The Last of Oedipus

This poem is written to end the first collection of my works. It talks about the final stages of Oedipus’s life where he sees light amidst darkness and realizes nothing escapes from fate. All that is destined is nothing but the course of life and with their occurrences the journey is said to be completed. One who tries to stop it will not succeed but end at seeing the culmination of the oracle each soul is entitled for.

This small but eternal journey of mine,
Makes me feel nothing changes the twine.
I have cured plague and have moved,
I who have seen storms and sailed,
And unknown of the blood that I shine.
Let no unknown folk talk about me,
For known is the lives that lived here.
Let all stars be there to guide me,
When am gray, old and sublime.

The tale of the self is an illusion,
As each moment we lived is gone.
Those moments shall not return,
Nor shall I redo all that is undone.

The demon is in holding the meaning,
With intellect so uncured and untrue.

I still sit on this wide crossroad
Where three known roads meet.
Every soul will sit here awhile,
Then journey through tears or smile.
Great warriors have surrendered
To the fate they worshipped;
For me there is no glory ushered
In these false applauds of the world.
The answer to the sphinx is man
As the reason to the riddle is to live.
I killed both to surge into a great war.
There is no Corinth, no Thebes
But the giant solitude everywhere.
My deeds will not be pardoned,
But will stand through for measure.
 
In this temple of dark eloquence
Let history only follow the Light.

I have to sing because am the song

There are enough trumpets to blow
In this forlorn land of muses;
Enough lyrics stand idle to be sought
And ancient rhythms of melody flow.
There is no crowd of solitude here
And no wandering eyes moaning.
There is no dream here to come
And no thought to end with tear.

Emptied hearts and burdened souls
Now fill the curtains and not rise
From the trivial tests of fate.
I have seen a fiddler in the meadow
Now having stood for long to play
And journey with my eternal song.
And a pianist with shivering fingers
Beside the lake filled with Mozart,
Stands unheard among country tulips.

These are all but tinges of the last hope
That glimmers through autumn winds
And journeys through unpaved paths.
Let time heal all to make this great song.
This world is a great orchestra to witness;
A great symphony of undying faith binds
As I have to sing because am the song.

Echoes of Innocence

Time is cruel that it doesn’t return
Nor does it feel when the heart breaks.
With leaves wandering among weeds
Seldom there is an echo that breaks.
We will not love again nor will dream;
The faith that grows like an oak
And falls from the tall beautiful cloak.

Somewhere near we will see again
The mundane eyes with tears filled.
And someone whispering in the ears,
All will but change so where does it end?
Then a soul will stand, another will follow.

The caverns of time will guide
And gentle breeze will heal.

The hoofs still beat and hunger stands
Alone on this strand deserted for long.
There is light and there is darkness.
There is an eternal war to face within.
There is peace in an unknown song,
When melodies flap and ever embrace
All monuments of race and empty hands.

Someday on this acre of green grass
With dew filled Tulips swinging
A soul will meet its soul and pass
The baton of love and care.
Then there is no anguish and pain,
No dream that is butchered,
No wish that enters dark wheels
And no moment that stands still.

Is that what we call death?
Is that the end of all desire?

Flame beside flame will make way
For this luminance that will stay.
All clouds will clap and move,
All stars will now fall in love.
From the furnace I have come
With no tattered piece in hand.
These eyes have closed long before
But the vision within still sees;
The flowers of childhood still fresh,
The fragrance that still echoes.
The robe is now clean and furls
The soul of mine to journey
Through these known woods of rose.

A Monsoon Dream

It was drizzling in a small country side, and was an evening dark and lonely. There were paddy fields stretched on all sides with apparitions of old trees hustling here and there. The sky looked softly lit and birds who have returned after the winter, chirping on unknown boughs. All doors were closed here like everywhere else, small little lamps lit faintly with mediocre human beings surrounded. From somewhere there emerges a white smoke and sometimes the air is moist with occasional fragrance of flowers that grow in the forest. The generosity of this life is in the observation of the unseen fabric that fills the time we live in.

I sat on the pavement through the night watching closely all. I am glad there is a hope for the day to break with a new sun and a new life growing after the monsoon. The possibility of life gets more strengthened with the visions of greenness around and experiences of vivid emotions generated in this small little world of ours.

It is still gray as the night is not just over.
The last drops of the last monsoon
Wish that a great green earth is born,
A phoenix tale from time unknown
Gets played on this country-side.

There is a tree in every being.
It depends what tree you are.
No rain, no Sun will ever help
Someone who doesn’t wish to grow.
No kind will come for help
And no generation will remember.
The more the branches the better.
The green leaves will grow on us,
And will take us into memory.

To nurture, nourish the naive,
Will make a melody for seasons.
The ages of the romance is now gone;
An age of unseen sequences arrive,
For trees to grow and keep green.

We are like the trees born with a seed,
Grow in many seasons undefined.
Yes and grow with a hope to be huge,
To soon stand tall and amuse.
Let conscience choose the right seed
And be here with great future to greet.
Let greenness bring enough fortune
In these ever changing times.

Through seasons let us journey and gain.
Let’s stand together to make a forest again.

The Feeding

Hunger is like a roaring lion
Sitting with opened eyes,
Dry mouth and distinct moan.
There are houses in our city
And people still unfed around.
There are breads without butter
And an ever gaining ground.
Hunger in those eyes are sacred;
As the illumination it touches is high.
What does it take to share our food?
To share the small little joys of life,
To heal someone who is in anguish?
The joy is unspoken then
As peace comes through nature.

