Broken Love
My heart have lost the savour of your smile
and the sky has lost its heaven.
Blindly I trample on wild flowers, a rogue elephant
with no sense of beauty.
A mariner who sails on an enchanting ocean,
but only see his iron cage… prisoner of gloom.
Chains of love broken; a freedom not wanted.
life’s only purpose was you and I
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
फ्राग्मेंट ऑफ़ अ दरें
Fragments of a Dream
Azure waves, white froth dries on sandy shore of
oblivion. Timeless whispering of fate, for no ears
but mine. A black hulled scallop, on nature’s canvas,
skull & cross bone banner. Pale is the sky, a vague
shimmer disappears behind the horizon of awareness
as transient kites flutter, held by weakening hands.
The breeze sighs of nothingness.
Azure waves, white froth dries on sandy shore of
oblivion. Timeless whispering of fate, for no ears
but mine. A black hulled scallop, on nature’s canvas,
skull & cross bone banner. Pale is the sky, a vague
shimmer disappears behind the horizon of awareness
as transient kites flutter, held by weakening hands.
The breeze sighs of nothingness.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
फ्रॉम तस्मानिया विथ लव
From Tasmania with Love
The wind is a whisper, bell hard evergreen leaves
softly clank as shifting light caresses the landscape.
I saw a film clip of the last Tasmanian tiger, the film
was shot in 1936, the beast looked like a striped,
dog and it has now disappeared into the landscape
of dreams. But wait! A stirring amongst the bushes,
a golden streaked animal is watching me and it isn’t
a pussy cat. The sky darkens, light temporarily fades,
there is a deep silence, birds have stopped singing.
Portugal is very far from Tasmania, but I know what
I saw, or was it a sunbeam dancing on yellow straw?
The wind is a whisper, bell hard evergreen leaves
softly clank as shifting light caresses the landscape.
I saw a film clip of the last Tasmanian tiger, the film
was shot in 1936, the beast looked like a striped,
dog and it has now disappeared into the landscape
of dreams. But wait! A stirring amongst the bushes,
a golden streaked animal is watching me and it isn’t
a pussy cat. The sky darkens, light temporarily fades,
there is a deep silence, birds have stopped singing.
Portugal is very far from Tasmania, but I know what
I saw, or was it a sunbeam dancing on yellow straw?
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
हेअर्त ache
The Heartache
You have gone to a jungle of sadness, into the wilderness
of confused love. Where tigers’ claws are poisoned, snakes
twist the truth and scorpions have stings of envy.
I can’t follow you, I have no machete, or an armoured suit
to protect myself against devious tongues.
My world is naïve sunlight, the open plain, where nothing
is hidden in dark corners of my mind. Come to my world
and I’ll meet you in the glade where Spanish bluebells chime
and we will go to the mountain’s sweet fountain and see
the birth of rainbows.
You have gone to a jungle of sadness, into the wilderness
of confused love. Where tigers’ claws are poisoned, snakes
twist the truth and scorpions have stings of envy.
I can’t follow you, I have no machete, or an armoured suit
to protect myself against devious tongues.
My world is naïve sunlight, the open plain, where nothing
is hidden in dark corners of my mind. Come to my world
and I’ll meet you in the glade where Spanish bluebells chime
and we will go to the mountain’s sweet fountain and see
the birth of rainbows.
Monday, November 23, 2009
थे सिरें ऑफ़ sighs
The Siren of Sighs.
How mystic the Caribbean ocean is, ebony sea with white
crests slapping the hull of the ship; and the mermaid’s voice
is a sweet wordless whisper, but I do understand her well.
Alone on wooden deck, on a ship of yore, she invites me to
embrace her and she will bring me to an island, in the middle
of Saragossa Sea, meet old friends and talk about the days
when ship had more shapely wood than hard unbending iron,
to make them beautiful. But the moon is full and stars fill
the heavens with wonder, tomorrow we will dock in Kingston,
Jamaica, so my old friends, on the island of dreams, will have
to wait a little longer
How mystic the Caribbean ocean is, ebony sea with white
crests slapping the hull of the ship; and the mermaid’s voice
is a sweet wordless whisper, but I do understand her well.
Alone on wooden deck, on a ship of yore, she invites me to
embrace her and she will bring me to an island, in the middle
of Saragossa Sea, meet old friends and talk about the days
when ship had more shapely wood than hard unbending iron,
to make them beautiful. But the moon is full and stars fill
the heavens with wonder, tomorrow we will dock in Kingston,
Jamaica, so my old friends, on the island of dreams, will have
to wait a little longer
Sunday, November 22, 2009
थे सिरें ऑफ़ मुर्मौर
The Siren of Murmour
How mystic the Caribbean ocean is, ebony sea with white
crests slapping the hull of the ship; and the mermaid’s voice
is a sweet wordless murmour, but I do understand her well.
