anil gupta's blog

did i hang your photo on a broken wall
which was cracked by the load
of memories
that you had difficulty in bearing with
all this while
let me take it off and place
it in a trunk
which i will immerse in a river
on a full moon night so that when it sinks,
the waves will lift it up
and let it float for as long as
the time stays still

have you seen the glaciers melting

after the storms of silence have wiped clean

the face of mountains

that stood witness to the torment

that you had to face

for no fault of yours

i could not embalm the body that was bruised

but then rest you must get

peace too

even if it means

you have to do

all that you donot like

like tearing the pages from diary

in which you worte the verses

of a joy abandon

the storms will pass but not

the moments in streams

that flow down the slopes

having no regard for the  beams

on which rested the vila

you lived along with birds

nests  are not torn

but the tears of memories wronged

torment you no less

why not take leave

of the lazy lakes

that will remain still

even when the storms

pass

what a yearning, what a way
what a bridge
what a bond
no body will understand
it will end, moment you do
so let it remain like an unasked question
in the milky way, hazy, far, very far, but still with in a trail
path is known,
destination is not
time is not

—————–tagore on spring

One Day in Spring…

One day in spring, a woman came  In my lonely woods,
In the lovely form of the Beloved.
Came, to give to my songs, melodies,  To give to my dreams,
sweetness.  Suddenly a wild wave  Broke over my heart's
shores  And drowned all language.
To my lips no name came,
She stood beneath the tree, turned,
Glanced at my face, made sad with pain,
And with quick steps, came and sat by me.
Taking my hands in hers, she said:
'You do not know me, nor I you--
I wonder how this could be?'  I said:
'We two shall build, a bridge for ever  Between two beings,
each to the other unknown,  This eager wonder is at the
heart of things.'    The cry that is in my heart is
also the cry of her heart;  The thread with which she
binds me binds her too.  Her have I sought everywhere,
Her have I worshipped within me,  Hidden in that worship
she has sought me too.  Crossing the wide oceans,
she came to steal my heart.  She forgot to return,

having lost her own.
Her own charms play traitor to her,
She spreads her net, knowing not
Whether she will catch or be caught.
~Rabindranath Tagore

summer has swallowed the spring this year

every body shouted about the ice that melted much earlier

the fishes that went away from my shore

poems that remained uncomposed

paintings that are incomplete

hooks that have given way

all the photos of the past have fallen down

will you also stay still

or speak up

why have flowers in the desert

remained quiet

when bees have desrted them for moistened gardens

far away

why do i have so many sleepless nights

i love to get lost in the dreamland

some say it is my incapacity to delegate

some say, it is all in my fate

some sense a desire to court fame

some suspect a hidden urge to remain same

a perfectionist

who may be accused of all ills,

all that is wrong

in the lives of many

yet, i love to sleep

may be i should get lost

a plane should  take off never to descend

from the high clouds who

must take me in their arms

as if they were misisng me as much

as i missed them

did i

what is guilt, asked the queen of memory land

when u rememeber the things children asked

and you forgot to bring

or letters that you should  have written

and you did not

or you loved the leaves

that fell of their own accord

of the creepers on the broken walls

or you stared at the dark big eyes

which meant restraint in the valley

of a voluble stream

i am at peace

now,

i am finding every memory

in my almirah like

neatly pressed clothes

that you always arranged

despite my attempt to disorganise them

time and again

my time to go has arrived

said the spring

before the summer could have asked

the toll tax

of the smell of sweat in offing

the sprouts of questions
have taken over
all the minds, hands and the paths
all over, they have found willingness
of the hosts to let them be
why then have we become so sensitive
we do not even let our questions
subsist
on the soul
that survives
all the cyclones, eruptions of volcano
and also smiles

when i irrigated the roots of a tree
that was about to dry
a bird asked, why was i so concerned
how do i answer a question
of which the answer is known to her
i kept quiet
she repeated the question,
every time there is rain,
bird asks the same question
and i just keep quiet