ALL POEMS OF RATAN

Poetry Series
Ratan ...
- poems -
2
A Ballad of Christina Valerie
There lives a beauty to behold
In the South side of Surrey;
An angel of a girl called,
Christina Valerie.
Shiny black tress,
Eyes with heavenly gleam,
Pleated dress,
Makes her every man's dream.
Yes, most beautiful girl in whole city;
More beautiful than beauty personified.
She is Christina Valerie -
Talk of the town, a charm glorified.
Her father long since gone,
Left her with nothing, but cattle, to live upon.
A brother too young to learn,
A mother too old to earn.
Nothing but cattle came to her aid,
And she chose to become a milkmaid.
Yes, poorest girl in whole city;
She is Christina Valerie.
Now, last Friday, about a week ago,
When she was walking through thick mulberry,
Did four gangsters surround,
And tried to molest poor Valerie.
Yes, most unfortunate girl in whole city;
She is Christina Valerie.
But the four men soon learnt a lesson -
Never mess with any woman.
She beat them black and blue,
And they looked like crumpled tissue.
Then it began to drizzle,
And the so-called gangsters, lay on the ground like
Scattered pieces of jigsaw puzzle.
This won her respect in Surrey,
'The most valiant girl in whole city'.
She is Christina Valerie.
Yes, most beautiful girl in whole city;
More beautiful than beauty personified.
She is Christina Valerie -
Talk of the town, a charm glorified.
-
3
Ratan ...
4
A Lasting Interlude
Mirror reflects solitude
as my face fades away in time.
That intangible agony
of unfulfilled dream
drowns Martha in her prime.
I shovel the barren land,
in hope of water - my tears;
I prepare to cultivate
near unassailable sangfroid
amidst the din of prevenient fears.
My soul transcends its frivolous
expectations - revolutionary path
to Okinawa doth no longer inspire.
It yearns to wander in Oklahoma;
neon lights, white wine -
a perfect Sabbath.
-
Note: 'Martha' refers to 'Martha of Bethany'
Ratan ...
5
A Love that eludes me
My mind ricochets off every tangible entity under the burnished sun, around every
beating heart seeking Erato with whom I shared an incestuous sojourn once. Love
poems she told me as we flew together hand in hand flitting among sundry clouds and
undulating ferns have ripened in my flimsy cognizance. I recall her gratifying moans as
we made love covered in a translucent sheet of white sand on the bank of Rhine; the
vails of lavish foreplay and uncouth prurience make remembrance dear even after the
sun has long declined.
autumnal dawn -
she sculpts herself in sand, tidal
waves long for her.
In perfect silence and mock disambiguation, Rhine flows enshrouding her impulsive,
stymied sighs.
-
Author's Note: My muse, Erato, often eludes my imagination, which refrains me from
producing poetry marked with aesthetics of sensuality and romantic love. In this
Haibun, I attempt to describe my indulgence in promiscuity with her erotic self once
and my dismissive ineptitude of alluring her to sleep around with me again.
Ratan ...
6
An Occasional Poet that I am
To Heinrich Karl Bukowski - a master poet that he was!
Huh...what an occasional poet
I am!
With sherry to complement
my waywardness
and a few drops of ink
to supplement my
quasi-heuristic inklings,
I venture into a world
fraught with shooting hyperboles
and quintessential imagery.
An outline of a distant dream
encased in a cloud
that I try hard to rupture
against some auburn sun
and expect a rainbow in return -
this is me and my poetry.
Huh...what an occasional poet
I am!
Ratan ...
7
Artistic Effulgence
Too much praise, inflates;
Too much criticism, deflates;
A right mix of both keeps the heart
In its right place.
Genuine criticism
May be like acid rain,
And may bring along pessimism
Flavoured with loads of disdain.
While, genuine praise,
May herald incessant proclaim
And may bring along optimism
Flavoured with loads of acclaim.
But an artist's disposition must be sanguine.
He must show no supine
When shown apathy, bovine;
Or frolic in ecstasy
When showered laudations, divine.
An artist is but a creator,
Not money but audience is his motivator.
He is emotional at heart,
Unforgiving jurisprudence may tear him apart.
Audience, have mercy on this kindred soul
And give his work a chance to explore
The very depths of your soul
Before writing him off as a failure,
For your entertainment is his only goal.
-
Ratan ...
8
Beggarwoman
Her wasted dignity screams intermittently
at the crisp evening crowd
when her cupped hands with palms heavenwards
are denied munificence
of peremptory and coordinated jaded insignificance.
Tousled grays reveal a scalded scalp,
three limbs from saclike torso ramify,
lacerated raiments bare a shrivelled sagging bosom:
taut black currants on a deflated prosaic cupcake
pronounce her gender. She is the coy mistress
of a dog; they learn to eat and play along.
A giddy precipice of happiness and warmth
they share
lends an air of verisimilitude
to an otherwise exasperated soul.
-
Author's Note: A dilapidated beggarwoman finds solace in the company of an animal
despite being surrounded by colorless mortals.
Ratan ...
9
Black
She came alive to darkness,
Shrouded by the yellow light
Of rising sun, dressed
In pink - radiant and bright.
She was awake to tenderness
Of maternal zephyr, bloom
Of white Chrysanthemum, aimlessness
Of pigeons - their immortal gloom.
She then peered into infinite blackness
And with a subdued cry,
Drifted into misty pleasantness -
And forever closed her eyes.
Ratan ...
10
Chronicles of Bill, The Boss - I
I
My boss to my utmost dismay,
Makes me work night and day.
I start from my dorm,
When it's not yet morn.
Down I run to my office,
In order to avoid my boss's atrophies.
Once I'm in,
And lo I'm pinned.
With permission neither to drink nor pee,
I sit in my cubicle like a golf ball on a tee.
Difficult tasks to which I've no clues in 'n out,
Come my way as if I'm Hercules without.
Even if I am hungry,
I dare not go for lunch,
Fearing my boss may be angry,
I refrain from munching Crunch.
With difficulty, somehow, I make it to the cafe at four,
And pop open my lunch box to grab oats and bar.