Alone on wooden deck, on a ship of yore, she invites me to
embrace her and she will bring me to an island, in the middle
of Saragossa Sea, meet old friends and talk about the days
when ship had more shapely wood than hard unbending iron,
to make them beautiful. But the moon is full and stars fill
the heavens with wonder, tomorrow we will dock in Kingston,
Jamaica, so my old friends, on the island of dreams, will have
to wait a little longer
How mystic the Caribbean ocean is, ebony sea with white
crests slapping the hull of the ship; and the mermaid’s voice
is a sweet wordless murmour, but I do understand her well.
Alone on wooden deck, on a ship of yore, she invites me to
embrace her and she will bring me to an island, in the middle
of Saragossa Sea, meet old friends and talk about the days
when ship had more shapely wood than hard unbending iron,
to make them beautiful. But the moon is full and stars fill
the heavens with wonder, tomorrow we will dock in Kingston,
Jamaica, so my old friends, on the island of dreams, will have
to wait a little longer
इस roses
Ice Roses
Frost on windows? Not where I live now, but where
I grew up, winter windows had thick layers of ice.
And in mornings, before anyone got out of bed, I
carved landscape and faces and saw my work fade
slowly away, by noon I could see the landscape
I had carved through clear windows, the mountain’s
stream, frozen solid now, and trees; mother’s face
also as she was busy in the kitchen baking bread.
I do not miss the cold Nordic land I came from, but
wish windows here too have frost roses, or be as
blank as a new page I could write. “I love you on.”
Frost on windows? Not where I live now, but where
I grew up, winter windows had thick layers of ice.
And in mornings, before anyone got out of bed, I
carved landscape and faces and saw my work fade
slowly away, by noon I could see the landscape
I had carved through clear windows, the mountain’s
stream, frozen solid now, and trees; mother’s face
also as she was busy in the kitchen baking bread.
I do not miss the cold Nordic land I came from, but
wish windows here too have frost roses, or be as
blank as a new page I could write. “I love you on.”
Friday, November 20, 2009
देअथ ऑफ़ अ अ प्रिंसेस
Death of a Princess
Transparent, on top of a knoll
she stood the most famous woman
in the western world.
She tried to get down, could not
addicted to fame she had become.
Lightning struck, a torn newspaper
creation.
Ten million flowers sacrificed.
Her brother built her a shrine, in
the middle of a man-made lake,
pay the entrance fee and you just
might, on a clear day, see her shadow
walk on water.
Transparent, on top of a knoll
she stood the most famous woman
in the western world.
She tried to get down, could not
addicted to fame she had become.
Lightning struck, a torn newspaper
creation.
Ten million flowers sacrificed.
Her brother built her a shrine, in
the middle of a man-made lake,
pay the entrance fee and you just
might, on a clear day, see her shadow
walk on water.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
थे तेर्रोर
The Terror
Looking out the day was dazzling with deep shadows
in corners and under dead street lamps.
Reticent lips exploded, gave birth to a scream which
shattered the forenoon, only white heat remained.
Window glass dripped, became a petrified lake where
fish eyes glared as the day was pushed down the abyss
of night. Black, shiny boots trampled all to fragments,
but the fiend’s eye was forever glued to the inside of
my mind.
Looking out the day was dazzling with deep shadows
in corners and under dead street lamps.
Reticent lips exploded, gave birth to a scream which
shattered the forenoon, only white heat remained.
Window glass dripped, became a petrified lake where
fish eyes glared as the day was pushed down the abyss
of night. Black, shiny boots trampled all to fragments,
but the fiend’s eye was forever glued to the inside of
my mind.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
डांस नोक्टुरने
Dance Nocturne
August night is an abyss hotter than the day
and the wind that blows was born in hell.
From open windows and their dark interiors
the primal scream of lovemaking,
wriggling bodies trying to produce a child
that like them soon will die, but first it has to
go to the ritual called love, which is but a primitive
urge to copulate the planting of a seed before
sinking back underground, spent, forgotten in
mass graves of boredom, decorated with flowers
that radiates deaths to come.
The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon and
forever vanishes into an ancient forest while werewolves
sway to a Mexican dirge.
August night is an abyss hotter than the day
and the wind that blows was born in hell.
From open windows and their dark interiors
the primal scream of lovemaking,
wriggling bodies trying to produce a child
that like them soon will die, but first it has to
go to the ritual called love, which is but a primitive
urge to copulate the planting of a seed before
sinking back underground, spent, forgotten in
mass graves of boredom, decorated with flowers
that radiates deaths to come.
