu Pichu turrets,

To fasten an end of the crescent

Pull the other strongly,

and rebel against few puissant bars.

Regime of the dot nearing its plot.

Winsome mistral heals.

I not, Cannot be sent back sky

I would fly,

I Will Fly.

Jahanara and Sheikh Janali.

A kid of five is fascinated by simple things that are routine to our eyes.

Fancying the Simple. My mind ponders, to the prospect of this being a theory on evolved poetry.

Could bring it on later.Being concerned about the child and its thoughts, I pick up its' muses, randomly

acknowledged, and randomly chucked. Paper planes and not origami, the table as a seat and not

the chair, the broom and not its snooty onlookers, a strand of hair disturbing mum's cheek muscles and not a prim lock.

We are pernicious in implicating them. That is what we do in our efforts to look simple or remain simple. An Effort ugh!

Simplified resounds glorified. 'Implying' devises the lopsided comic sense.

Childhood, of elements I am and am not, is my porch to salvation hence.Sheikh Janali mastered it to a halt, and then through the thin pair of lips on his wrinkled face,

he said;

-" babu chapben?".

Baba as Babu sounded odd. I have known the man as Baba though he never physically seemed to resemble my sketches of a close man. Strange contemplation again.

Baba grabbed me by my arms, without considering a chance of my democratic opinion to have swelled up; I was lifted up in the air and with a soft bang my bums

bumped onto his soft flesh. The dozing horse, unexpectedly loaded, didn't retort. I moved left and right, longing to cling against that striped shirt,

to recline in that armchair. May be slides of wooden 'tok bok tok bok' horses had flooded the existence of an inanimate horse. I kept whining until brought down in a wink.

There was a short dialogue, between the sahis and his Babu. I keenly watched its' brown coat, its' tail dyed in shades of black and cocoa, and the depressingly soft saddle stitched from old

'razais'. Some money was handed over and he went away into the crowd with Jahanara shooing bees off with his tail drowsily.

I see his imploring smile. It is no narcotic drool I conjure up on, but recollecting memories of a trip to Rather Mela which no more coins my 'idea of fun'.

O Jahanara, O Jahanara,.........Fancying the Simple.

home calling

August Autumn,

As I return to this lightless house every evening, I miss a slight shiver, A fretful gait and that reconciliation

between the unwavering trail of festivity and a hapless sense of serenity.Always resonant. Way back in time, fleecy clouds

would sink in my mnemonic struggle. Struggle for......enjoying it now and never had earlier. Ordinary am I? - not to flout such obtuse whims?

I exactly remember instances that made me go numb down my legs, and a second later, I perused my person with that mellow prick.

All hazy.

The struggle isn't against Nostalgia. Urge modelled into shape impromptu.

There were rains

Night, Mirror, a talk.

There were rains.

I play with a dead flame

Of Wrath, Pleasure, Mercy.

Of Trepidations,

n miles f ennui.

I caress not.

Tease n twist it to wrought thugs to empathy.

Widening populace, its' pomposity,

n shrinking penitence.

My pin hole vista shares secrets.

There are rains.

Oppose such formalism

where "just" triggers titters.

I oggle at the diminuendo, its vivacity.

I oggle at those bellowing streets;

the lustrous eyes

blinking under dripping polythene;

denying pity, pitying the holocaust in which we revel-

rancid aristocrats.

Bounteous in romance,

glorified in their own right.

Categorically, here crops my revenge.

Red hot charcoal of a dead flame.

Hang your jaws over the conundrum.

There were rains....but not me.