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'The Persistence of Memory' (1931) 
By Salvador Dali

   

Poems of BSM Murty soon to be published with some more poems in a collection. 

1. ‘ISNOTNESS’

My presence is in my absence;

In my being, my cessation.

I am because I am not.

I am not because I am.

All you know, you don’t know.

You see only what you don’t see,

Hear what is not audible,

Touch what is ephemeral,

Smell only the déjà vu.

I am untruth’

The whole untruth,

And nothing but the untruth.

Yes, I am all, I’m everything.

Because I am nothing at all.

Whoever says there is no God

Knows not, because God Is;

Because his ‘isnotness’

Is impossible to prove,

Because what you don’t see

Or believe, also Is.

The invisible

The inaudible

The untouchable

Is the whole reality. 

2.The Aura

You cannot have the aura alone.

A bright clear smile must be

On a soft-swaying anemone

In the heart of a darkening sea.

You cannot have the cry on its own.

A deep, livid stab must be

And a blade that has come and has gone

Beyond pain’s uncertain boundary.

3.To the Wind

Teasing and tousling the trees

Blew the cool, cloud-carrying breeze –

Whispered in my ear and yawned

I drew lungsful of its sweetness

And hastened my song,

The death-beguiling, death-lullabying song

The wind listened and tittered

As I wound my song with its last refrain.

4. Kidding Sun

Where has the sun gone

Down the horizon?

Hid from our eyes

Leaving us under shadow

Deepening, darkening into night?

Or have we just been left behind

The sun racing towards new horizons

Ever unfolding, forever renewing?

After all it has to travel everywhere

Or put us into an illusion

Where it stands still

Hoolahooping us round and round

It's we who keep hurrying

On and on, not the sun.

It's not the sun gone anywhere

It's we who are gone

Gone past the sun

Gone down the horizon

Where the merry sun peeps again

Look how he rises, how he smiles

On the bright eastern horizon

The ever playful, kidding sun.

5.Tea with Donne

Good Morning, dear Sun!

Come sit with me

And have a cup of tea.

You look so fresh today,

So radiant, so bright-eyed,

Filling half our world

With your golden ray;

Peering into every window,

Every nook and crevice,

Teasing lazy lovers from their beds;

Writing musical scores

On shimmering cobwebs;

Hastening the yawning buds

To bloom soon before noon,

Whispering to their opening petals

That their tender short story

Has a lovely end by the even-song.

Meanwhile, dear Sun,

Come, sit with me

And have some tea.

 6.The Jetty

Dusk sat

At the dark stairs of death.

The jetty lay still

In the black tranquillity.

The sound of wing-flap

Amid the leaves unquivering

Three dogs dancing blackly

Vanishing and reappearing

Unbarking.

The path from the Temple

 Led it to the pavilion of Death

Where a ray of prayer

Lay prostrate begging for

Love and life.

Beneath the porch

Behind the library

Once upon a time not so dark

In the harsh glare

Of a 100 watt electric bulb

It was torn

To be torn again

And again ad infinitum.

7.Static Cacti

The chill was palpable
Visible and eloquent.
Frozen droplets hung
On the terror-struck twigs.
The machine-gun lay mute
In shock by the cold
Uniformed prostrate body
Swaddled in a blood-pool.

Soft waltzing tunes
On violins and saxophone,
Hot glowing coals in brazier burning,
Warming the ogling, whiskered colonels
Holding glasses of whiskey
Around the lissome beauty,
Back-wrapped in a lovely stole
And front alluringly open to the warmth.
Lewd laughters, tinkling glasses,
With somber shadows surrounding.

Earth stood still, wide-eyed,
All frozen and numb.
The snow-draped cacti
Saluting, static and dumb,
The sideways shaggy dome,
As the gazing sun shone
On the blood-shot leaden eyes
Reflecting the glory of a fight
To the last stuttering bullet,
Till all the shrapnels arrived
Whistling, ringing,
And singing their dirge.

8.Giving

We give away material things; we part with them.

We give up pleasures of the senses; we renounce them.

We give out love, kindness, sympathy; we philanthropize.

All kinds of giving rebounds in manifold ways.

Giving away destroys attachment, brings equanimity.

All renunciation destroys sensual pleasures, brings peace.

Giving out loving-kindness, brings ultimate bliss.

True giving frees us from desire.