We will not eat all nor will live forever,
Our citadels will vanish and vapour.
The plants we watered will be fossils
And our deeds will get killed by clever.
We will not mourn as after generations
Will lie on distant land far away from now.

To feed not the stomach but also the soul
Is a deed that will remain here forever.
Our stars will die, not the Sun in between.
There will be stars again and a new sun.
There comes a time when hunger is gone.

The world is like an oyster

The world is like an oyster
In deep sea that has seen storms;
And we people covered with nacre.
There is no patience among our kind,
There is no dream for the pearl.

There is great dazzle and shine,
For the courage to wait and see.
But our kind is just tough to witness
And seldom listen to the guiding tree.

Patience makes the life in the oyster
Turn into an ever shining pearl.
Our race is for being a witness
And judge not the passing time
But to dream for being valued.
It is better to stay beside the reefs
Six fathom deep and wait for fate
And time to catch than get lost
In the weeds and towering algae.

With time the strongest shield cracks
And the bright truth prevails.
After me child to child will sing this
As our ship of faith and hope sails.

There is a home calling!

It’s dark enough to close my eyes
And listen not to this world around.
What I can hear is just a distant echo;
A chorus with hymns from childhood,
And the days filled with innocence.

There is a home other side of this river
From where I belong and was born.
I see apparitions there that shiver
As have grown old and are in need
Of a shoulder strong to rest upon.

In dark I listen to the loved lullabies
My mother sung on summer nights,
And the warmth of winter evenings
That she rendered on the river bank.

But with time’s cruel intention,
Innocence breaks and broods.
And grows old with the shepherd’s tale;
Here is the world on the other side,
Where nothing heals but the memory.

A thinking mind brings misfortune,
And judges nothing but profit;
The world grows older with us
And in us it finds a waning moon.

But there calls the same bird
On the same bough to get back
And restore the glories of our past.
We will not journey together
But on parallel ships with coloured mast
And find enough wind to whack;
And courage to listen to the bard.

There is a home calling!

The story of Bluebard

Not far away from here
Does a tale survive,
That hymns the summer and winter
Of an adorable love alive.
The bard drooped under the sun
And walked over the uneven earth;
And now is an embodiment in misty morn,
Where no faith will ever be forlorn.

 I will tell you the tale of Bluebard.

In autumn he was born
And in winter did he live.
All else is least seasoned
As the tale is of a man to mourn.
On his birth near the lake
A vision of cobra did it take,
That over water moved to earth.
But the world is more venomous?

Perhaps that day all planets
Stared at what did they make?
Will it be a life full of errors?
Or what attire will it take?
No one ever guessed or gambled
As the sinking star isn’t worth a penny.
As the cold became intense
Green leaves turned pale.
With lifeless form like a tree he stood,
Beside him the way of the world moved,
On which crowded salmons rushed.
Salmons become lifeless on this road.

But in the evenings he was amused
By the mermaid that appeared in mist.
Soon all leaves left the bough
And the tree stood with arms wide open.
Who knew death was about to feast?

While in dark the creature appeared,
The mist got filled with fragrance,
And the water smelt purest love.
Soon the mermaid turned violent
And in the battle ended the romance.

Now that the bard is alone
Longing for that whiteness around,
The winter has ended and lake vanished,
As yawns and yells the greyest hound.
The selfish world never pitied
Not the whitest swans flown
To that unending eternity.

The bard has seen the wraths of time,
But strange it is still in him
That he longs for the mermaid to return.
Now as the sun is harsh and to burn
The roots have gone ashes
But the bough still longs.
The bard being the son of the muses
Kept silent as the crowded way amuses.
Strange it is but true that all lives
Do not end, some remain forever.

In a season of dismay

In a season of dismay
Mermaid to mermaid speaks
In desolation what counts,
Not the alibi grown from mind
But the patience born with time.
Beside the sea with caracal streak
In an evening filled with silence,
And trees swaying on mad mounts,
There is a brutal storm we will find.

The mermaid will see waves beating
And dying on black and rough rocks.
There is a sky up there casting
A real night with scattered illusions.
There is breeze flowing and meeting
The foams on the shore and flocks
Through the maddening gyre.
There is a puppeteer up above
Who inspires and is in love;
But with strings so discordant
Gets tired of humans and demons,
And harmony becomes a dream.

Freedom is being free from death;
And not clinging in the dying clocks.
A mermaid or an angel’s repertoire
Is not freedom but a broken oath,
The song of an eternal crime choir
Where choristers are amongst us.
To live in peace is a promise made
In heaven not in the breaking earth;
My life leads in that sea of hope
As every moment dreams gallop.

On a winter evening

It was a cold evening and I waited for hours;
To see you I had enough patience to stand.
There was a crowd that crossed me
And there were few citadels and towers
That stood gazing me long with no land,
No air to breathe and no love to see.

I had the roses on hold and a gift to give,
Never knew I had just few days to live
With you and those theatres that we visited.
Looking back there are actors still standing
As mannequins with questioned shade.
They still hope those bells will someday ring.
Now I am not there, not here
And not even on that crossroad
Where we had the last adieu.

Years have now passed, years to see;
But I will still choose to live
As every new day brings in more.
How soon can all these fly?
Memories and your words give
The courage to stand on this shore
Where dreams like muses dance
And the gray brain goes into trance.
There is enough that this world sucks,
Life is not in living but to love.
A death without you is as unquenched
As a life that I have lived without you.
But someday when we meet
Under the same lush green tree
We will not dare to talk or greet
As our old tears will flow free.

I will but still wait and try to speak
The days I walked and nights bleak.
I will take you to that blessed dome
Where life would feel at home;
A journey well ended is a joy
And a life like ours is time’s toy.