Some where ah! There is end to everything;
Enthralling happiness, degrading grief,
And starving mendicant or mighty king
Are blessed with a tenure, short and brief.
For moments, they, then hold their mighty sway,
But after limited moments, slip away;
And any stabbing pain or any pleasure
Is never without end or without measure,
Ah! Everything that begins, finally ends,
And everything that ends is left alone,
Ah! Nothing one possesses, foes or friends;
And only end is, in the end one’s own.
In peaceful moment or in noisy brawl,
I hasten, hasten, hasten to its call.
Time flows incessantly without a pause
Or did it pause only in my mind,
That made the ever flowing Time pause?
It was perhaps a vision of my mind
The two some of the seen and unseen
The being of effect without the cause
Which has been made unsharp and unkeen
And understand what happens in between?
I don’t refute because I can’t refute
I don’t’ regulate, because I cant’ regulate
While agree with the truth whole heartedly
I don’t’ deny the truthfulness of that Time
But I have got to settle the dispute,
Of what I felt and what it really was?
IN PRAISE OF SILENCE
Leave your restless wanderings- traveler-hark
And quieten clamorous voices from within,
Which rise- O! listen- be attentive- keen
And what Vyogi says, O! traveler mark.
O’er- burdened with the word, we call success,
Which world proclaims so loudly. Underneath
The very loudness lissome sounds. Beneath
Your breast is harmony- within access.
So reach for it and listen, pay homage.
To hurtling go at problems is bad taste.
Be patient silence can with ease manage
All calamities which lay humans waste.
When you are faced with problems and carnage-
In silence meet them—not in clueless haste.
With a gritty lift of the shoulders deft in chin
Not hiding the big rift in worn out paints
Just on the seal where world has kicked him so
Frequently that minimum to all these kicks
No why to get in there Nowhere to go
He still persists in moving ambling for
A toe hold on the owning of this life
No streets exists. No trouble turking there
Although the jails are full of rambling bulls
But street are thronged with ones who got away
Who still had bit of marrow left in veins
Would bellow, few important kicks or two
And scamper back for meals- unashamed
To huddle all defeated- in the inooks( Petile)
Of life – the Jail from which no freedom get.
Are we ONE my love, if not, then why?
Oh! why the holding back of total love?
Believe me when I think of this, I cry,
My witnesses are the sky and God above.
Why not complete acceptance, total giving?
Why not loving acceptance of the faults?
Why not the blissful, blessed, lovely LIVING?
Why not the facing of necessary halts?
Why dwell on fantasies and long past hurts?
Why live on falsehoods and false appearance?
My love when True Love Truly Exerts
With giving, patience, fortitude, forbearance
Then only the miracle of love happens
And only then the joy of life sharpens.
You loved me dearly, Papa, I am sure,
But you mere, by penury held and shackled,
And knowing this I everything endure,
That your were by the fate unfairly tackled.
And in your zeal you haggled and reproved,
But dearly dearly, all the same you loved,
All my dark resentments, sentiments,
And all my doubts and dire presentiments.
Have mellowed down with time and this my mind,
Is full of memory of your ruth and love,
And Papa, you can see and you can probe,
That when I look ahead or look behind.
I think of you with love and happiness,
And not under compulsion and duress.
I did not like your compromising nature
You did not like my unworldly ways
I thought your station much below your stature
You disapproved my poetic forays.
You turned my toils, lazy gentiles’ game
While I was working for the goddess fame,
And in this process, wealthy men became
And others flourished on my famous name.
But once again you with me dirty played,
And went indeed and, on, me quietly died
I wailed inconsolably, loudly cried,
For, for me your approval was delayed.
Of one thing I was always sure about,
That of your love, I never had a doubt.
I had a lofty dream; my each attempt,
I tailored to this dream’s peculiar needs.
But I was so unworldly and unkempt,
You made a lengthy list of my misdeeds.
You never failed to flaunt it to my face.
And call me family’ failure and disgrace.
In spite of this unfair, taunt and blame
I went a head and made myself a name.
The name below which every one has basked,
Penury is forgotten and forsaken,
But I am now mysteriously mistaken,
As God’s darling, lucky, easily tasked.
Ah! Papa, why you failed to appreciate,
That I was not a zombie, insensate.
