These palm trees cogitate in groups,
Just as our mild-mannered cattle do,
Casting their dark brooding shadows
On the limpid waters of paddy fields
In the sowing season their shadows
Tickle our women’s bare naked feet
Submerged in soft knee-deep slush
When fields turn brown in summers
Our palms sport their golden fruits.
The male one in the shadowy corner
Has no fruits, only snakelike fingers.
We love it all the same for its shade.
The passions do not rise high.
The mountains gently shake
Shimmering silver oaks off
The wind in their hair.
These matronly mountains
Squat pretty in the valleys
Wearing their best velvet
The air here is tea-fragrant
As magical woman-fingers
Pluck two leaves and a bud
Hurl them in baby-baskets
Time hangs lightly between
Sips of tepid C.T.C. tea.
The flowers spoke nothing.
They waited patiently
For indifferent lovers.
Their rainbow colors
The edge of the sky.
Their existence, however real,
Being trapped in the sun.
As birds in higher zones do
They want to be.
All through the stillness of our night
Wind howled in the bamboo clump.
Their tall bushes danced in rapture .
In the inky darkness our searchlight
Beamed on shadowy forms of bison.
The luminous eyes stared in a dark.
But the creatures refused to appear.
Night safari is not their idea of fun.
At nightfall , the pretty Ganges
Wore black sequined satin dress
And a splendid necklace studded
With inverted lights under bridge.
A flickering flame of the lantern
In our boat was reluctant to dance
To a passing wind’s death-tune .
Near a jetty was monstrous ship
Brooding over a dark loneliness
As its cavernous stomach ached
With darkest secrets of high seas.
Houseman ,we made a house
But we lost our tree in bough,
A balcony hanging to the tree,
For a view of milkman below.
However we made our house
We would lose our mountain.
We would lose sun in its trees
To empty sky whence we fare.
( referring to A.E.Housman’s beautiful poem Give me my land of boughs in leaf…)
The gold of it rises from pure sunrise
Of the balcony’s shadows yet to form,
Birds forming to wake sleeping home.
When they do they are vague vain v’s
Painted in a gold of dawn’s new sky.
Just juxtapose yellow leaf with paper,
The paper of a pink flower trembling
In deep awe before a passing breeze.
You have this pink plus yellow frame
Without its native hues of resolution.