We give only when we desire nothing in return;

When we totally forget about our giving,

Never even remember it, let alone, speak about it.

That is the highest kind of giving,

Like God gives.

Next to the highest is giving more than we receive;

Always remembering what we receive than what we give,

Feeling ever grateful and humble

Like a saint.

Lesser is giving grudgingly or not at all,

Always willing to receive only,

Making demands without deserving

Like us all.

9.Forgiveness

Forgivness is a blessing

A divine Benediction

That only comes to a heart

Cleansed by true Repentance

True  Forgiveness comes

Not from incontrite solicitation

But from earning it the hard way

Through sustained Repentance.

It will only enter into a heart

Purified by overflowing Lovingkindness

10. Spirituality

Spirituality is a  delusion to those

Who wear it merely as a garment.

True spirituality fills the heart

With boundless love and compassion.

And such benediction

Cannot coexist with hatred, envy,

Greed, selfishness, anger

And similar base emotions

In a  heart rinsed with spirituality

11. Hi, Krishna!

Hi, Krishna!

What’re you doing here

Under this tree on my street?

And where is Radha, your beloved beauty?

And all those Gopis

Whom you had left naked in the pool

As you stole their ghanghras and cholis?

Ah, today I am not in a mood for all that

Today I am here in your street

Beneath this tree with my flute…

Today I want to tell you something…

Oh, really? How good of you to think of me!

Today I come to tell you who you are

You are me – none else – me and me alone.

For days I had been watching you

Going on morning strolls, deep in thought.

I knew you were thinking of me

And of the music of my flute.

So I came to tell you I am only you

And you are always in me.

Come, come, Krishna,

You are only taking me round and round

In circles, baffling me with your enigmatic words.

Now, tell me seriously about your true self;

Are you only what you look,

As you stand here under this tree on my street,

Wearing that peacock-feather’d hair-band 

And playing that divine tune on your flute?

Indeed, this is how you see me.

This is how I appear in the mirror of your heart.

But let me make known to you my divine manifestation.

I am the Atman that dwells in the heart of every mortal creature.

I am the beginning, the life-span and the end of all.

I am the beginning, the middle and the end in creation.

I am the Time without end: my face is everywhere.

I am triumph and perseverance: I am the purity of the good.

I am the knowledge of the knower.

I am the divine seed of all lives.

Nothing animate or inanimate exists without me.

Indeed, my divine manifestations are limitless….

Oh, enough, enough, my Krishna.

To me you are best in this enchanting form

With your peacock-feather’dhairband

And that lovely flute on your lips,

Standing beneath this tree on my street

Where daily I take my morning strolls.

12. The Victory Hymn

The war-weary Rama stood

With his slackened bow and hushed quiver

Worried in the battlefield of Lanka

In his battle against demon Ravana.

Just then came sage Agastya to him

Chanting the sacred and divine hymn –

Aditya Hriday, the holiest of hymns,

Capable of vanquishing

Even the most powerful of enemies….

O Sun-god!

Dispeller of darkness,

Glowing with the gold-like lamp of light,

Painting the eastern sky

With your myriad coloured rays,

Riding seven green-hued horses

With radiance adorned.

We bow to your majesty.

Ever-radiant Lord of the creation,

Seed of the universe,

Begetter of the world,

Fount of radiance, your rays animating

And sustaining the world’s existence,

And preserving the entire universe,

Appareled in shining beams;

Penetrator of darkness,

Remover of human sorrow.

We bow to you again.

Lord of the skies!

Life-giver to the universe,

Creator of water,

Causer of heavy rains,

Maker of sunshine,

All-pervading form;

Most refulgent of all refulgent things.

Brown-pigmented, red-hued,

Source of all death,

 Seer of past, present and future,

O Lord of the east!

We bow to you again and again.

O lord of planets and stars!

Creator, preserver and destroyer,

You, who exist within the souls of all spirits,

And keep awake even while they sleep,

You are capable of bestowing the fruits

Of all actions in the entire creation.

O king of the day!

Attired in a thousand rays,

You are victory personified,

And the source of all benediction,

O awesome dazzle of the universe,

Who make the lotus-buds bloom,

Overflowing with radiance, you are

Dispeller of darkness and ignorance,

Remover of inertia and cold,

Destroyer of the enemy,

When you assume your terrible anger,

Your aura of brilliance is like melted gold,

O bright-bodied, killer of darkness,

We bow to you yet again.