Today I am brimming with confusions.
My mind is full of hapless, hopeless dread.
And when I see your psyche’s ill illusions,
An undefined fear, fills my head.
When you are next to me, to warm my life
I suddenly remember, you are far,
I want a real home, a real wife.
But fear to leave my hearts’ door ajar.
You dwell on past rejections more and more,
When I propose to make a Home with you.
I can not fully open hearts’ door
For fear of human nature’s feckless loo,
Which sears and impairs and encumbers,
The future “Home” on past’s glowing embers.
“ON MY READING THE TRIP TRIP CHETEY”
On reading Trip Trip Chetery, I was floored,
And carried upon a swell of wonderment.
The smiles and idioms mightily roared,
And impact was savoury and mellifluent.
The mastery of the masterly penmanship,
The smoothly undulating lofty prose,
Amaze at every twist and turn to slip
In like the fragrance of a rose.
I think I am pernickety and fastidious.
But I was overwhelmed by excellence,
Of Trip Trip Chetey and its notedious
And unpremeditated exuberance.
Om Vidyarti (may his tribe increase)
To give us lovely pieces such as these.
PREM’S CHAUBARSI YAAD
On first of April, Nineteen Eighty Eight
You went away to where the gods reside.
And we have, since then. been disconsolate-
Vaccuumed, empty, hapless, woe-be-tide.
Bereft of you, these nameless, aimless years-
Groping, blundering, always round the bend-
Hoping that our endless anguished tears
Would somehow cease; miseries would end.
But all our clueless mending bears no fruit.
And our all striving seems to be in vain.
Your parting has been such a ruthless brute,-
No blood is left in us for it to drain.
From the day you left us, to this day,
The magic, from our, lives has flown away.
Grievances can be curled by empathy,
By putting yourself in other’s shoes,
By looking outwards, forsaking apathy,
By sharing the fragrances and the loos.
By keeping minds numerous door ajar,
By changing often used “I” to “You”,
By keeping close to those who are a far,
Bu understanding other’s point of view.
By learing from a good or bad experiences,
By listening to true lore’s pithy cadene,
By overlooking self-centered convenience,
And doughty, sympathetic, loving, patience.
Whenever hurt is great, but love is stout,
Grievances can be cured , have no doubt.
Grievances come in innumerable shapes.
And tie the humans in all sorts of knots
Nobody, their cutting edge, escape,
They are the human minds blindest spots.
A chagrinned soul, a heart filled with gripe,
A mind uttering unheard silent yells,
They are hundred kinds and thousand types,
Innocuous looking tiny cancerous cells
But once they get an entry or toe- hold,
They take over words their story can be told,
In simple words their story can be told,
Once they take the roots they quickly grow.
They enter human bones by furtive means,
And blast their living marrow to smithereens.
We wish to pen great writings of high class,
But do not even start writing their index,
We dell on vastest vistas, but alas!
Little things of daily living vex.
Due to guilelessness of our desires-
On distant, unseen points, our minds get fixed
But by triviality begotten fires,
Our visions are untouched, asked and nixed.
Conceiving masterstrokes in our niches,
We dwell upon their shapes, nuances, manners
But in the WORKS of lofty human wishes;
The fate conspires to throw in myriad spanners
But tacit tolerance, willful blindness, Love
Can make it possible to RISE ABOVE.
“MIAN KUNWAR VIYOGI”
For a piece of cake, a real man
Can never ever leave his destined path
For countless wealth or beautiful woman
He may die, but if the aftermath,
Is lowering him, in his own esteem,
He prefer his esteem in place of pelf,
Or fleshy heady, pleasures, it will seem
Which he loved so dearly, he himself
Will leave for ever. This is true indeed
He may in the bargain end a creep,
Or useless be or he may go to seed
But his commitments he will always keep,
No calculations, counts of loss or gain,
A steed fast man will always so remain.
Discerning imperceptibly a movement,
I saw you perched upon my windowsill,
For a hundredth segment of a fleeting moment,
I then described that Time was standing still.
“Time flows incessantly without a pause”.
I don’t refute this for I cant’ refute,
While agree with the truth whole heartedly,
I don’t deny the fullness of that time.