The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon and
forever vanishes into an ancient forest while werewolves
sway to a Mexican dirge.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
हाउ मिल्ड फल इस
How mild the fall is?
I followed a track between tall, pale green cactuses, in this harsh landscape
where even the smallest plant has thorns, where bark and leaves, of even
regular trees, like carob and olive, are tough and will not softens to human
touch. Yet this is a landscape that once was tilled and now abandoned, does
this landscape’s common soul feels rancorous of being left to fend for itself?
I found a ruin. More than a ruin, a pile of stones only its outline told me that
once this had been a home where children had been born, lived and died
for generations, till someone said: enough! And left for pastures green, (most
likely USA or Canada,) poverty is only romantic in movies. Half of November
gone, I’m walking about in shirt sleeves the ground is rock hard and dusty,
the local paper tells us that 14 years ago the weather was mild too till January,
then it snowed and it was cold till May. Feel I’m being watched in the bushes
I see a boar watching me it is a wily old boar it sees I carry no gun, yet keeps
its distance; and high above me circles eagles; the landscape is teaming with
rabbits which used to be food for the people, who lived in the ruin (when
they could snare one) now business men, who have paid for a license to kill,
come here to unwind. To kill seems to satisfy a base desire in mankind; yet, it
is better a rabbit is scarified, then to see a dead Afghan child with eyes that
reflect the grey mountains, poppy fields and the blue unfeeling sky.
I followed a track between tall, pale green cactuses, in this harsh landscape
where even the smallest plant has thorns, where bark and leaves, of even
regular trees, like carob and olive, are tough and will not softens to human
touch. Yet this is a landscape that once was tilled and now abandoned, does
this landscape’s common soul feels rancorous of being left to fend for itself?
I found a ruin. More than a ruin, a pile of stones only its outline told me that
once this had been a home where children had been born, lived and died
for generations, till someone said: enough! And left for pastures green, (most
likely USA or Canada,) poverty is only romantic in movies. Half of November
gone, I’m walking about in shirt sleeves the ground is rock hard and dusty,
the local paper tells us that 14 years ago the weather was mild too till January,
then it snowed and it was cold till May. Feel I’m being watched in the bushes
I see a boar watching me it is a wily old boar it sees I carry no gun, yet keeps
its distance; and high above me circles eagles; the landscape is teaming with
rabbits which used to be food for the people, who lived in the ruin (when
they could snare one) now business men, who have paid for a license to kill,
come here to unwind. To kill seems to satisfy a base desire in mankind; yet, it
is better a rabbit is scarified, then to see a dead Afghan child with eyes that
reflect the grey mountains, poppy fields and the blue unfeeling sky.
Monday, November 16, 2009
अ उसेफुल poet
A Useful Poet
This is a new document I don’t know what to write, should I be soft spoken
(I do feel like shouting) or should I try to rhyme? Like never mind the truth
As long as it sounds good. I could write about cats, dog, birds and butterflies,
people like that and there is a perception that poetry should exude peace
and tranquility and we must know by now that that is not true. My king is
going to war again and have asked me to write a poem that makes people
jingoistic ready to fight a wrong war, (all wars are wrong) and since I have
been given a medal. as a man for all seasons I must comply, but I do feel like
spitting on my own grave for it is not possible to be a poet and not defending
those who starve and needs a voice to speak and defend their cause.
This is a new document I don’t know what to write, should I be soft spoken
(I do feel like shouting) or should I try to rhyme? Like never mind the truth
As long as it sounds good. I could write about cats, dog, birds and butterflies,
people like that and there is a perception that poetry should exude peace
and tranquility and we must know by now that that is not true. My king is
going to war again and have asked me to write a poem that makes people
jingoistic ready to fight a wrong war, (all wars are wrong) and since I have
been given a medal. as a man for all seasons I must comply, but I do feel like
spitting on my own grave for it is not possible to be a poet and not defending
those who starve and needs a voice to speak and defend their cause.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
नोट alone
Not Alone.
Live next door to a street lamp, full
moon every night .
On an enormous heavenly canvas,
A lone star shines.
The rest have turned their back on
Earth and light up a galaxy that’s
Not of my concern, when I watch
Ads for Martini Bianca on TV.
Fine by me I don’t need to be smart
In a bar , but I do pity the lone star,
It must be cold up there. Wave,
It winks back and fire flies dance.
Live next door to a street lamp, full
moon every night .
On an enormous heavenly canvas,
A lone star shines.
The rest have turned their back on
Earth and light up a galaxy that’s
Not of my concern, when I watch
Ads for Martini Bianca on TV.