Having chanted the holy hymn

Thus spoke Agastya -

O heroic, gallant Rama

The very embodiment of Truth and Valour,

Shed this false shadow of inaction.

Here I give you this holy hymn of the Sun-god.

Whoever chants this hymn

In adversity, suffering and in fear,

Is at once rid of all suffering and dread.

The reverent chanting of this holy hymn

Always brings forth victory.

 It is an eternal hymn

Bringing the highest blessings,

Destroying all sins, worries and sorrows,

And bestowing longevity and invincibility.

O Raghav, descendent of Raghu,

By chanting this holy hymn thrice,

You will easily kill Ravana

And all the demons of his vast army.

Victory will bow and kiss your divine feet.

In this great war against Injustice and Evil.

Having given this  holy message

And his divine blessing to Rama,

The sage Agastya then quietly went back

To where he had come from

13.Marigold garland

The joyous kids were away

With the old aunt at the temple,

Her basket full of flowers and incense.

When a fragrant marigold flower

Adorning  Shiva’s tangled tresses -

A baby sickle moon perched on the crown -

Slipped into the folded wizened hands

Of the old devotee  worshipper.

And soon it fell like a divine boon

Into the joined palms, sweating

And aquiver in unspeakable bliss

Around that celestial benediction.

In that mystic moment of stillness,

 When Time lay prostrate,

Heaving, breathless and satiated,

On a small wooden bed,

By that burgeoning basil plant

With delicate sprouts of

Dark leaves pregnant with manjaris.

The melodious aalap of  Vagishwari

Played softly, working itself slowly

Into a ringing, rising crescendo

Of passionate notes and beats,

Syncopated, counterpointed,

With crisscrossed arabesque patterns

Of gold, silver, ruby and pearls,

Among the swaying basil leaves,

With the air steaming and swooning,

Whispering songs of mingled passions.

While the temple reverberated

With the loud ponderous sound

Of the deep convoluted conch

Heralding the arrival of

Shiva’s elephant baby son

Wearing the marigold garland.

14. The Pitcher

I am an earthen pitcher

Lying idle in a pitcher-maker's backyard.

As I look around, I find many pitchers

Lying around me, some of them

Have their necks broken.

Others appear misshapen.

Hardly any are perfect in shape.

I get worried about myself:

Am I all well made?

Free from all defects?

Round and sound in shape?

How can I see myself?

They are all looking at me.

Am I in good shape?

Is nothing wrong with me?

How do I know?

Who can tell me?

Only the pitcher-maker, perhaps!

15. The Leaf

Look at me

I am only a leaf

Torn from my branch

Where I was born and blossomed

Where I played and sang

Fluttered in the gentle breeze

Now lying torn and lonely here

All alone and musing

For many days now

Days I have lost count, in fact

Here I lie on sodden coaltar

Since the rowdy wind rose

Howled and rattled, jarred and jolted

And tore me off with a single slap

From the topmost branch

Of this old and timeworn tree

Bringing in its wake

Cool monsoon showers

Riding piggyback merrily

Yes, the wind was rude and rowdy

It shook the branches wildly

Swaying them sideways

Upwards and downwards

Wickedly in every which way it will

Tearing at them, at us the leaves

Till we flew helter-skelter in the wind

And fell here on the bluehuedcoaltar

And then came the burly rain

With huge buckets of water

With grating rasping laughter

And with angry crazy booms

In the dark sparring clouds above

While suddenly, very stealthily

The wind slunk away

Quietly to where it had come from

And then the rain drizzled freely

And whispered and sang cheerily

Throughout the afternoon

Then again fitfully in the small hours

Of the night gone by

And left me in the morning

Totally soaked and shivering

When the sun rose to dry me up

And make me warm and cosy

In my loneliness and brooding,

Till you came and paused

To look at me.

16. The Wall

‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall’

It stands there silent and enigmatic.

Between desire and fulfilment.

Who raised it? This ugly wall?

How come it stands here brazenly

With its pockmarked face –

Hard, stony, savage, harsh, pitiless - 

Grimacing with criss-crossed shadows?

Rugged with malice and contumely.

It divides. It hides. It shuts out.

Blocking tear-filled eyes,

From gentle solicitous emotions,

Choking sighing sorrows,

From piercing its concrete barbarity.

Snuffing candles on vigil

For those who perished in pain.