But I have got to settle the dispute ,
Of what felt and its effect and cause,
Was it a mere illusion of my mind?
Was it a glanced vision of my mind?
I can not say with certainty, because ,
Perennial Time flows without a pause.
Under the same Gazebo , in 1965 A.D
We spent a few moments of our honeymoon baby.
And dreamt that in some future day in Jammu
We will build a house which shall have one such Gazebo.
And now in 1978A.D. my sweet baby
We sit and know that it could never be,
One moment was so heady and enthralled,
That castles thin built by both of us,
What castles were then built by both of us
The moment was so heady and enthralled
By future prospect but now in mute distress
We look at life time-ravaged and made bald
And lacking so completely the caress
Of love. And feeling and appalled.
The terror and the joy,
And aspirations of a Ghetto boy,
Unlike the dead expressions of a toy,
Sunday tales a year to come around,
Maturity comes a creeping and tip-toe.
And Time passes surely but slow,
The days, when are wonders why we live,
Why we keep breathing in this world at all,
Gone are the clouds of despair.
The helpless, helpless help hot lonesome days,
Who stole my baby’s sheep I must know,
The fairies of the dreams have now vanished,
You were hidden in me as desire.
How little things release the paint up stream,
That fleeting moments rustle like a dream.
I deal in whispers, and in whispers sing,
No more the loudness of words for me,
No more my fingers fiddling on the string,
No more for me, the noisy vagrant space.
No more the chanting praises of each deity,
No more of howling , wailing in self-pity,
No more longing for favors still refused,
No more repentance for the time unused.
No more of gilded, golden, grand pity splendor,
Which ended up in pieces, shattered,
And let me write panting in dismay,
But foe me only muted silent wonder.
At allness of your person, all divine,
And thirsty fleeting, emptiness of mine.
The whiffs of smoke uprising from the flames;
Are like lovers who as strangers seem,
When people mention them and link their names.
I dream that I have woken from a dream.
And strange are ways of love , but stranger still.
Is one who writes of loves with his quill,
Congratulating with a strange smile,
The lover for enfolding in his mind.
The love of someone else without guile,
And left the world stranded far behind,
Then wish and pray for luck, unperturbed,
For newer castles which will lover make,
But tell that all the evenings unreserved,
Standing on the thresh-hold of my door.
Mother’s velvet touch II
I still remember mother’s velvet touch,
When she considered me a mere toy
And found me dreaming more than overmuch,
And wanted to restrain her ghetto-boy.
She fondled me and told me, “your schemes
Are stuff of over-ambitious, heady dreams.”
She worried like a hen, albeit, her joy
Was written on her visage, sweet and coy.
But in her prime, ( I was a more promise,
A seed, a bud, an idea of a song),
She went away to heaven like a blitz,
But still remained a presence all along,
My uninterrupted journey to success,
Within my mental hearing and access.
My muse, with thoughts and feelings over cloyed,
And blessed with abundant wordy raiment,
And piercing like a cadence unalloyed,
Refuses to be put in neat arrangement.
Indulges in its wayward escapades,
And like a river merrily cascades,
Emerging in great misty water falls,
Enchanting with its loud and hissing trolls,
Or like perennial lakes calm and quiet,
The murmurs send the whispers it produces.
Enthralling every tissue with delight,
Which such like music in the psyche induces.
At peripheries of my aurora bustles,
And with perpetual motion ever rustles.
Kam Sutra, Koke Shastra, Rati rahsya—
Erotic thought and imagery
Importance of Women & feminine
Body is the instrument through
which we know the world.
Enhance the value of sexual symbolism
Sexual experience with its pleasure, pain & ecstasy.
Love is a matter of giving & receiving pleasure.
What it feels like to be filled with desire.
Sexual love is a means of an access
To the limitless Realm, where human
And divine meet. Didactive, humorous,
Grotesque to supremely beautiful:
You should hear with more than yours ears.
How many people really understand,
Your vision for your people. No purlieu,
Or hurdles, in its path, can ever stand.
How many people really measure you,
With openness of mind, impartial view,
How many people see the golden strand,
That passes through your nature, through and through,
How many people feel the magic band.
Which you have always wielded in your land,
O! I am certain, really very few,
Have understood the magic of your hand,
Engaged in building future grand and new.
