Tag Archives: Romantic


rumiLife 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.



I thought I knew you, stranger

All those smiles
And holding of hands
And looking deep
Into the eyes-
And I thought
I knew you,
We live alone
Like planets,
Near and far
Never meeting;
All those dances
Around the fire
Had made me think
I knew you,
When you had come
In my dreams
To sign the pact
Of togetherness-
I awoke
And thought
Now I know you,
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,

The irrelevant moment

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.

Memory, the tricks you play

What is with you,
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,
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?
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
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.

Why I write poetry

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: Some key concepts

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.

An unusual collector

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.

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