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Posts Tagged ‘gentle’

Some say love is never about speed but a slow

unfurling of beauty- gentle and unhurried.

That makes the difference between the passing

of time and the crafting of masterpiece-

not everyone is interested reading about angst.

 

And you fail to notice that everyone’s engaged

to their own brand of narcissism- they maintain

to survive and keep up one’s reputation.

 

And if you think that poets spend their lives

holed up in their four cornered walls and a window

looking in from the world changing night and day.

Self-absorbed about  feelings or digging of the past

and wanting for love that they never have.

 

Or won’t have.

 

Some say about exiles to another country

or to another time or another space would

make people stalk on your mysticism.

Or the lyricism of recording things-

one have chosen to leave behind.

 

You can be exiled even without a room.

That is easy- while you walk around nonchalant

and pretend you didn’t carry anything.

You must know how heavy it is to bring

one line of a poem and to bravely express it.

 

Who says poetry is a dying art? I say otherwise.

For centuries, poets mined gold, toiling the minds

of men and keep them going on despite travails.

Ranting about their lost loves, lost paradise

or lost keys of their hearts.

Or lost childhood. Or lost future.

 

Art that was losing chances and losing hope.

That made poems became songs sung out loud.

It became pieces of conversation. In the streets.

And in the way people speak. To sell. To buy

affection and things people would want

and impress people whom they would want

to belong with. But this will never be.

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It breathes against the mist

on the window pane when-

the evening stain left dreams

as they were. Entwined.

Fragile arms reaching out

the other. Bends

in the soft wind

like gentle caresses

searching for warmth.

 

Innocence crawl into the light.

They climb to support

each other and touch

as lovers do. Affection

grows like a vine.

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I met Monet

in his princely demeanor,

among the manicured lawn

and the secret garden

grows its verdant sprigs

and tresses, wild and free

in the prairie. Butterfly

flutters  paint palette

hovering bloom

after bloom. Solitude

 

drips in cadmium and ochre sun

sitting prominently,

potted and composed,

regal and undisturbed.

A gentle touch of the brush

that peaceful gaze,

horizonless strokes,

a sweet landscape.

 

I walk dreamily

drank with loveliness,

the wavy enthusiasm

of the blue sea.

Such is the welcoming

spirit of the flags

sashayed in the wind,

gliding together

with solitary birds

taking flight. Still

 

above the silver lake,

mirrored pools

of mountains in reverie.

I see reflections

of wooden boats

bobbing in a dance

with quiet clouds

rippling soft creating

small shivers

in its feathery face.

 

I remember the way

he  ushered me in

like an esteemed guest.

Taking my eyes to see

his picture books

of seeming easiness,

that immortal silence

showing how

to live as human,

not quite heavy

as his tormented soul.

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I can feel it now across this table

in the old diner of this no man’s land,

The sound of shuffling deck of cards.

Or is it the leaves in autumn falling

in September- that he will remember?

 

Do you know what it feels like

to be buried in cans and tins of paint,

blurring away the sun, moon and the stars?

The distance masked from the past

drowned in ebbs and crests of time.

 

He searches his soul among the shambles,

the printed letters fading on the pocketbook.

I sense the mad rhythms and cadences

of cursives and scribbles in melancholy.

The dead poet speaks uneasy like this.

 

He seems to be trapped. A vagabond.

A tyke on his cell who think he’s free.

Swimming away like a salmon

undisturbed by the changing seasons,

lost in migration to the new world.

 

He traded a king of hearts

and settles for a jack of spades.

The wind is rough, blowing in with sand.

This is not the gentle breeze of the prairie.

A tune. Unfamiliar, humming in my ear.

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Waiting’s over,

the night journey ends.

I welcome.

 

Nature’s curtain call,

clothed divinely

in morning dew.

 

Grey-brown lichens,

the light streams

into silvery branches.

 

Gentle flutter of green

upon the tree bark.

A solitary moment.

 

When the leaves sway,

fascinating colors

left me enthralled.

 

Warm and fragrant,

your subtle caresses

my inner calm.

 

Cascading sunlight

into turquoise pond,

I will bathe.

 

Enter my sacred sanctum.

Embracing sunlight,

I catch you.

 

Sunlight dances

with the morning breeze

into gentle romance.

 

Amidst the canopy

hiding me away.

I am found.

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No string quartet.

No conductor to signal the baton.

No orchestra to anticipate my usual swoon

of randomly plucked staccato

alternating octaves

like a mad man in Vienna.

 

Alone in the stage,

I would linger

unvigorous in vibrato,

punctuating this sadness

in glissando. A solo part- how I wish

to serenade the muse. Longing

to tell her story in music-

under the sweet  delicate pitch

sorrow of Cremona.

 

The episodes, I have written on

mellow notes, resonant harmony-

bowing cello. Passionately

romancing my fingers to the smoothness

of her nape, the ebony board. While

sitting on a chair, I am a young lover

in blue, embracing memories.

 

My gentle touch travels

her body,  her maple waist

to her bridge, her sensual curves.

Choreographed my movements

spiked to her gravity. My slow breath

became whispers reverberating,

counter-pointing her lucid melody.          

 

I chose to be soft rather than loud,

my cello swooning treble of a tenor-

overwhelmed by a mezzo-soprano.

Quenching beneath this segmented,

disjointed and abruptly shifted

monotony of a lifetime

asking for her forgiveness. 

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The earth became

a lacerated vision

of shallow heaven,

after the rain. T’was

a parting time,

a moment lost

when the big sky

agonizes over

the summer sun.

 

And how the  bamboo trees

sadly waving goodbye.

And the monsoon winds

blew gently,

creating ripples,

mirrored patches

and misty glimpses.

A sea of blue.

 

It was all-

in the photograph

capturing puddles

reflecting clouds

travelling by.

It was all-

that I keep

as a remembrance,

of a big sky

hoping for the sun.

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