I often came across a face,
which wore a masquerade circadian
bright flashy,sometimes grey
when eyes flashed as pretense.
while it stepped out
dodging the world
The ruse, it played
became deceptive aid.
Changing masks, a regular charade
simulation of hidden guile
What a guise,
the face plates?
Façade of false expressions
Pose of honest imitation
Sly,deceit the masquerade’s colour,
Which hath you put today
O! clown of disguise
What’s your colour?
will you ever see your real image
your real reflection?or will the masquerade be your shroud forever?
An epitome of grace,
as figurine in tribhanga
The ultimate superfluous aura radiates
in the dancing statuette …
on beats pulsating,reverberate which the atoms of air
she steps on earth,kissing the soil of her motherland
with hands folded in a lotus shape,
her fingers offer the love of her heart,
she, the classic danseuse of Konark!
Behind her, wheels of the royal chariot of Sun stand
withstanding years of scorching heat and sordid weather
The rustic sandstone roughens every moment
while her feet thumps in rhythm ,on every beat of the Mridanga!
Echoes the melancholic intense love of Geet Govinda,
sways the sculptured posture like a waving petal…
tenderly mesmerizing the ambience
in every atom of the milieu …
starts the Abhinaya.
What an enchanting sight!
an alluring panorama…
The vista shines in flamboyance
in the ethereal dance
with the myriad hues of heaven…
Tribhanga: Pose of Odissi dance.
Mridanga: Indian drum,
Abhinaya: an Odissi dance form
Geet Govinda: an epic in form of verse written by Jaidev
“me” the universe rotates around,
swirled “I” in the prism of creation
dissolves the outward character
like a particle of salt
I be a part ,now of the supreme ocean…
One drop ,is what I become of the
What for then”I” cried and wailed
When tis the drop ,what I become!
Rather promiscuous in the flowing waves
“I” the wanton , merge
in the flaps of that motion
carries which to the soul of bliss,
in form of a dancing dervish!!!
spins my legacy,
my originating designate
in atoms of the Supreme
I” assimilate ….
I wish to be the tiny flower lies who,
at the feet of thine…
Instead of the jewel that shines in thy crown
O! immortal Krishna ! I sing your praise
in verses of mine!
The brilliant gem bedecks your aura
Outstands it every precious stone
O! but it cannot see thy face benevolent
even while decorating… in thy diadem…
I , the lonely flower, rest in thy feet
grace bestows my presence
When thy eyes look at me…
Thou universe that rotates around you thee!
I unaware of the method,
here! I sit and surrender at your feet
O! Krishna ! Raise me from
the chasms of time!
O! look ,there’s the real poet
who pulled out his heart
adorned it with
“the blows of ruthless love”
the mute feelings unearthed from gravels
slide as drops across the scar
creating a magical aura
in between the theme.
The silken imagery of fabulous scenes
diced with stupefying verses
dipped in the blood ink.
Oh! He rolled out his soul
on the streets and alleys
where once lived his wife to be
in the deserted palaces
and through the lanes of slum
wanders he , frantically.
Wondrously he conversed with the birds
Kissed the floating clouds
flowers danced to his tunes
in broad daylight , he fears
Under the starlit sky, he wanders
Alone he undertakes the journey
for miles in deep slumber
and in his solitude .
Look ! Oh! There’s the real poet
His soul dripping with blood and love
resented by the world
is named lunatic
psychic he is referred to
on the path of destiny.
silently the stream cuts through
the green land into two
runs the parting silken
adorned with the water crystal clear
tiny sparkling drops
glitter in the midst
thousand uncleaned feet
loved and kissed
thy splendour shines in
the golden light of love
like a silver ornament
which bedecks on a woman.
listen to the music melodious
the fluttering of leaves in shade of summer
the river gushing through rocky terrains
the chirping of birds on dawn
rains droplets falling in rhythm…
blissful tune of the nightingales
stormy winds and lashing waves
the cool serene touch of grass
flying above the cottonballs
standing mountains sheltering, the land afar…
Harps the wind on the twigs and trees
the melody of a song pristine…
enchanting as the flute of the lord
the harmonic composition
of the MIGHTY KING!
It’s a dream ,
A simple wish
Neither jewels fancy me
Nor the glitter of being rich…
As a tiny colourful bird,
I want to wing my feathers
Spreading in the open air
To hover over the colourless ocean…
Clipped , chained,
I lay in tethers
In the dark abyss
The dust of nostalgia
Suffocating my nostrils…
From ages , restrained I am
Crumpled like a rose ,petals crushed,
Oh! Who doth seen ,
The blood that oozes
When Iam strangled within my shelter…
Buried beneath the fire ablaze
Watch the smoke moving high
Kisses it ,the clouds white…
I await…to be born again..
from the ashes of the pyre…
Like a phoenix ..of modern times.
Beneath the grey shawl
I still shiver and tremble,
It shrouds my figure
Yet is devoid of the warm ensemble.
Sparingly I look up
Or try to search
The tattered shawl needs a mend
Few stitches shall repair the imperfect shred.
With a needle of courage
A thread of hope
I hide the patch and refurbish
It’s a new wrap in possession
The old torn is nowhere…
Water wont seep in
through the pores of this mantle ever…