I dig in lunch with communicator to my ears,
Briefing my boss about the progress of my peers.
At last, I'm asked the state of my project,
Despairingly I say, it's dismal, haywire and abject.
Bang, goes down the receiver then,
Hang, I know this is my end.
I can imagine, my boss going blue and red,
Life, for me, is no longer like roses on bed.
I stop my lunch half way through,
'Your boss is a monster! ', Dogbert said it true.
I return to my desk,
And curse my boss for being a pesk.
Like a batsman out for a duck,
Curse, as well, my stars that chalked such ill-luck.
II
Yesterday, it was a warm Sunday afternoon,
11
And I had been working since there was full moon.
'Ring, ring, ring', rang the phone,
And at other end, I could hear my boss's drone.
Like a bug-bitten, conscience-smitten, rusty flea,
I was delegated more work with neither mercy nor room for any plea.
'Complete this by EOD today, '
'Or else bear consequences like Asok yesterday.'
To the best of my knowledge, Asok was fired,
I didn't want the same, only after a few days I was hired.
'I'll put in whatever I can to complete the job',
And aside I said, 'For the monster like you, who as well is a hob'.
Toiled I till eleven,
Twelve,
One,
Two,
Three,
And four,
Worked, worked and worked till my eyes went sore.
I woke up from the slumber, suddenly at eight,
And cursed my fate, 'Why the hell at all did I sleep? '
With just an hour for the goblin to be in,
I felt like throwing everything right into the bin.
My boss did not show up until it was eleven,
The work place in his absence felt just like heaven.
Suddenly, he emerged from nowhere, while I was in the cafe,
And announced in a triumphant voice that today is his birthday party.
We were invited to show up at eight,
And finally to see oneself out of this inferno, no one could wait!
Ecstatic, jocund, jolly and gay,
Exit at eight seemed obvious, come what may.
The idea of leaving after forty hours,
Brought tears of joy.
What a Gaelic victory it'd be, oh boy!
Sharp at eight and to our dismay,
Our boss announced that party has been called off,
Prefering not to reason out; such a pretentious display.
There are rumours that his wife called off the party,
12
Fearing a waste of money in something that is unnecessarily extravagant and gaudy.
Hearing this bad news,
And pondering upon others' views,
I could not contain myself.
Suddenly, my torso began shaking under my vest,
And soon did I realize that I was suffering from a massive cardio-vascular arrest,
...And I do not really know what happened next.
...
III
As soon as I opened my eyes,
I found beautiful nurses buzzing over me with lovely eyes.
One of them examining my heart beat,
Another giving me fruits to eat,
The third sitting at my feet,
Scanning my progress report with contempt and deceit!
She pouted, 'No need to bask in joy among women of nature so convivial',
'A second arrest and you stand no chance of either revival or survival.'
Hearing this, my joy knew no bounds,
If this reaches my boss, my life at office would be safe and sound.
In came my boss with a bouquet of cheap flowers,
'Hey man, it looks like you have regained your lost power! '
'No, no, no! ', recoiled I, as fast as I could,
'I'm sick, please believe the nurse's word.'
The doctor convinced my boss that I was as feeble as a decayed weed,
And requested him to pay on my condition some humane heed.
'T'cha, t'cha, t'cha', my boss lamented,
'What a sin it is to overload my dear friends with work! ', he repented.
In the next team meeting, he put forth a proposition,
'No one will work for more than eight hours, irrespective of his position',
And called forth a unanimous decision,
Which was heartily accepted without any opposition.
And everything ended well because of my indisposition!
IV
But the proposition was long forgotten after a few seasons!
-
13
Ratan ...
14
Chronicles of Bill, The Boss - II
I
'What'd you like,
To be praised,
Or criticized? ',
Asked my 'humble' boss,
To my utter surprise,
With a glimmer of evil in his eyes.
'Think not this as a special favor or device,
I grant you a last wish
Before you bid adieu to this holy premise.'
...
...
'Comm 'on, speak out!
This is your opportunity and not mine
Give me a chance to shower on you,
Poppy, dahlia and jasmine.'
'Ok, Boss!
Not a single word, I promise to chew,
Dear Boss,
I've had enough of you! '
'I must admit,
You reign my dreams;
Overshadowing my girlfriend,
You stand supreme! '
'Day in and day out how hard
I worked;
Sick of covering up your mistakes -
Doing the tissue-paper work'
'While you basked in the servitude of the team;
Eclipsed all success and praises
And did not allow your team a gleam'
'Age has begun to show on my face,
Serving your god-forsaken grace
With the assiduity of a slave
And all for a meager salary,
Sans salutation
And incessant vituperation'
'I cannot strive on a relationship
Asymbiotic;
I'm done doing in your leadership,
Back-breaking photosynthesis'
15
'A billion abuses are not enough
To kill the monster in you.
So, I thought it best
To give up my job in lieu'
'You are the lord of this manor -
A self-styled leader of this dungeon;
A cause of your team's pallor,
Depriving it of fun and recreation'
'Oh! I missed your qualities, known to a few.
Favoritism and nepotism also empower you'
'Before you could praise me,
I praised you.
Love and respect is mutual and reciprocative
Mind you.'
'Adieu, my friend! Adieu! '
I could see his visage turn pale, askance;
I guess, I have had a wonderful revenge.
But, what's the use?
This sermon for him will be soon past tense.
II
A few years down the line,
I came to know,
Bill has been appointed as the CEO
Of Macy's line.
-
Ratan ...
16
Confessions
I prefer to scribe
my confessions with
graphite.
For if it
leaves a scar
on my conscience,
I can efface it.
Whereas, ink,
though ingenious
in scripting requiem,
may leave the sobriquet
smudged.
Ratan ...
17
Cosmetic Dreams
To Ogden Nash - the master rhymer.
Aisles are decorated with garish creams
that promise to perk up and garnish your dreams.
There is one that lifts age off face -
irons out the wrinkles and has dark spots effaced.
Another guarantees fairness for dusky hue;
bets on life to turn the world on you.
Some concoct an advert for self-tan lotion:
'Get organically tanned by this magical potion'.
