A winter's quiet

Well, have you ever stood by the shore of a frozen lake,
where an immense slab of ice blends with the horizon,
skies so dark, you can see the drift of each snowflake,
and falling crystals upon the shining stars of the Orion?

Have you ever grasped what a winter's quiet means?
the quiet silence that sparkles in the crisp winter air,
it is just a low wail of the wind upon the subtle scenes
fashioned by the pacific unanimated pearl-like mare.

True whites, dull drabs, silver, ash greys and deep blacks,
It is a spectacle made of undiluted colours like them.
First, the black sky, then upon it the silver stary tracks
and through it, the snow falls and settles on the hem.

It is prudent like an old man with wild and well-lived days
now peacefully self-assured but with a mystical reticent,
its decor so profuse yet done in just the shades of greys
unrepressed, yet it is neither ardent nor a romantic ascent

That eerie sort of silence which is not barren or hollow
That quiescence sort of still that is far from inanimate
There is no delphic elaboration yet not plain and shallow,
An eminence in the vacuity, it is like when you meditate.

There is nothing too jarring, there is not much to detail
It just is a quiet- a sweet sort of complacent harmony,
with a steady slow drift of snow, delicate, it looks frail
yet uncompromisingly rife- a solemn frosty testimony.

An Unrest

As she sits on the edge of her large square glass window
something bothers her- perhaps, a dream that is broken.
She sees a beautiful picture erased from future's shadow,
feels a void in her treasure that cruel time will have taken.

It was like the feeling you get when opening an unknown door,
like the way you would feel about a storm just before harvest,
like how you would feel watching a tempest approach the shore
like knowing that the hero falls, even as he set out on his quest

But she sits gracefully on her long settee, legs stretched out.
Well,  she is the royalty, she is the monarch, she is queen Fae.
And all those that knew her agreed on this without a doubt
that the songs of her grace did no justice to her astute way.

As Queen Fae stares through her old-fashioned glass pane,
she felt the unrest, nervously fidgeting, she twirled her hair.
Unable to decipher the signs, like from a swirling weather vane
she sat as she sensed the fracas and that the wind was unfair.

Like a war, a battle, a conflict, an incursion, a raid, a foray,
like it was ripening slowly but surely in an autumn flurry.
Mocked by her premonition - of dissonance, of disarray,
she sat, partly betrayed, partly prepared and partly in worry.

She wondered if she could defend with the power she wields,
Her realm, her people, her vision, her immaculate river Ili,
her sharp green cliffs bordering the prosperous harvest fields
and the pasture where a shepherd dog was eying a white filly.

She looked at her silver arbalest, then she unhooked it with care
and gently ran her fingers on its bends, resentful and alarmed.
She knew the cry of a dying man, a wounded horse, a bloody glare
she heaved at its foresight - men and beasts, all would be harmed 

Well, what choice did she have really, she needed it to defend
and she knew what the rolling time would bring with it soon
well, there would be destructions and shattered dreams to mend
and cinder ash would stretch far between river Ili and the moon

The victorious queen Fae

There stood a fair queen on the grand ivory bridge,
and she beamed down in pride upon her realm,
on her barbed stiff blossoming green mountain ridge,
rolling down into an opulent woodland of mighty elm.

It was a place greater than any man had ever seen.
And she stood there in splendour, in her prosperity
she kenned, all was corrected, whatever has been,
and her visions were strong again, with great clarity.

She could envision all happenings, quite unrestrained.
Nothing could go awry, the prize for her endeavour.
And she knew, it was all there, it was clear and plain
for she won it, the darkness had slept, now and forever.

Queen Fae's visions were back and gems shone bright,
as her delicate tulle gown fluttered like her wings,
the spirited queen had finally prevailed this hellish fight,
of men, of beasts, of sorcery, of the queens and kings.

River Ili now shone; it swept with a great panache
below the ridge; it will never be tarnished ever again
with the brunet smoke and cinder of the raining ash
She gasped, for it had all altered, manifest and plain.

We now have tattered pieces of poems, parts like this
From them, we build the lies and truth of Queen Fae's life
of her valiant wars, her dainty beauty and her loving kiss
of her glory, of her requital, of her grace and her strife

It's just a story

It's just a book, it's just a story, it's just another fantasy
Really? Is it 'just' a any of these? And could it ever be?
Would you say then it's just white powder or dried leaves
as your head talks to you in unrehearsed recitatives?
When it draws you in into a world of its own fine making
that leaves traces, colours your world in all your waking?