Fine by me I don’t need to be smart
In a bar , but I do pity the lone star,
It must be cold up there. Wave,
It winks back and fire flies dance.
Friday, November 13, 2009
immortality
Immortality
Every morning an old man, with a jute
sack slung over his bent back,
leaves his cottage.
His mother’s ancient shadow sits by
the fire keeps ember alive. She is older
than the oldest olive tree in the grove.
She came here when the earth was new,
stars not yet born and the moon was
a pale outline on black canvas.
Her son is gathering roses’ dream
and bird songs in the outer field to sustain
her in a life of perpetuity.
Every morning an old man, with a jute
sack slung over his bent back,
leaves his cottage.
His mother’s ancient shadow sits by
the fire keeps ember alive. She is older
than the oldest olive tree in the grove.
She came here when the earth was new,
stars not yet born and the moon was
a pale outline on black canvas.
Her son is gathering roses’ dream
and bird songs in the outer field to sustain
her in a life of perpetuity.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
अ न्यू beginning
New beginning
Her kiss tasted of iron railing a frost bitten dawn…. My lips bled.
Her eyes were frozen stars in a deadly
galaxy of tranquillity.
A beauty flawless. Her body…unbending, unwilling, an ice maiden in a winter forest.
Her blue lips had spots of cardinal crystal, futile my attempt of resurrection.
My love I laid by her feet, struck a match in the vast night of silence
Ash and ember …I’m free.
In the glade, amongst roses of gold,
my new love waited…hand in hand
we walked to where the day begins
Her kiss tasted of iron railing a frost bitten dawn…. My lips bled.
Her eyes were frozen stars in a deadly
galaxy of tranquillity.
A beauty flawless. Her body…unbending, unwilling, an ice maiden in a winter forest.
Her blue lips had spots of cardinal crystal, futile my attempt of resurrection.
My love I laid by her feet, struck a match in the vast night of silence
Ash and ember …I’m free.
In the glade, amongst roses of gold,
my new love waited…hand in hand
we walked to where the day begins
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
वेटिंग फॉर रैन
Waiting for Rain.
Most days on my way to the café or to the grocer,
I walk past an old man who sits in the garden, on
a sofa that has lost its place in the living room where
It once had been an object of pride for a newlywed
couple and placed under an oak that was blind to
such details. I often stop and talk to him, he can’t
remember me from one day to the next and tells me
about his parents it’s like they are still alive, and how
wonderful life was in the old days.
He isn’t here today, the mantle he wrapped around
his bony shoulders when there was a chill in the air,
is flung carelessly on the sofa, a zephyr whispers he
will not be back.“ Will I be that old? I ask the fading
sun. I sit on an old sofa on the terrace, scan the sky
a blanker wrapped around my shoulders to keep out
the chill, here in the vale where I was born and my
parents lived before me. We wait for September rain
and remember how wonderful life used to be.
Most days on my way to the café or to the grocer,
I walk past an old man who sits in the garden, on
a sofa that has lost its place in the living room where
It once had been an object of pride for a newlywed
couple and placed under an oak that was blind to
such details. I often stop and talk to him, he can’t
remember me from one day to the next and tells me
about his parents it’s like they are still alive, and how
wonderful life was in the old days.
He isn’t here today, the mantle he wrapped around
his bony shoulders when there was a chill in the air,
is flung carelessly on the sofa, a zephyr whispers he
will not be back.“ Will I be that old? I ask the fading
sun. I sit on an old sofa on the terrace, scan the sky
a blanker wrapped around my shoulders to keep out
the chill, here in the vale where I was born and my
parents lived before me. We wait for September rain
and remember how wonderful life used to be.
Monday, November 9, 2009
थे वनिशिंग voice
The Vanishing Voice
October in Gaza is still warm but evenings are
cooling and days are shorter, few birds sit on
shell damaged trees, and the airspace above us
is often filled with helicopter clatter.
So much have been destroyed, ruble and dust
winter will be cold for many, and our hearts
hardens we fear for the children who play war
games amongst ruins.
Our leaders are hard men, but we voted for
them since our former leaders were corrupt.
We long for a sovereign nation called Palestine,
But most of all we long for lasting peace.
October in Gaza is still warm but evenings are
cooling and days are shorter, few birds sit on
shell damaged trees, and the airspace above us
is often filled with helicopter clatter.
So much have been destroyed, ruble and dust
winter will be cold for many, and our hearts
hardens we fear for the children who play war
games amongst ruins.
Our leaders are hard men, but we voted for
them since our former leaders were corrupt.
We long for a sovereign nation called Palestine,
But most of all we long for lasting peace.
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