Communique from a Night

The day left in crimson haste,
And night gathered in hope of rest
Like a bird settling in its nest.
The Moslem atop his distant mosque
Like happy refrain of the day's song
Cried a last time to praise his Lord.
And a priest ending his worship's task
Did sound once his temple gong
That struck a note from a lonely chord.
A murmur broke among the trees
Who whispered softly to the breeze.
A far whistle of a passing train,
A few brief calls of a woken wren;
Then a wind ere it could die
Lifted my curtain up and high -
The sky slipped in quickly with a sigh
And left on my pillow a starry question!


This poem is dedicated to Jibanananda Das whose poems thrill me every time I read them.

Untitled

In my search for you I have brooked
      The long scroll of life after life;
      Moving between life and death
For you, and you only, I have looked.

But this ev'ning, in the fading light
      Sitting alone by the river bank
      When sudden I hear your steps
The long hunt's end seems in sight.

But to whom or how can I bare the start
Of this sudden speechless throb in the heart?

A Promise

Embrace why my dear friend die who must one day?
Why speak to silence that echoes what I say?
To grasp at bright and shining shadows why
If fleeting white, as clouds in deep blue of sky?
My spring is over, my summer at an end -
The scent of flowers sorrowed memories wend.
As blooms on casket where the corse abide,
My winter's chill they vainly try to hide.
I mourned first this drama of human clay;
Denying, unable to grasp the briefly play.
Then a peep was stolen, a pall put away:
A kingdom greater than a thousand regal sway;
A rest completer than death can ever fetch;
A peace the deepest oceans never can match.


This sonnet was written after reading Shelley's Ode to West Wind - "If Winter comes, can spring be far behind?"
I dedicate it to my father and hope I shall meet him again - perhaps in another age and under another sky...

Mask

He came a-walking slowly down the road
A stick in hand - some broken leafless branch.
A shock of dirty curly hair, a load
Of whiskers covered half his face; my hunch:
A beggar, idle rover with no abode.
A dark and dirty skin, a blank his face,
Resigned to fate and wearing meagre clothes
He trod on skinny legs with aimless pace.
Then sudden turned his head, his eyes met mine:
A flicker smile - half seen half guessed - appeared
And vanished, giving just a moment's shine.
And he trudged on the lonely road as evening neared.
Then with fierce delight and searing joy the guile
Was bared - it none but Achyuta's smile!


Achyuta, meaning the Infallible Lord, is, in the tradition of Gauriya Vaishnavism, one of the 108 names of Lord Krishna. This sonnet is dedicated to him on the occasion of his birthday.

The Artist

Past the long ages of changing scenes
Where time doth hang as mellow screens
A painter is spied, and holding brush
Is eager drawing a picture of hush :
The white hot haze of summer's day
As men in water and grass lay.
The artist since in grave has lain
But someone takes to painting again.
With guile he turns the painter the painting,
Betakes to canvas : a form that's breathing.
And chooses upon Life for hues of his palette,
And strokes of brush in the hands of his Fate.
Yet spurning Time, that canvas cloth's standing robust
While this greater painting but reduce to dust.





I dedicate this sonnet to Haiku.

My Autumn

         A sudden gust
Caught and shook the bowers
       Sending dead yellow leaves
       Full of soft memories
Floating down in showers
         Upon the grass.


       The leaves that once
Joined to stem and stalk of Life,
      And gilded by sun to vibrant green,
      Home to crows and cuckoos alike
Now fallen, and bare bowers seen
       That autumn announce.


O the One, why put away Thy mask so soon?


     The leaves that once
Adorned the tree
     Providing shady shelter to all
     Who sought it midst the heat and gall,
Loving and free.


O the One, wherefore do Thou rescind Thy boon?


     The leaves that once
Below heaven's immense span
     Of moon and stars and the Great Bear
     Rustling, whispered to eager ear
The secret of His mighty plan.


    The leaves, now I see
Aimlessly moving so,
     Remind me only of you;
     And leave me no work to do
And no place to go,
    But tread the path to Thee.




I dedicate this poem to my father.