Really? Would you really dare to use 'just' in front of it?
Even when it dictates most of whatever wit you see fit?
Come on, there are good trips and there are bad ones
and sure, maybe not all of them might move you by tons.
But still, 'just' can just not be an adjective for any story.
'just' is just too lazy a word to fit its everlasting glory

The narratives might change and their powers might vary;
it could whisk you to a violent hell or to lands of the faery;
might leave a lasting burn or dab of tears in your eyes;
could give you the power to listen to all the unheard cries;
might bring you a placid peace in your ever-churning mind;
it could colour your judgements and then leave you blind;

Well, the point is, it is too powerful, don't offend it with "just",
for, it can inflict anywhere from sincere guilt to playful lust,
can take you from peaceful meadows to churning storms,
and show you sense in gullible rituals to university dorms,
It can paint an epic battle - of fire, of death and of fiery beasts
or on a milder note, bring you to dance in some merry feasts

It weaves complex realities from the surreal abstractions --
of love, of conflicts, of anticipations, of grief, of abductions,
of crimes, of benevolence, of power, of ego, of surrenders,
of science, of magic and several worlds of varied wonders.
It can stir up agony, apathy, anguish, adversity and acrimony
or caress you timidly to a vivid, blossoming blissful harmony

It can softly melt the boundary between truth and deception,
and blurs the borders separating growth from depreciation,
and smooths the contrast between the black and white,
and it can even obscure the disparity amid love and fight.
Such are the endowments of that 'just' yet another tale
well, maybe, it is 'just' that little gale you need on your sail.

The beauty of the Asmilin hills 

The wise old minstrel now hummed this ancient lore,
on the beauty of Asmilin's rolling hills and lakeshore.
And songs on that realm were sung in the time before
and but the wise old minstrel, now sung it once more.

The white rolling hill of Asmilin stretched out wide,
embracing a pristine sparkling lakeshore at its heart.
Here, the magical creatures raced fiercely in their glide,
scaring the grey sky, a soft and graceful empty assart;

Here the snow glistened, the frozen lake gleamed bright,
 and the leafless trees danced to the trumpet of the gale,
Painting and poems were written for glories of this sight,
yet lost is most, and we know just this part of the tale.

They say the old wise ravens held their congress here;
Like specks of black margarites lined on the winter trees
There they perched and forged the future, far and near,
and they let their memories flow in the winter's breeze.

The good noble phoenixes with their fiery wings soared up,
casting kindled light beacons on the snow-filled glade.
They burned golden on the livid sky, like fire's buttercup,
they fluttered brilliantly like a blazing fire, as they played.

The emerald larks, the bards of Asmilin, they softly sang,
their magic heaved the snow so very tenderly, into a dance
and, in the crispy placidity, their luscious melody rang
through the leafless woodland lancing the snowy expanse.

A hyperbolic letter to winter....

It is time again to calm the garish light of the day and roll the noon softly but swiftly into twilight. It is time again the flocks of starlings animate in an every changing patterns of black dots against a perfectly placid grey sky. It is time again to wake up and see the beautiful contrast of brown groud separated from the olive shoots of grass by a murky layer of white mist. And it is time again when the ruffling of the leaves play in the foreground on a low crescendo of the cold wind. Winter, you have arrived finally. It is time to gaze out of the window into the misty ambience with a cup of hot chocolate in mittened hands and watch the stream make abstract motifs- ever so dainty and ever so shifting like flowing white charcoal patterns blended on a grey canvas. And at night the street lamps have begun casting their copper glow on the misty crisp air, glistering like pearls ringed with a soft corona around them. The streets below are often wet these days and answer the street lamps with their flickering distorted reflection, almost as if playfully taunting their light. Streets are becoming emptier and hushed, and only occasionally are the sounds of distinct footsteps breaking the calm ambience - almost like a mischievous twist to the peaceful harmony of the wind. By the street side, toasted chestnuts are being sold in paper cones and the woody smell of their burning shells scent the brittle air.  It almost smells festive. Oh, winter you are so beautiful, each year, just as you come.