Skin rendered rough by too much makeup? !
Allow cold cream and moisturizer to take the task up.
There are creams which facilitate light reflection,
thereby creating an illusion of enlightenment.
Acne can now be dissolved by wonder creams
even in an hour before one's wedding!
With so many creams on the aisle,
I can change myself in a while!
But these creams are for external use only;
cannot be applied on a heart that is dark and gloomy.
I'm yet to decide which is more important to me.
Is it external or is it internal beauty?
Ratan ...
18
Crumpled
I rest silently in the bin, staring
vapidly at my tormentor from within.
But I still hold its discarded words -
a raw garland of emotions -
close to my soul - crumpl'd, defunct; yearning it'd
alliterate them with notion,
passion and poetic lust.
An unfinished verse - my epitaph.
Ratan ...
19
Defeat is but another Feat
On India's early exit from the T20 Cricket World Cup 2009...
MSD led his blue caps
to London.
But the team was soon wrapped
up and came undone.
Who is to be blamed?
The captain, the media
or the very idea
of franchises’ gain.
Methinks, we needn’t blame the team.
To loose, it didn’t mean.
Let’s as a nation mollify
and let’s not crucify
a team with which we identify.
Ratan ...
20
Discovering God
For God.
As a kid, I often wondered,
'How tough is it being God? ! '
You need to answer every prayer,
make amends and repairs,
accept criticism
(derogative, blasphemous -
fraught with pessimism) ,
record births, record deaths,
smiles scattered and tears shed,
plant trees, flood rivers,
restore faith in estranged believers.
As I grew a moustache and beard,
I discovered
being God is relatively easier
than my limited faculties could gather.
All you need to do is pretend to listen,
preserve a grim demeanor
and forget everything that has been said
just before 'Amen'.
Exercise your own volition,
serve best for some and worst for others;
then mutter under your breath, 'I don't care! '
While sculpting humans,
sprinkle a pinch of lust, anger, greed, ego, attachment
in varying proportions
to lend chutzpah to your creations.
With a bucketful of nachos and salsa as side,
sit back and recline
on cloud nine.
Take a deep breath, relax
and watch as titans wax and clash
for survival and cash.
Disclaimer: This verse does not intend to hurt the religious sentiments of any individual
or community. Views expressed by the author are personal.
Ratan ...
21
Donna
Her tender lips
kiss
Jack Daniels
on the rocks;
reward succulence in red
to Glencairn Glass.
Djarum Black
escapes
from her plump pucker;
lends
sensuality to morning air.
My woman,
Donna,
is dead
to the world.
Moon
bathes her in silver
as the morning sun
frolics
to catch her glimpse.
Ratan ...
22
Emancipated Communion
In the next journey
(not as subtle as this one) ,
I'll learn to emancipate myself
from the transcendent leprechauns
of wavering faith and quivering notions.
An indubitable state of being
will connote my presence
in an elusive realm.
Naked Happiness
in its most pristine form
cajoles the bohemian Romany;
he eludes her presence
and flits among the ruins
of dead seasons
and hitherto delusive realism.
-
Note: The author reconnoiters on life after death and contemplates on his inability to
break free from the shackles of temporal stupor.
Ratan ...
23
flash flood
at 10: 55
in the night...
depressing sight -
torrential rains,
trees insane,
muddy pool,
blood and drool,
houses shatter,
lives scatter.
at 06: 30
in the morn...
nation mourns,
news flash,
egos clash -
titans tongue,
mortals harangue.
figures rise,
aides arrive.
at 07: 00
in the even...
access toll,
dead, injured
put on roll.
still no food,
no money,
little Emily
sits by her
dead family.
Ratan ...
24
Getting Dressed Up for Work
I stare at the closet,
'Another day! ' - let out a dramatic sigh.
Onerously, I open the left panel
and then the right.
'This is all I've got...? ! ',
I dolefully commiserate.
Carefully, I select a least wrinkled shirt,
'Unironed! ', I gasp.
No wife to blame either;
trouser's rumpled as well.
'Tie, kerchief, wallet,
belt, cufflinks, shoes, socks...
...wherever thou art,
it's time to start', I plead.
The last thing I do
is perfume myself.
Tiny globules of fragrance
halo me, but fail to defeat
malodorous me.
Everything's done.
I steal a quick glance at the mirror.
It doesn't lie, they say. And it didn't!
With hair unkempt
I still look handsome.
Ratan ...
25
Gothika
Inspired by 'Love Child' (Song) by R. Dean Taylor, Frank Wilson, Pam Sawyer, Deke
Richards.
Haven't seen my Father.
Mother met him once.
Did they meet at a protest march
against homosexuality;
at an AIDS rally;
or in an aisle of a drugstore
rummaging through syringes and
flavored condoms?
Decades of illegitimacy
commenced
when dawn lifted
the veil of pointless happenstance.
My flesh was heir
to lavish prurience -
two bodies sharing passionate liaison.
My ambitions ran amok
in antiquated tenement
like detritus
stunned by marauding cyclone.
Paper planes trailed
sedentary malevolence
and kites plunged in
mock disambiguation.
Combers of promiscuity dissolved
silver soul
in vapid despair
while social firmament
wreaked vernal effervescence
to empty tears.
This bastardy misery
has earned me coarse bread
with a dash of tang
at a lesbian bar;
burgundy pigtails,
pierced tongue,
embellishments of indelible colors
on my arm.
As I run my fingertips
along the shoreline of a brunette's corset
(intertwined hearts beating together) ,
nocturnal carnation
reminds me
of fragile misery of mother's
sensual climax.
26
Ratan ...
27
Gramercy Mother
O gentle Mother,
my ears are wrought
to disport thine plaintive song.
You seek to employ your son
to get good riddance of earthen fragments? !
This chamber whereinto dreams
from heaven usurp my being
and cradle my perplexed soul,
that upkeeps Dickens, Shakespeare, Dickinson,
Milton, Crane,
can never be the sombre destination
of potter's grains;
they hatch to playfully cavort
in the jocund environs under the April sun.
