Tag Archives: Romantic
Life is fire, And hatred And passion, And desperation- Life is not lived With calm reasonableness. The stillness of mind Reason and balance The shadowy peace Of the quiet lake Hides death, or, Maybe, something else. Let Rumi talk of love And peace And of miracles Of faith – We shall ask Rumi of all that When we die.
All those smiles And holding of hands And looking deep Into the eyes- And I thought I knew you, Stranger. We live alone Like planets, Near and far Never meeting; All those dances Around the fire Had made me think I knew you, Stranger. When you had come In my dreams To sign the pact Of togetherness- I awoke And thought Now I know you, Stranger. I knew you not I knew that not. The look, the smile, The innocent eyes, The dreams The dances- I will remember, always, And think, I knew you, Stranger. ***
The waves have been crashing Against these rocks For ages. The Sun sets here, dutifully, Every day, Ignoring the smiles Of the lovers- Or their tears. You sit on the sand Hand in hand with your lover, Sipping juice, wondering, Where these particles of sand Fit into the larger scheme of things. The waves, the wind, the sand, The passage of time, Turns your thoughts To mysteries of nature, And of God. Arnold, at the Dover beach, And Sophocles at the Aegean sea, And many others, before and since, Have heard the rumble of time On these beaches. Avoid the beach at dusk; Avoid sitting under the orange sky Holding the hands of your lover. For the waves are marking The passage of time- And their incessant rhythm Are trying to warn you Of the irrelevance Of this moment. ***
What is with you, Memory, Why do you play tricks with me? All that period Of struggle and strife – I remember today As a golden age; A time when I, apparently, Lived the life to the hilt; Those days of uncertainty, Of doubt and pining Seem now as a journey Full of music and fragrance- Why, Memory, is it so? Make up your mind, Memory. Today when I am again Lonely and confused And doubt everything And wish to escape it all – Would you again Dress up this period, later, And present it to me As one where I was At the prime of my life Brimming with health Surrounded by love Soaring high Aiming higher? As the time when, everyday, I played with my little devil And made up with my love After a fight, with a kiss? Memory, Would I remember Only the gardens and the parks And the morning walks And the hills and the beaches That we sometimes visit, And the smiles of mom and dad When they visit us On Holi and Diwali and Christmas? Make up your mind Memory, Tell me if it is so. Tell me straight That all this worry And struggle and pain That I feel today Is not going to matter And needs not Be taken seriously. ***
I write poetry To bring a smile on your lips. I wish I could meet you One of these days When you are reading my poetry And your lips curve slightly Into a faint smile, Before you move on To more serious things And forget the words that you liked. I write poetry To impress you. I wish I could read your thoughts When you tell yourself That you too had felt the same And wonder how I knew Your feelings so intimately, Before you shrug and say ‘Poets! They live in an airy-fairy world.’ And get back to your prosaic world. ***
Love gone out of control Is obsession; Love gone stale Is apathy; Love poisoned Is hate; When love meets love, halfway, It is bliss; One sided love Is worship; Love without sacrifice Is untested, unreliable; The love of a child Is demanding; The love of a mother Is absolute, unconditional; The love of a father Is understated, camouflaged, subtle. Love of a brother Is boisterous; Love of a sister Is fragrant, is delicate; All love received, undeserved, Is a blessing; All love given, unconditionally, Is a gift; Love with a motive Is lust; Love when expressed Is undermined; Love if demanded Is a sentence; Love unexpressed but understood Is pure, is true. Love, when young, Is eager, is anxious; When love matures It is patient, it is deep. Love when defined Is merely a word But when experienced It is life. ***
She sits under the starry sky Every night, Delicate, smelling of jasmine, To collect, she says, The moonlight. Is it not unusual, I ask, To collect moonlight? How and where, pray, Do you keep it? Her annoyance, And her answer, Was brief: ‘Some collect wealth, Others, trophies of their successes. For me, collecting moonlight works. I collect it in my heart Along with the memories Of the pleasant nights spent Basking in the moonlight.’ I do not know What to make of this statement. Though I trust those innocent eyes And would rather not doubt Her guileless conviction, I think I would better leave it to you To draw your own conclusion, One way or the other, In this strange affair. ***