Will it be there forever –this wall -

Indestructible, undemolishable, perpetual?

‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall’

That stands forever silent and enigmatic.

Between desire and inertia.

17.Loneliness

You lose interest in things

Just as things lose interest in you

You become increasingly lonely

Just as loneliness increasingly

Intensifies around you

Its like a piano wire stringing

Round your neck and you

Strangulating yourself more and more

With it to total asphyxiation

But loneliness is a plaintive song

You sing to yourself

Even as you slowly asphyxiate

A song that rings a thousand notes

That surround you with their music

A music woven  of a chiaroscuro

Of dark grey and vibrant yellow

Memories of the past days and nights

 18.Facebook

Your face on the Facebook
Can be read like a book.
Macbeth’s face, said his wife,
Was a book where men
May read strange matters.
Campion, the poet,
Saw in his beloved’s face
A garden where roses
And white lilies grow.
Milton found the human face divine;
And for Ezra Pound, faces in the crowd
Were like petals on a wet black bough.
The Greek beauty, Helen, we are told,
Had a face that launched
A thousand ships in the Trojan war.
The face, indeed, is the door into your being;
A confluence of the five rivers
Of your five senses
Of sight, sound, smell, taste and touch
That flow from the mountain of your brain
Into your body’s vast ocean.
But, remember, your tongue
Is the delta of all your senses
Where the rivers meet the ocean,
Where words like boats
Float and sink into memory.
It’s the word indeed
That writes the story of the face
In the book of life.

19.Days in Yemen


Oh, those lovely days in Yemen!
That crescent country
Hemmed in by high mountains
With hung-up roads belting all round
And oceans washing its gentle shores.
It was therein theancient city of Taiz
That I spent those seven semesters
In truth, the best learning time of my life,
Teaching young Yemeni boys and girls,
More girls always than boys,
Bartering with them my English
For their exotic Arabic tongue.
Sharing with them fried potato fingers
And cans of Coke in the canteen
Amidst joyous laughter and jokes.

Taiz was once the capital of Yemen
One of its most beautiful cities
At night itwould look like
A bowl of shimmering pearls.
Or a lovely bride with glittering jewels.
It had all the charm of a cool hill resort.
Our Arts Faculty was up on a ledge
Where I would teachmy boys and girls,
Their eyes agleamwith gentle curiosity
And the insatiable thirst for knowledge.
Oh, I will always cherish those memorable days
I spent with those young boys and girls.
In whose shining eyes I could always glimpse
A bright promising future for Yemen.

20.Fence of Time

No, I don’t know
I have no idea
About what happened
To that wayward lad
Who was found sitting
Astride the fence of time
Night on his left
And day on his right
Looking into the void
He munched on a soft bone
Sucking its marrow
Listening to all the noise
About fearless innocence
Struggling for life
In some remote corner
Tucked away safely
To die in peace

No, I don’t know
I have no idea
About what happened
Because darkness had thickened
Into a black night
And the crowd had dispersed
Because dawn was
Still far far away
And yet uncertain

21.Lotus-eaters today

Come one and all , come with your spades and forks
Come, let’s fill all these lotus ponds with secular filth
And political garbage of scams piled over scams
And all the cross-barkings of media debates
Interspersed with ceaseless ads of swanky blondes
One after another after another after another -
Till the last syllable of recorded time
Come, let’s kill all the lotus flowers one by one
Because these lotus flowers are suddenly blooming
In massive numbers in countless ponds all over
In danger of being swamped by their own stampedes
Yes, bury these lotuses, all of them,
Under brazen hypocrisy, shameless cant
Of fake secularism dividing rather than uniting
Otherwise these innumerable lotuses
Might bloom all over these visible ponds
And fill our nostrils with their wafting fragrance
No, let us hide them under large tarpaulins
Of secular pretence and duplicity
So that they starve and dry up and perish
Rot and reek and stink and pong.
O let’s get away quick from their strong stench
To some musical event in the distant past
Where Nero played once with his callous fiddle
While Rome burnt all around him in blazing fire.

22.Patriotism on sleeves!

Is a Cinema Hall - nowadays in Multiplexes -
the fittest place to make it mandatory
for the big-money viewers to stand up
in respect as the National Anthem
plays on for fifty-four seconds
before the film show begins?
(The film will have plenty of noisy
hip-swinging, lovey- doveying,
and comical fighting to absurdity.)
But will that be OK there?