But, whatever motley detritus, which thou sayeth
has perchance inscribed my chamber
must seek execution at the hands of
the celebrated fille de chambre.
Where doth she travail?
'The Lord requires of thee',
say so and bid her hither anon.
O sweet Mother,
methinks, thine son embodies
soulless wit and fragile gumption,
so hark not to his repudiations anymore
and tread on to lavish pleas
onto bodies more suitable
to implement thine commandment.
Gramercy, O divine Mother!
Thy ratification is told of love so couth,
reckless, naive and sanguine forsooth.
Ratan ...
28
Greetings My Friend
Greetings neighbors, hello friends!
Summer 'n Winter are life's primal trends.
Cake and joy and kidney pie
Serve a reminder of days gone by.
Pills and bills and igneous sparks
Curtail the melody of soaring skylark.
Journey begins sharp at eight -
A reminiscent of joyous gait.
Lunch at one and dinner at ten,
And Milk at bedtime with Sean Penn.
Ingenious comedy of Charlie Chaplin,
Soothing tune of legendary Zeppelin,
Stir emotions and shroud in peace,
Shredding boundaries of poignant grief.
But latent apparitions of harrowing tension
Come haunting with superficial precision.
Gloom usurps mirth and joy,
Fear of failure grips the boy.
Equipped with self-belief, grit and will,
He ushers himself to New Year
With the temerity of Winston Churchill.
An year lost and an year gained
Will have all his sorrows maimed.
When Christmas bells begin to chime
Live and prosper is the bottom line.
Ratan ...
29
Haiku# 1
Rain drops
disappear like cries of
war victims
-
Ratan ...
30
Haiku# 2
Warmth of summer:
the sunshine of your love,
O Mother!
-
Ratan ...
31
Haiku# 3
One day of early spring
A martyr's mother cries
I forget him
-
Ratan ...
32
Haiku# 4
Another blizzard:
buried hopes alive,
under thick ice
-
Ratan ...
33
Haiku# 5
Kaleidoscopic leaf:
ripple in lake; scarecrow
stands unperturbed
-
Ratan ...
34
Haiku# 6
incessant rains,
Chrysanthemum in my home still thirsty
but cacti're drenched
Ratan ...
35
Haiku# 7
fallen jasmines -
fragrant, beatific, beautiful,
lifeless - scattered
Ratan ...
36
Haiku# 8
Feet mercilessly crush
autumnal plight; chase fleeting
wintery verdure. Oh!
Ratan ...
37
Her Life at GB Road
She resides at the heart of darkness -
within the confines of blasphemy.
The walls are painted bright
by the color of anticipated larceny.
She creates melody in bed
but doesn't lend her voice
and stares at the moon;
often marvels at its placid poise.
Her son kites alone
with birds and kites: the world.
Panchatantra falls open
untouched, unread, untaught.
Pity her life, her beauty,
everything gathers dust,
while she dutifully yields
to someone's temptation
and devouring lust.
Ratan ...
38
Humble Desire
Humble Desire
Movie: Roja
Director: Mani Ratnam
Music Composer: AR Rahman
Lyrics (Tamil) : Vairamuthu
Desires of this little heart are mortified -
innocent desires of a blithsome heart
to reach out to moon and stars,
the desire to conquer skies.
Wish today I exude redolence
like flowers sprinkle in garden their fragrance.
Wish yonder clouds be my veil,
wish I exult unhinged, uncurtailed;
the world trussed up with my lithesome braid.
The promised land transudes efflorescence such,
blossoms my heart, unbridled thus.
Wish I sing like a nightingale,
wish my self manifests piscine demeanor.
My youth is but motley dream's harbinger.
-
PS: Oscar, Golden Globe, Grammy and BAFTA winning composer, AR Rahman, debuted
as a music director in movies with Tamil political thriller 'Roja' which was released in
1992 and catapulted Rahman to instant stardom. Roja's soundtrack is listed in TIME's
10 Best Sountracks of all time.
I've made a humble attempt at translating 'Choti Si Asha' (a song from Roja's
soundtrack dubbed in Hindi) into English. Inputs from Hindi speaking populace for
meliorating this interlingual rendition are welcome.
Ratan ...
39
I'm As Good As Dead
God, You have given me everything;
Healthy food to eat, nice job and a beautiful house to live in.
You have fulfilled every wish,
Spotless clothes to wear, scholarly books to read,
And loving parents, whom I always miss!
What more can I ever ask for?
I may ask for jewels, gems and success,
Fooling myself with wordly pleasures, amiss
Satisfaction and Happiness!
I know to give me more, You are much eager,
And always I keep my hands spread like a beggar.
How often have I thanked You for giving me everything?
Lamenting, weeping and crying always -
God, I still have nothing!
During every prayer, I demand for something new!
And, jolly You,
Never tired of me, but granting my wish in lieu!
I'm only living for myself,
Of what good, am I to others?
I've neither wiped a tear of an orphan,
Nor have I visited a leper in his den.
I pride myself in earning a million every year,
What's so good 'bout it, if it can't even wipe someone's tears? !
Working hard to see myself happy,
Am I not fooling myself?
Real happiness lies in making someone happy,
Who's void of happiness.
I pray Thee, O Dear God,
Make my life a sacrifice to those,
Who want food to eat and something
They can call their own home.
I'm tired of living the life of an animal,
Feeding myself and always fighting for my own survival.
Through trying times, You had me successfully led,
Grant this last wish O God,
This is my only key to Success and Happiness.
If I cannot cater to hungry with food,
Don't You think, I'm As Good As Dead? !
-
Ratan ...
40
in bejeweled casket
a silhouette melts into the twilight.
a taciturn tongue and a heart no more
rest among the ruins of subcutaneous
carnation. wreaths with flowers welded
by my viscous love adorn the dead.
a preamble escapes from emblazoned lips,
I shed a tear then. virtuous eyes - blinded now
by death, see a fervent display
of trepid empathy.
someone who is six feet below life now
can hardly count his volatile blessings.
-
Note: The author observes an ostensible display of grief and sycophancy by the
mourners at a funeral. He bemocks their apathy towards the dead and portrays their
sorrow as nothing but 'volatile blessings' for the departed soul.