For people of Kashmir. Like a lion,
You continue to carry your ensign.
Dr KARAN Singh
Scion of a brave and prideful clan,
Which starting from the ragged and arid region
Of Jammu, gathered through its brain and brawn
Irrespective of the color or religion,
Along with verdant valley of Kashmire
Laddakhins and Gilgit is in its fold.
You really proved to be a pioneer
So truly cast in your ancestral mold;
An artist and a lover of arts
Who understands the condense of the time
A man of many talents, many parts
A man for every season, every clime.
Who changes with the times but retains,
The beauty of the past without chains.
So many times, be-decked with ornaments,
Of reason and of patience, I argued,
And very easily won all arguments,
And very triumphantly continued.
And blessed with effective ornaments,
Of subtle and suave nuances, I prevailed,
Of censure-laden tongues and sentiments.
Envious competitions loudly sailed.
I kept on winning all the tournaments,
In which I participated took interest.
And multitudes on their own behest,
Applauded me for my accomplishments.
But all my great achievements, enterprises,
My conscience weighs- rewards or criticizes.
Convinced that He has made me, given birth,
With purpose and promise and potential,
And in this over populated Earth,
My coming was required and essential.
I toiled endlessly and also trolled,
With cymbals, in HIS praise chanted hymns,
His omniscient person, I extolled,
Through dedicated, consented rhymes.
He took me through the burning forge of life,
I continued to toil unfeigned,
And my conviction has not ever sagged,
Despite the derivations in His fief.
O! I am, in his fief well-installed,
Till I am, by Him, to Himself recalled.
The desert river and the hilly stream,
In rainy season, flow with sudden rush,
But quickly disappear like a dream,
And quickly lose exuberance and rush.
Perennial rivers but, are always there,
So permanent, serene, ever-flowing,
And merrily, merrily on their courses going,
Forever and forever, without care.
And when, at times, like Baghirathi are chocked-
By sliding mountains, from a fearsome lake-
And threaten vile deluges in their wake.
Ah! Likewise when my Muse is held or blocked.
Discipline and embankments, it refuses,
To honors and results in wild deluges
From nineteen sixty three to seventy seven,
My muse was lost, forgotten, disappeared.
In bowels of the earth or trackless heaven,
Like SARASWATI of legend, this I feared.
Had suddenly become a useless thing
And thoughts were the sacred JAMUNA merrily going
Ah! What was once a sweet perennial spring.
My feeling were like Ganga, ever flowing.
But words were missing like the legendary,
And sacred river. Like a drifting log,
I kept on ever floating helplessly.
And at the great influence at Prayag
I genuflected, prayed in pursuance,
For of words, thoughts, feelings, sole confluence.
You looked at me and didn’t recognize,
Our language is forgotten, has been lost.
These years of our parting otherwise,
Would not appear like shadows of a ghost.
With mutely begging and entreating eyes,
I look at you but not a single trace,
Of recognition comes on your face,
But in my mind your memory never dies.
My heart is filled with pangs of stabbing pains,
As hours filled the days and days the years.
And of your person only remains,
Along with lots of unrewarding tears.
And now with every moment every breath,
I wait for nothing else except my death.
Father and son
Full thirteen years have passed since you died,
O! Papa, you left me alone,
But in this process, I have verified,
Convictions we had held, one by one.
At places you were right and I was wrong,
At places you were wrong and I was right.
At places both were in a corner tight,
At places things were like a song
You taught me compromises, I rebelled ,
We both were like the bulls locking horns,
And like the bloody fighting cocks excelled.
In using beak and claw and like spray thorns.
And since this world began son and feathers,
Have fought with horns, beaks, claws and feathers.
When day is gone and evening shadows reign.
The darkness falls on every tree and vine.
Then those who love their hearth and home are keen
To hurry back to those, for whom they pine.
The jungle is no more and mountain gone,
All swallowed by the darkness, in its flight.
And in the mountain dwellings one by one,
One can easily see the lamps alight
The shows pussy footingly advance
And melancholy takes over the heart.
And, in the evening breeze, when leaves dance
Their rustling makes us jump up with a start.