Yes, why not - because all
the nouveau riche in our society,
spending their thousands over tickets
for their family & friends,
assemble there only
to while away their time
munching vigorously
on peppered popcorns
or swilling with slurps
their cans of Coke -
they are the people enjoying fruits
of their ill-begotten wealth,
living off the misery and poverty
of the common people
doing no good to the country;
in fact, dragging it down towards
regression and stagnation.
It is these well-off people
'doing-no-good-to-the-country'
who need to be disciplined indeed
and taught to respect the values
of nationalism and commitment -
values quite unheard of
and unknown to them.

These are the wooden-headed people
their head-pieces filled with straw
who think - patriotism is the last refuge
of the scoundrels or that patriotism
can't be worn on your sleeves -
yes, they are the people,
the Mall-milling crowd, who forget
that more than half the nation
hasn't any sleeves to wear whatsoever
on their shrunken ever-bare rickety arms.

Give them some bread and salt -
to these hungry and bare-bodied people
and ask them to stand
for the national anthem,
and they will surprise you utterly
by not only standing
but also singing the national song
full-throatedly with all the zest
and even giving a smart salute
to their motherland's
tri-coloured National Flag!

They are the true sons of India -
the starved, bare-bodied patriots -
those who work in the fields
under a scorching sun
to grow their bread
or die in the effort.

The same fields whereupon
sacred ashes have once been
sprinkled from the sky
in a tryst with destiny.

They are the poor farmers
and daily-wage earners
who have never known
the cool cushioned calls
of the Cinema Halls
in glittering city multiplexes.

They have never been asked to stand
as the polyphonic National Anthem plays
for full fifty-four seconds,
with a large tri-colour flag fluttering away
on the massive cinema screen.

They would rather sing
their national anthem
while sweating in the fields
or working on the roads
that will some day lead them
to their better days!

23.A General Falls

The Cavalry charger,
Its stirrups dangling
With boots reversed,
Trudged behind
The gun carriage,
Draped in red-and-gold,
Strewn with pink and orange
Blossoms of rose and marigold.

The guns boomed
At sullen intervals
In the gloom of a drizzle
As the bugles sounded
The Last Post.

The slinged arm
Rose in a painful salute
As sobs were buried
In the General’s cap.
The flame lit up
An immortal glow.

Hallowed be his name,
A fine officer he was
Oh God!’ – ‘A brave soldier’.
A hero of two wars
Who had done his country proud.

To him an enemy from within
Was worse than the foreign one
For he killed his own brethren
Spilled gore on the face
Of his own motherland.

Sulking, lurking coward,
Stole alongside, pillion-riding,
Pumped bullets into a head
Always held high in dignity
Bowing to the motherland’s majesty.

“After seeing two wars,
I can’t run away from danger.
If a bullet is destined to get me,
It will come with my name
Written on it.”

Great names
Are often written
On bullets:

Lincoln
Gandhi
Martin Luther King

The list goes on
Into infinity
Into immortality.


In memory of General V.K. Vaidya, India’s 13th Chief of Army Staff, who planned ‘Operation Blue Star’ (July. 1984).He retired on 31 Jan 1986 & was shot dead by two scooter-borne Sikh militants on 10 Aug 1986. The assassins were hanged on 9 Oct 1992.

 24.The Mask

Who are these people

Who surround me

At this late hour

With their faces masked

In weird grimaces

Ogling with green glinting eyes

Their bat-ears protruding wide

Swaddled under their dark cloaks

In their hairy nakedness

I seem to know them

Each one of them

At one point of time

Beyond the present

In the labyrinths of the past

I have often seen them

Lurking in dark alleys

Peering into half-shut windows

Mumbling cabbalistic syllables

Scratching their pubes

Spitting out venom

Singed by their own flames

Of pride, envy and hatred

Burning to ashes

To nothing.

25.Blank Diary Dates

I

Dates have gone unwritten;

Things to be remembered

Forgotten forever.

Things of some importance

Must have happened

Between a morning and an evening,

Some to me, some to her,

And some to others, too.

Someone or the other

Must have come to meet.

Some laughter must have been -

May be some loud bursts.

At some moment or the other

Sadness must also have stalked in.

Some memories must have floated up

And some others must have submerged.