Ratan ...
41
Into the burning afternoon
Into the burning afternoon
waiting for a bleeding bus
to take me to never-never land.
Stray dogs hungrily battle
over a dead pigeon -
tearing at its wings.
Trees blend dulcet notes -
of songbirds, of ripened fruits;
rustling leaves forbid tritones.
Discarded paper, polythene and foliage
dance hysterically on the biting road.
A gentle tug at my trousers
spins me back into pain -
the chamber orchestra fades out;
am I ever to feel it again?
A translucent boy with
translucent anticipant eyes
wearing a translucent loincloth
stares at me; his translucent
palm outstretched.
As I fumble for nickels and dimes,
the roaring old monster threatens
to fly by.
I scamper to the dilapidated coach
and dissolve into the cloud of
smoke and dust, inadvertently
brushing aside the translucent
outstretched palm.
Still, the translucent eyes bid me
a transparent good-bye.
Ratan ...
42
Itch
Heedless of proffered pains, kitsch
Captivating, I relieve an itch,
Scratching my scalp - fingers playing in
Unison with black strings, gyrating.
Music is harsh, yet soothing - puerile,
Cuts cacophony, sieves rile;
Brings back my jocular senses.
I let out a deep sigh - content,
And eagerly wait for another
Spasmodic extravagance.
Ratan ...
43
Keep mum
Says Mum,
'Keep mum,
never hum
outta turn.'
So chum,
don't succumb
to hum.
Keep mum,
avert mayhem.
Ratan ...
44
Keeping up with Miranda
To homemakers.
Miranda is married to a house
painted red with bricks.
It lodges her feminine ego
and cellophane
she arsenals grocery in.
'I {Heart} My Husband'
says the bumper sticker
on her station wagon -
quite spruced up with nouns, pronouns
and possessive adjectives.
It's all Sisyphean labor though,
pushing conjugate verbs
up her fermented kids.
The odiferous dame
(of mint and lemon balm)
adds flavor and sunshine
to gourmet cuisine.
She expects approving glances;
wishes fervently
she's their
very best thing.
Delectable dessert, glottal emissions
and bulbous onions
conceal her sobs and whims.
She is ready to sing lullaby
to the third
while the fourth
continues to chime in.
As seconds trickle onto the mantle
and moon climbs uphill,
Miranda hums to the rattle of utensils
reveling in her discordant thrill.
Ratan ...
45
Kiss of Death
It gave me reason to cheer -
whispered silence into my ears,
wiped off all my tears,
bore away all my fears.
But, they began to disappear
everyone who to me are dear.
Alas, I can see them clear -
tear, fear, DEATH sans cheer.
Ratan ...
46
League of (Gray) Gentlemen
A bunch of antediluvian kids (hand in hand) -
torpid, hunched - entreat precipitated juices
and cherished memories
to gambol in juvenile repose
with their immortal inklings.
Cloudy heads (four) dance
to the savory tune of melodies
which sparse lips lend a jingoistic flair to
and thus exhume a very eclectic youth,
which once appeared tangy to an untrained eye,
has a mellowed charm about it
now.
They clap to cheer a treasured event
and punctuate cloistered existence
(in prevalent solitude)
with a hyperventilated laugh.
The withered, shriveled (sober) leaves
incessantly crackle (make merry)
under their feet, thus applauding
a phenomenal success at gray,
confabulated bukkake.
An evening in an evening, that is.
-
Author's Note: In this verse, I've attempted to script an evening in which four
not-so-young men relive their days of yore. They share the best that has bid them
adieu for good and shrug off the forbearance that is anticipated.
Ratan ...
47
Limerick# 1
There was an old man of London
Whose shoe-lace came undone;
He tipped over a cat,
Sitting on a mat -
The poor old man broke several bones.
Ratan ...
48
Liquid Soul
In memory of Pablo Neruda.
I am expended and done in consistence;
was subjected to the vicissitudes
of carnal existence,
relented to the servitude
of mortal obligations;
I stand before Thee
drenched
in colors
of Thy macrocosm.
Ethereal music is mute.
Divine utopia, shelled
by precipitated prurience
uncouth,
rests tattered -
her virginity, her youth
stolen
by her detractor.
I loath
another golden cage -
a walk under white sun,
elysian fruits,
leafy glade.
I wish to rest in crimson oceans,
and strike brightness
on unquiet stones.
Ratan ...
49
Moments before my death
I was sitting under beach umbrella;
sharing soul kiss and Merlot with Rita
when a deafening noise in the vicinity
followed by an agonizing pain
at the back of my head stunned me
and a pod of seabirds.
Bordeaux glass fell from my grasp
and rolled over, spilling every bit
of that divine liquid on sand.
Darkness fell, a giggle escaped,
a handsome pat landed on my back.
Then my limp frame toppled over
amidst the rush of waves and flutter
of escaping petrels.
Ratan ...
50
Moonlight Sonata
Moonlight scatters beatific radiance
across the pristine verdant ambience.
Soft susurration of tender maples
lends contralto to blithe zephyr.
Ethereal melancholy of moor yonder,
conjures an operatic silence.
Taciturn fire-beetles dot the silver evening
with frivolous sparks of desire.
Hither treads my dearest with complexion
so fresh and sanguine that even moonflowers
that are hitherto imperturbable,
depict heliotropism.
They trip the light fantastic toe
as air du soir steals their fragrance
and serenades us with elemental joy.
We conjoin in soulful harmony;
our beating hearts complement
each other's seraphic presence.
As Hesperides spiels dulcet notes
and welkins perform ripieno concerto yon,
we weave rhythmic scherzo
of passion and unbridled devotion;
heavens bless us with blissful orgasm.
The Lethean silvern sonata
enamored me and my inamorata.
Note: 'Air du soir' is French for 'Evening air'.
Ratan ...
51
Mother's Waiting
Mother was agitated all morning;
awaited my return.
She spilled salt and pepper on table
and served egg on a cloud for lunch.
Coffee savored the table,
spoons jingled on the ground,
apple pie tasted like mutton -
titillated Butcher's mound.