So, as the day expires and evening comes,
The lovers rush and hurry to their homes,
Blood corpuscles live rioting in such bliss,
They push and pull and tear down and shone,
What silent, mad explosion then in this,
I ask and get the answer, this is love.
Come, burn your bricks of feelings in this fire,
My heart is like a kiln and infect,
Can build with these an unparallel empire,
Which time will honour leaving it intact.
Come, take your raw emotions in your hand,
Then bake them well on burning coals that glow,
Of love and in the waiting live you stand,
For patience does them good through slow through slow.
Then let them swim in blood stream to the heart,
And send them to the source from where they start
Middle Age Blues
I used to be in love with a teenager,
And fondle her up thrusting lovely breasts,
The twine fountains of honey, I can wager
Are now, some infant’s soft and cozy nests.
Our smothering and exploring long embraces,
Which made the fleeting moments, faster go,
Were like the branding irons leaving traces,
While moments rustled on, a tip-toe.
Tentative, flaming , hurried, furtive glances,
And frenzied, inexperienced, stolen kisses,
One can not forget, though this life advances.
In mellowed middle age one doubly misses,
The raging fires of youth, which one remembers,
And often loves to stroke the buried embers
I just talked to you on phone
And heard your ringing, singing, lovely voice
And wished to, in your charms, dive and drown,
Because for me, there is no other choice.
The laughter in your voice was loud and clear;
Inflexions of your words were intimate;
I wished that you were near me, my dear,
And see me when I strongly reiterate
That I was lonely, lovely, sorely hampered,
When you were brought to me by happenstance,
When I was, by your bubbling person, conquered-
When due to you, inhibitions stood no chance.
When in a fleeting, blissful single day
You stole me from myself and had your say.
I don’t belong to the breed of men who just
Indulge in casual sex for fleeting pleasure.
And I must tell you this. I must, I must.
They cheapen Love and empty love’s treasure.
My dearest Sudha, you must understand
That men like me are slow but are forever,
And they are not the least, great and grand.
Nor worldly-wise, nor practical, nor clever
But they are constant in their word and deed
And when they take their mates in their arms,
They satisfy their partners’ every need
By giving endless love in lien of charms.
“Viyogi” therefore says, “become my wife”.
“And let me, with my love, engulf your life”.
My darling, when I wrote to you to-day
My words outpoured from me in dizzy state
But then I wondered, what I want to say
Will reach you on some future far off date.
This thought was entertained and doubt was hosted.
With every word I wrote, it grew and grew-
My letter was completed, sealed and posted
But I remained unhappy. This I knew.
And in this sorry state of mind, I erred,
In wondering, what to think and what to do?
Because, because of this my need bestirred,
And due to this I rushed and came to you.
With love, I knew, my letter will be read
But it was good to reach you in its stead.
When you with downcast eyes sit and think,
I plead with you to raise your head and see
The truth into the eyes and slowly drink-
The Love’s nectar, outpouring from me.
I lift your chin and make you raise your head
And make you see into my loving eyes.
A quickening, quickly, weary Time’s tread;
Astirring dead emotions, dormant sighs.
You look at me with fear and confusion,
And ask me why you should and why you must
Believe in faithless world. Your confusion
Is based on jilted faith and cheated trust.
I think, my dearest Sudha that I should
Repeat that love is great and life is good.
There was a child in a dysfunctional home.
His name was Jaggu. He had a functional mind.
But the crowd in that home did ot become
A sanctuary for Jaggu of any kind.
The progenitors of children soon expired
Leaving the feckless, clueless soul alone.
And everyone was absolutely hardwired
For mere survival when parents were gone.
But Jaggu rose from that shattered heap
And rose to stratosphere beyond access.
His pragmatic and functional mind did reap
Rewards of sweat and toil and stress.
Now time has come to see that GOD will bless
And grant him rarest blooming happiness.
The myriad tangibles, intangibles;
Innumerable, trivial, little things,
The words made by tiny syllables,
Acquiring subtle meaningful moorings.
Existence of a pebble or a straw
Is covenanted by a central law,
A well contested universal theme,
An infinite, all embracing general scheme.
And when they merge into numberless combines,
They merge by giving up their personal state,
And leap beyond their physical confines,
But still properties and traits.
No way, the human will or attitudes,
Can alter the pre-determined latitudes.