It’s not possible

That the vacant diary dates

Would remain vacant always;

Whatever is hidden

Behind their blank faces,

Would surely show up some day

Like invisible writing

In secret ink

As the paper warms up.

On a candle flame.

II

Often I feel,

I should fill

All these blank pages,

All the skipped dates,

With thoughts and events

Of today, of now.

But how far can

The yesterdays be poured

Into the moulds of todays?

 26. Indecision

Mind or brain is divided
into two lobes or spheres
to keep it in equilibrium.
Indecision mothers clarity 
of thought as end-product.
Love is physical 
before being spiritual.
The mother breastfeeds her child
as a physical bond 
before filial love sprouts 
more than prettiness 
she thinks of her physicality. 
The breast is her physicality 
rather than an object of desire
Of that she is certain.
There her mind is one.


27. Where to go?

One day, it was a Monday,
I found myself dead
Stone dead, cold as ice,
With no air inside me
Or even around me.

Where had all the air gone?
All the leaves lay still
The trees looked like painted trees
With painted leaves on them

No air anywhere to breathe
Nothing to inhale or exhale
I searched inside me
Looked inside my lungs
Within the cage of my ribs
It was totally hollow and still

The heart looked blue and luminous
Frozen in its diastolic frame
Rigor mortis it was I knew

What next I wondered
Looked around and saw
No one nowhere, only
An insipid, cloudless sky
Gazing at me, I mean, my body,
With stilled eyes, inane and vacuous.

My lips look bluish and faint
My eyes closed on dilated pupils
Cheeks bestubbled with white and grey
My hair all ruffled and taut 
Like the broken strings of a guitar.

I sit and stare on my own body
Unable to decide what to do now
And where to go?

28.Pirate Kidd

O, blessed left eyelid of mine,

All these past months, weeks and days,

Why have you kept fluttering all the time,

Terrifying me with your occult ways?

Why can’t you behave like my right eye,

So gentle, so kind, so benevolent

Wise, I’d aver, almost like the Magi

And forever percipient, forever vigilant.

I know your continual fearful fluttering

Signifies bad omen, brings bad luck,

But for me who’s already so badly suffering

Should you keep me forever so stuck?

And if flutter you must, O my left eyelid

I may perforce wear a patch like the pirate Kidd.

29.Two-way mirror

Why do I think about

What others think

Or dont think about me

When I hardly ever think

About them all.

And when I think

I think of you only

And thinking sink deep

Into your thought,

Where I find myself thinking

Of me in you or you in me

As if I am looking

Into a two-way mirror -

Wherein I see me not you

But you see me very clear.

And all those  thinking

Or not thinking of me

Are seen nowhere near

That two-way mirror.

30.Postscript

This time I’m wide awake,

Unlike last time, when I was drowsy with grief,

And I wrote in a different language,

With sodden images, drenched in pain.

I have put aside my pain,

Now in a locker of privacy,

Not to be shown or seen

Or discussed or analyzed.

I regret having embroiled you,

Dragged you forcibly,

Into my territory of sorrow,

Which spilled over from you,

Like a drop of blood

All smudged over.

It was a grieved heart’s agony

Not to be trundled about

Like a wailing baby in a pram.

I tried to share my pain,

To soothe it a little by sharing,

But, instead, it soared high

Like a flailing kite in a windy sky

Torn from its wheel and lost.

                                               

31.The Last Song

Let’s, go Love,

Beyond the Moon.

Oh, let’s Love!

Let’s hide among the stars,

And flee from this earth, this world.

Hold me fast,

I’m in a swirl of intoxication.

Wake me up

From this shadowy sleep.

Life, even if it ends,

Let not love’s journey end.

Oh, let’s go Love!

Pain raced through your veins,

As I listened to the song,

As if in a dream,

Wandering among the stars,

Holding your hand,

Sharing your pain.

It was a dark sky,

Splashed with glittering stars,

And the plaintive song

Echoed through them.

But I sensed a dark shadow,

Following up close behind.

I wouldn’t look back,

But rather hold your hand

Evermore tightly.

You gave me a faint smile

On your pallid lips.

My hand shook nervously

And the dream melted

Into tears

32. My Old Love

I took her in my arms, my old Love

Now withered and shrivelled

Her bones brittle, coming unstuck

Her spine bent with decrepitude

Scarcely breathing, almost senseless

Dead in my arms? I wondered awhile

And put my ear on her once-charming

Unheaving, perspiring bosom

It felt snowy cold and motionless

She had left me alas, alone and forlorn

I fell into a swoon. She was gone.