Fats Waller beamed from the album cover;
mother silenced him with a wink.
My father signaled: disappear;
she definitely stopped to think.
Lee Wiley looped in her head:
'Once in a while, will you give just
one little thought to me...';
she cleared snow off driveway -
weaved a shoveled tapestry.
Bare boughs of winter trees
imitated her arms spread wide.
She rehearsed embraces and squeezes,
clinging on her tethered pride.
Then...
From a distance, flashed red and white;
her heart skipped a beat.
She felt this could be the end -
her joy beating the retreat.
The clergyman stepped out,
heralding my return.
Mother tempestuously broke down
to mourn my end.
Ratan ...
52
My Grandfather passed away on the 3rd Day of August,2005
In memory of my Grandfather - a man who toiled arduously to gift His posterity a
better future. May His soul Rest in Peace.
Like Ye, I can never aspire to be!
He lay on the bed
weak and fragile,
oblivious to emotions
running high and dry.
Father and I
sat by His side.
He quavered periodically -
slight and sighed.
Father's ear phoned His mouth;
tried hard to catch His
inarticulate sound.
His soul was lost somewhere
in an infinite isle,
struggled hard to break
the shackle of lies.
Father held His flaky hand,
palmed His wrinkled forehead
and stroked His eyebrows
with his thumb.
It was all cold and silent by then.
Miles He had walked
and slept in the end.
Father's emotions landed
on His cheek,
as transparent as Father-son,
son-Father relationship.
Ratan ...
53
My Lost Childhood
I wandered lonely in the woods;
chasing perennial sorrows
of a lost childhood -
lost somewhere there, in furrows.
Where I wept bitterly under
a tree on a street.
Where I braved penury and thunder
in a lonely retreat.
Where fatigue and tedium
were chaste and just.
Where love was a medium
to express devouring lust.
Where wax was used
to seal my eyes.
Where a girl was abused
until she died.
Where nights were young
even after dawn.
Where I was thrown among
rats forlorn.
Where stones were thrown
as if I were a dog.
Where the crown and throne
belonged to just one god.
Where hunger was weak,
and thirst was deep.
Where death kissed my cheek
and flies buzzed around this heap.
Where every pebble
bore my name.
Where every rebel
hailed me to fame.
Where every dropp of life
mattered to me.
Where every single strife
almost killed me.
The sun is harsh -
too harsh to bear.
Humanity is sparse -
no cries to hear.
A leafy glade
cannot provide any shade.
54
I cannot even swim ashore,
the deadly whirlpools
are ready to devour.
'I was born to roam
this street dotted
with dismal memories
of a lost childhood.'
Ratan ...
55
No Excuse to Booze
Dear son Bruce,
Let us cruise to Syracuse
where a bunch of prodigal youth
with wealth profuse
decided to choose
blood and booze
with no clues
that when blood oozed
they stepped right into criminal shoes
and the law accepted no excuse
to set them loose.
This poor bunch of Syracuse!
Kid, do party but do not booze
because when you booze
you tend to produce verbal abuse
and set yourself footloose.
So let us call it a truce
with hope that you'll ne'er confuse
ecstasy with booze.
God bless your daily nous,
Your loving grandfather,
Clement Ambrose.
Ratan ...
56
O tiny little orb!
Let that tiny shining spherical orb
roll down my cheek.
It's beautiful, isn't it? !
It bears the weight of my emotions
and waters my sparse existence.
Let it flood my asylum so deep
and pull me out of overwhelming grief.
'O tiny little orb! I beg you to dissolve
Lady Sorrow in your nectar and absolve
me of pain and misery for once
and for all.'
Ratan ...
57
Ode to Laziness
1
O Laziness, thy name is indolence!
This tuneless number in thy praise
Will amplify thy significance.
A fleeting minute in thy embrace
Is like manna in
A sordid place.
Thy abode is tranquil
With anxiety and melancholy wrung,
Yet parables of saints
Have blamed thou for life unsung!
2
Thou hath ruled kingdoms
Rendering their proprietors languid;
Thus preventing wars for freedom
Of territories, denizens cling with.
Chrysler, Ford, Newton,
Bell and Edison,
Were slaves to chronic laziness,
And inadvertently the reason
For mankind's well-being, happiness
And freedom.
3
If slow and steady wins the race,
Then why get pulled a hamstring,
Winning a rat race;
And still be written off as 'A rat with a limp'? !
O Laziness,
Goddess!
Thou art in my remembrance dear,
Hath navigated mankind through rough weather,
Sound and clear!
Necessity is the mother of invention,
And invention is thy grandson.
Bless humanity with judgement and reason
And pray thy will be done!
-
Ratan ...
58
Of Father, Son 'n Superman
For my Father - a man of esprit and action.
Father and I
share a warm
filial kinship.
Our orbits cross
at dinners
or lunches;
we exchange
pleasing glances,
he tenders me first bite
from his morsel -
a ritual we've been
practising for ages.
Then we talk about food,
weather, work, music,
state of Indian politics,
recent book I read,
verses I scripted,
and my latest idiosyncrasy.
See, most of it is about me!
Talking with him
is pleasantly cathartic.
One, he is ideologically
pragmatic.
Two, he speaks not
of oranges,
when I am
talking peaches.
Third, his speech
bridges our spirits.
Despite ills,
his benign smile is
fascinatingly
fascinating.
Blues affect me,
but not him;
his demeanor is
perpetually pleasing.
Oft he pats my back
and says he
takes pride in
perfection.
Somehow, I can't
bring myself
to associate
with his wanton
benefaction.
59
Perhaps, he's just
being kind,
for he's my Father
and I his son.
His humility
is humanely humbling.
He flowers the dead
and salvages the tumbling.
He never fumbles
for dimes and nickels,
ardently believes
they are fickle -
ones to be expended
on poor and piteous.
A mark of a man
humble and righteous.
The buck stops here.
Am I doing enough
to shelter his unbridled love
and care?
I seem too busy
(scratching my head
with rows of books
behind me)
to shoulder his
responsibilities.