In memory of a beautiful winter storm in Syracuse, New York

But, I remember the last winter-- I saw you younger- more dramatic, more impassioned, cloaked in the glamour of the icy diamonds. You oftentimes heaped the dust of shimmering snowflakes on the ground, flawlessly contrasting a matt dusky sky, seldom intervened by darker cloudy trims. Your wind used to bellow jubilant trumpets in polyphony like a mystical coral, pronounced yet agile as if filled with a myriad of mummers, in a much crispier air. Now the fallen leaves just rattle against the floor and you don't swing their colours in dynamic arcs amidst the vertical swirls of snow anymore. Neither have you come embellished with the black ravens perched on the ash-grey barks of those slender leafless trees, standing tall in the wilderness of rolling white hills. Grounds no longer reflect the pale light of the moon and glow a soft shade of pink with exiguous glimmering patches - like embedded opals in white fur - where the snow froze to ice. And the rooftops are bare and un-curtained with laces of icicles. You were then fierce and enchanting, yet incredibly harmonious and serene. This year I see you much tamer, much mellower and calmer like you have grown older- bringing forth a completely changed and aged essence. And yet, I must admit, while I miss your older pluvial style beyond what I can ever pen on papers, you still are graceful and dactylic, even as you wear your milder vogue.  

A month in Rome


Often time when I go to a modern art gallery, I enjoy scribbling down the feelings that it evokes. It might have nothing to do with the reality of what the painter intends to express, but simply how the work expresses itself to me without its real context; what it makes me think in the first few moments of staring at it. Now, it has been exactly a month since I moved to Rome: a city that I have wanted to indulge myself in for as long as I can remember. So this is an attempt to record my first feelings, the very first thoughts of this experience as if 'a month in Rome' was a piece of art in itself.

The first and most powerful idea that hits you in this experience is that you realise that you are a continuation of human history. The past has left behind a grand abundance for this generation to enjoy; the current generation is gracefully imbibing it while treading forward in their modernity. You see, I come from India; a country that also has a long history, but we don't really live "with" our past as the Romans do. We preseve our past in museums and in temples and in palaces. They are places where we go and pay a visit to our days of yore and cherish them; it somewhat reminds me of the same essence as the concept of paying a visit to the grave of a fond relative has. It is well apprehended but yet well separated from the current reality.

Whereas in Rome, you walk down to Piazza Venezia and you will see the whole agility of a truly modern city perfectly in harmony with the early 90s exuberance of  Altare della Patria that leads on to the heart of ancient Foro Romano. You see the normality of modern life amidst the ancient ruins and the grand baroque structures- women with tall Stilettos racing past the street musicians with shopping bags hanging all over them, groups of youngsters sitting on the corner or on the stairways to chitchat over some pile of what looks like school homework, a bunch of old men having their evening smoke under a 'lollipop' tree (they call it 'pino' here), a herd of countless people hurridly moving towards the metro station and all that jazz of the big city life perfectly performing on a stage set by layers of history.  The baroque grandness is not a past, here you still live in the grandiosity that the history has bequeathed.  If you try to cross the crazy traffic on Piazza della Repubblica or Piazza Barberini, you can die getting distracted by the exquisitely carved grand sculptures that reroutes the traffic and act as a roundabout for the roads. It's a peculiar feeling; of having all that you wanted to live in but a bit too much to take in at once. It feels so out of place that sometimes it makes me emphasise deeply with the protagonist of the story 'Pygmalion'.  I even sense it in the language here; there is a constant presence of the past even in their language. You can feel that it belongs to an era where people had all the time in the world to cherish and relish everything like 'luce di sole' or 'Piazza della Republica', where English would have lost her patience and cut it all down to 'sunlight' and 'Republican square'.

There is another alien feeling that has frequented me in the last one month. This is the feeling you get when you enter one of the baroque churches that stands imposingly in almost every other street of this city. While a major part of you is occupied in revering and apotheosizing the masterpieces of Baroque art, a small part of you remembers Karl Marx and the Protestant movements. In the tall halls gritted with gold and bronze, embellished with marble inlays and adorned with painted stain glass windows, these churches house intricately carved sculptures. In these statues, you can see each muscle fibre that is flexed, strands of hair flying of across their polished foreheads, veins on their foot delicately adding complexity to the smoothness of marble, folds of the silk garment fluttering in an unfelt wind and sometimes, even the cracks of the toenails. These artists almost created perfect humans and just fell short of breathing life into them, probably out of their respect for the divine.  While a part of you admires the abstract concept of what a human passion can lead to and the other is too occupied in struggling to imbibe all the beauty your eye isn't trained to hold. It is an exasperating feeling, the one that leaves you feeling humble even as you stand in the probably the least humble of ambience you could ever imagine. If you have even doubted the phrase "too much beauty, you have to visit Rome to understand it.