Was she to be wrapped in a shroud

Laid down into a wooden coffin

Down into a grave to be dug

All my ocular nerves were awash with tears

Ringing with a melancholy music

The final moment of bodily separation was come

She had to be buried into earth

‘Dust thou art, to dust returnest’

Said the poet singing his psalm

But my soul cried, she was a mummy

Let her remain a mummy

Rather than bury her to be eaten by worms

Keep her by your bedside, on a hallowed shelf

Drape her in her bridal clothes

And let her be a memento mori

For she will then outlive you

Lying on that shelf of  eternal memory

To be remembered even while

You are forgotten.

33. The Strumming Lute

You have been strumming my heart
With your passionate leaves
You who don’t know what you are for me
How every cell in my body
Is soaked in your sap
Rambling round in scorching heat
Losing my way I came
Under your cool fragrant shade
And lay down in a drowse
Three sweet blossoms you dropped on me
And some dry autumned leaves too
But your sapsodden torso
Bound my being in a spell
Craving for a fusion
A melt in the liquid warmth
The sudden shower
Drenching a feverish body
With its cool dulcet love.

34.  My Queen-bee

O my Queen Bee, the Breath of my Life,
Owner of the succulent honey-filled beehives,
The dark black night outside my window
Moist and fragrant like your lovely locks
That would always enfold me in their tangled tresses
Joining us into our passion-filled lip-locks
Their sweet remembrance now fills my soul
As I write these words to you. Out of my window
There’s a humid hushed stillness velvety and starless
Criss-crossed by the monotonous chirping of crickets.
Suddenly their music is wafted away by the breeze
Taken over by soft whispering drizzles slowly swelling,
As the wind silently slinks away momentarily,
Into a soft pitter-patter on the swaying leaves
Of the thirsty trees drinking from the rain’s cups
And, lo, the rain overturns all its buckets
Pouring down hefty showers with all its might
Beating all its drums and cymbals,
Strumming all its fine-tuned strings
Blowing all its trumpets and pipes
Into a loud crescendo, followed at once
With blazing flashes of electric blue lightning
With its stunning crackles of thunderous booms
Flowing through me in ripples of passion
Filling me with myriad déjà vu moments
Of surges and mutual murmurous minglings.
You are both my ‘flower’ and my ‘honey’ in one
As your two names signify, O my Honey Bee!
It’s but natural if you’re unable
To give words to your infinite love
Because a flower only dazzles an onlooker
With its effulgence and its fragrance
In its silent non-verbal enchantment
Just as the nectar-like syrupy sweetness
Of the honey cloys one’s tastebuds
Without advertising its pristine purity.
You are then my flower and its honey hidden
One fills my life with fragrance day after day
And the other sweetens it with the nectar divine
You are like the unheard melody of the poet
That is sweeter than the melodies heard
The remembrance of your being in my arms
Is itself the sweetest song in my life
May its music never fade, may it keep flowing
Like a perennial river winding through
The dark forests and green valleys
Into the great ocean of peace
That passeth all understanding.

35. Ganapati

I was literally at my wit’s end

Having stumbled upon

A writer’s block, as they contend

Chewing my pallid fingernails

Scratching my balding crown

My tablet lying fallow and down

My mind vacant as a blank scroll

Slowly swallowing itself into a black hole

Suddenly I felt a plump chubby trunk

Tickling my back ever so gently.

 - Who, Ganapati, how come you’re here

Standing behind me so stealthily

And caressing my back so lovingly

With your long supple swinging trunk

 - Yea, I am always there behind you

But you never can see me, can you

Though I stand here just behind you

More so when you’re deep in a soup

Then I think I better take you in my loop

 - Yes, I know, to lift the down and the fallen

Your trunk you will always gladly stoop

O, I love you. Ganapati, for your lovingkindness

Let me smooch the laddoo-sweetened tip of your trunk

Who, indeed, would know my problem better

I am passing through a major writer’s block

My internet connectivity is down for days

My fingers feel frozen on my keyboard

My mind grown barren and dry as turd

 - Oh, I know all that, my dear,

But you know I am always there

Behind your back ready with my quill

I was just discussing your problem with Vyasa

And he helped me with all your needed verses

But my problem is that my quill needs a refill

O, but wait I must have a spare one

Somewhere tucked on my ears still

So don’t you worry my child, chill, chill

I am always there behind you

I am the trouble-shooter, Vighnesh,  as you know

Ready to help you whenever you will

 - And lo and behold, my fingers unfroze

And my keyboard from its sleep arose

And see how Ganapati has started my windmill.