But he gifts me infinity
to quench my fervid
intellectual curiosity.
Perhaps, this is what
love is meant to be.
Like a sorcerer,
he ferments my distress
to happiness
(thousand flambeaux
turn all at once)
and protects me from torrential
harmattan.
No wonder my Father is my Superman!
Ratan ...
60
Of Sepia and Saffron
Waking up, I fiddle with the remote.
Television feeds me emptiness
via satellites. The weather girl
in her sexy white dress tells me
it's cold - will snow along I-275.
She moves from coast to coast
with the assiduity of an albatross.
I miss the buzz and put Trane
to thoughts - jazz is like floating
on clouds in clear blue sky.
Roses I planted last spring
lie shrouded - defeated by snow
from heaven. How powerless I am!
Through the haze I see
when I was seven:
I chased butterflies and rainbows;
there were many picnics then.
I enjoyed runs along the creek
with limited friendship.
There were neither battles to win
nor immortality to achieve -
there was joy in abundance
which drowned me and now,
it's wine in ornamental chalice.
Yes, wine in ornamental chalice!
Ratan ...
61
Perambulations with my Grandfather
To my Grampa on his fifth death anniversary.
Like ye, I can never aspire to be!
-
He grabs walking stick and tiny arm at the stroke of four. I yawn but slog along. We
walk towards west. The fading sun tarnishes his specs in shades of yellow, ochre, blue,
purple - autumnal colors through his eyes I see. He hospitably waves at an airplane;
asks me to wave and repeat 'Bon voyage! '. Sometimes his words baffle me; belong to
a language I speak not. I tire running along; keeping up with his pace. My interest
begins to wane. I become cranky. He hoists me onto his shoulder; wonders aloud how
perky sparrows can be at this hour. We arrive at the confluence just in time. The sun
declines. We recline; he on tree and I on his veined legs. Both shut eyes; I sleep, he
ponders. While worlds evanesce, we coalesce - share delight of our company and sight.
Ratan ...
62
Plight of a Portrait
She could no longer cling
to the archipelago of emotions
which gave way to tears, emboldened
by the notion and fear
that this could be the last
she'd see of her only son -
Abraham.
He sits today on the mantle
against emerald - still.
She spends hours staring at him -
often praying, seldom crying.
But he is unmoved,
exudes an aura - serene, placid, smooth.
Confined behind a plate of glass,
he cannot share her sorrow. Alas!
But she often hears her son call
from behind the glass wall.
She then gradually passes into a transition
with a muted anticipation
that this is the last
she'd ever see of her only son -
Abraham.
Ratan ...
63
Pour ma fille - Bertille
Bertille,
tu es belle
ma fille.
Les mots ne peuvent
décrire votre
beauté.
Ratan ...
64
Preemption
Flickering polka dots
illuminate my path
through the aspen boulevard.
Time tides me up an
elusive realm fraught
with the necessities
of mundane existence.
Near the end,
I stop to watch
what's left behind.
There's no one except
my mother in tears,
helplessly lamenting
over my death - sans
love and prayer.
Ratan ...
65
Senryu# 1
Eight Olympic golds,
A puff of cannabis
Spoiled the bliss
-
Ratan ...
66
Senryu# 2
Barbie at fifty
Flaunts her years and beauty;
Wish I could
-
Ratan ...
67
Senryu# 3
ramification:
irrational maternal love -
sophistication
Ratan ...
68
Senryu# 4
At client's, with
bytes of code in pocket,
sitting idle.
Ratan ...
69
Sensationalism
-----------------
Explicit content. Reader's discretion is advised.
-----------------
Quarters twain and a cent
is the cost of killing
a 'celebrated' victim
in Sunday's edition.
Sunday -
a time to relax and relive.
Read with scant iconoclasm
and inflated prejudice
stories of rapes,
orgies and sodomies.
Of cocaine and roofies.
Of semen stained panties.
Roasted musketeers au jus
palatably plattered;
I leaf over and sus
the private lives
in wasted ink, splattered
across volumes and issues.
Sand castles brutally trampled
over scrambled eggs, coffee
and rampantly delicious tiramisu.
-
Author's Note: Media reclines on celebrity gossip to boost Sunday morning sales. This
verse takes a dig at the so-called media generated 'Sensationalism' that in most cases
may be construed as prevarication. Sunday mornings offer a sadistic reading
experience at the cost of celebrities' personal lives; thanks to sensationalism driven
journalism.
Ratan ...
70
She
What a priceless wealth heaven hath bestowed;
The form of a cherubic face
In this treacherous world - my host;
Triumphs over my agony with all grace.
I'm so lucky to be among a lucky few,
Well protected from being decayed and done,
As is the morning dew
Against the splendour of burning sun.
Never have I felt fatigued and famished,
Girdled around by your arms;
Manna have I relished,
Strongly fortressed from worldly harms.
-
Ratan ...
71
Something's good about Recession
I dunno how to deal
with this monster called recession!
Beg, borrow, steal
are the only options
available to complement
my lessening possessions.
Apart from eating into my wealth
and diminishing my wife's affection,
it has adversely affected my health -
my most cherished possession.
I'm jobless,
I'm unpaid.
I'm homeless -
waiting eagerly for Arnold's aid!
My kids are now poor -
they don't bully around;
they miss roof 'n door
and a princely compound.
My wife too has lost her jewellery,
her gymnasium to recession.
A hairdo like Hillary
is now a garish exhibition.
But something's good about recession.
It has curtailed
our obsession with worldly possessions
which in turn has entailed
our careful attention to social obligations.
Ratan ...
72
sonorous monologues - our epitaph
In memory of Vladimir Mayakovsky and Lilya Brik.
sweetheart,
this watery grave in Venetian Lagoon
has dissolved our love,
our soul.
we are lost in grey;
still somewhere,
rays of sun
are as white
as snow.
we painted our lives
in colors you chose.
alas,
vivid rainbow of love
has diffused
into sonorous monologues.
comeuppance
of love
has given us afflictions -
how keen;
but death is sweet -
good riddance
from poignant grief,
anxiety and spleen.
Ratan ...
73
Swan Song. Separation.
For Koyuki Kato - the most beautiful woman I ever saw.
You walk down the aisle
towards the altar;
we exchange vows
and promise togetherness
till death do us part.
In trice I see you depart,
down the driveway
and out of my heart
in a huff.
But, the one who loved you
still does,
whom you loved once
still loves.
Small irritations
you dwell on
are nothing but salt on melon.
Man and woman
do not hear worldly music
in the same key;
as a consequence
dissonance
is imminent.
Does this mean we digress
and seek verdure somewhere else?
Bed is warm
with the perfervid fire
we ignited;
coffee mug deems
red succulence
you rendered it with.
Every corner and nook
carries me to you;
impalpable ash
of an incinerated heart
replays leitmotif:
'I love you, I love you, I love you'.
Alive I am no more
for my spirit's still besotted
with days of yore.
As you walk away O beloved,
this temporal vastness
between us
rips me apart in
rectilinear azimuth.
74
Ratan ...
75
Teenage Blues
An egregious rhapsody of lies always devolves
into a conundrum of prehensile propensities towards
frivolity. Parched throats long for drinks
that are hard; and luscious lips
unite for passionate kisses
that are indubitably tasty.
Potential surge of superhuman inadequecies
behind Elms and Rat Rocks tantalises
the predictable afternoon air.
Sheets of translucent smoke drown
palatable conjunctions with Dickens
and Lincoln.
Ignorant ear dissolves
the little white rabbit that bounds
under my skin. Isn't it my duty
to preserve this subcutaneous frivolity
bent on scripting its own requiem?
My delicate sunshine still feeds me bald happiness
through an invisible umbilical cord,
you see!
-
Author's Note: A mother ruminates over her inefficacy to bring her teenage child, who
craves for physical intimacy and indulges in substance abuse, to book. She decides to
lend a patient ear to her child more often in an effort to extract him/her out of the
quagmire he/she has presently landed himself/herself in.
Ratan ...
76
The Billboard Girl
Somewhere along 101
this beautiful girl
smiles benignly upon me.
Her trailing textured
chestnut-brown hair,
enhanced nail lacquer
have a resounding effect
on my otherwise antagonized
psyche.
Exotic lip gloss
and diagonally cut
black lace-effect catsuit
entices me
to dance a tango criollo
with her.
In no time
crème de la crème
whizzes past.
But I plan to revisit her
in the evening and again,
until she is replaced
by another
femme fatale.
Ratan ...
77
The Color of Darkness
I open my eyes to darkness
and endeavor to like it;
not by the color of its being,
but by the sound of its textured,
intonated voice.
I touch tenderness called rose
and begin to like it;
not by the color of its petals,
but by its ethereal fragrance.
I feel calmness
shroud my soul. I no longer
wander through the bleak
and hollow cornucopia of sorrow
called life, alone.
I now know the color of happiness.
It's not bright.
I wish this darkness to
forever and ever reside.
Ratan ...
78
The One
Feathers
gather
dust.
Rust
leaves.
Tit weaves
nest;
sunset
uncanny -
progeny
supine,
bovine
dead.
Shreds
griffon.
Lives none;
but one -
blue scion.
Note: 'Tit' refers to The Blue Tit passerine bird prevalent in Europe and western Asia.
Ratan ...
79
Till Death Do Us Part
The wind blew north,
She came forth.
The clock struck nine,
He said, 'It's about time.'
She planted a tender kiss
And asked, 'Will I be missed? '
'Oh darling, come along,
You are my life, my bourbon.'
The moon shone bright,
'Honey, it's time for my flight.
Now, I take your leave,
Soon into months, days will weave.'
Moonlight glittered in the pond,
He saw her sobbing yond.
Sighs of yearning hearts,
Saw two loving souls depart.
The weather turned rough
As the craft took off.
She offered a silent prayer
For his safety and care.
In bed, she tossed 'n turned
And yearned for his return.
Somewhere around three,
She passed into a reverie.
At quarter to four,
Her phone enlivened with a roar.
She picked up the phone ringing;
It was him speaking.
Her joy knew no bounds,
When she heard his sound.
'How are you my dear?
I cannot hear you clear.'
'Its m...me, darling!
The p...plane is falling -
Engine has s...snapped,
We are about to cr...crash.'
'I love you dear,
Have no fear.
Our love is immortal,
Which even death cannot throttle.'
Hearing this, her face went pale,
She could no longer inhale.
80
Before she could utter a word
Or a tear shed,
The phone gurgled a 'beep'
And the line went dead.
Ratan ...
81
Un Bureau
Doldrums, shenanigans, chicanery,
Dolce far niente.
Fagging, bitching 'n beefing;
Maggots crawling 'n creeping!
Razen, brazen, browbeaten
By a Heathen among the brethren.
Callous, malleus and rebellious
Now such is the thalamus!
Muse, ruse and cruise profuse,
Uhhh...the life of a mongoose!
Ratan ...
82
Venez m'aider
Curst be thou, O burnished orb,
Whose delinquent shadow hath robb'd
My beloved of her charming gloss;
Avaunt, thou odious villain, get thee gone.
O wanderers, that in welkins roar, floating yon,
I beseech thou, come hither anon
B'twixt my love and this pernicious star;
Let go thine unbridled sorrow and
Save my metiér from an ugly scar.
Ratan ...
83
Why I hate cellphones?
This little piece of machinery
works at its own volition.
Enlivens in the middle of night
and demands to be listened.
My heart skips a beat
when it extols an incoming call;
either it's 'You're fired'
or 'Let's breakup for the love of God'.
It dies down almost always on me
in the middle of rejoinders and repartees.
Notwithstanding modest battery life,
it altruistically bridges my boss' cacophony.
Many a time it tricks me -
sensing blues, reshuffles the playlist
and hither flux tritones of
profound jocundity.
It refuses to talk
when I'm running short on cents
no matter how critical or urgent,
it won't spare even a few moments.
It often fixes me in undesirable conversation
with cross talk and induction.
I fail to determine who's whose slave -
it's mine or its I am!
Ratan ...