36. IT

What's it

Down under.

It's it

But what's its name

Why cant I say it aloud

Shout its name

From my rooftop

From the hill top

From the top of the Everest

What's it after all

Why all this cover up

All this pretence, hesitancy,

Shame, prevarication, euphemism

Why this obsession, this fear, this dread

This sense of guilt, of sin

In saying its name aloud

In speaking about its being

Why not bring it into the open

Into the sun, into fresh healthy breeze

Caressing its thick eyebrows

Why not let it sing

Its song of freedom

Freedom from millenia of slavery,

Torture, assault, bruising, mutilation

Why not break that iron chain

That has shackled it

From ages gone by

Let’s bow our heads to it

Let’s sing a paean for it

Let’s worship it

It made everything possible.

37. Dreamroll

Believe me all.

It’s serendipity they call,

A chance – one in a million -

 When I met Khushwant Singh,

 The great wordsmith of cloudy repute

With his champagne sozzled bawdy prose,

In my fever’d brain dream.

I saw him being trundled around

Below in my grassy compound

By his liveried attendant.

I scurried for my mobile camera

But saw my son already snapping him,

I rushed down the stairs

In my short pants and light vest,

Unware that we lived on the ground floor

With no compound in front.

Wait, wait, I said,

And gently put my stubbled cheek

Beside that bearded forest face

With my lackluster cheese smile,

And then I took over as his trundler

With him in a half snooze as we went round

I telling him about his funniest book

The recent ‘Burial at Sea’,

A satire on the great dynasty.

With dollops of steamy syrupy sensuality,

Ending abruptly at the midpoint,

With the immersion of the ashes

At the Gateway of India.

Up with a jerk he asked me to stop awhile

As he got down, stood by a bush,

Parted the folds of his tahmad

And let out a short dribbling jet on the flowers…

Just then my grandson nudged me,

Thermometer in hand,

‘Time for temperature, Baba’

38.My Walking-stick

You think I have
Not much time left
And you can get away
With all your treachery
Dishonesty and deceit
You have done to me!

But you don't know -
I can come back
With my stainless
Steel walking stick
Which has now become
An essential tool for me
And thrash you soundly
In your weirdest nightmare
And you will not be
Able to see me because
I'll have gone forever -
Gone from this world
Of dishonesty and treachery
Of sin and perdition
And living, burning hell -

Gone to a world far away
Of airy nothingness
Where you don't breathe
Because you surely needn't
Nor eat nor sleep nor dream
Because you are beyond
The cycle of sleep and waking.

And I will visit you in your
Most unlikely moments
When you are all alone
Distressed and sulking
Sunk in nagging worries.

And laugh loudly in your face
Swaying my walking stick
All about you, only scaring you
And making a hell of
Your wretched cursed life.
And frighten the life out of you
Like an unseen ghost
Not visible yet quite tangible.

And you will not be
Able to see me because
I'll have gone forever
Gone from this world
Of dishonesty and treachery
Of sin and agony
And living, burning hell -
Where you are destined
To live long and suffer -

In the prison of your own wealth
With its bars of gold and silver
Burning hot and hotter with damnation.

39. My Walking-stick - 2 

Hey, once again
I have come back
With my walking-stick
Of stainless steel
This time to tell you a story
I forgot to tell you the first time.

This story was first
Told by a sage crow
To a mighty vulture….

"For long years – said the crow -
I lived in the great temple city
Enjoying God’s company
Then a curse of famine
Fell on that divine city
And to save my life I had to fly
To another city
Lord Shiva’s city.

“There I met a Brahmin priest
And under his care spent my days
Worshipping the Lord of Serpents
And ghosts and spirits and phantoms.

“The priest would teach me
Like his own son, the Vedas
And the Holy Puranas of yore.
He gave me the rare mantra
Of Lord Shiva’s benediction
And I would chant it day and night
In the courtyards, perched on the pillars,
The turrets and the cupolas
Of that holy temple.

“But in time my constant chants
Filled me with great vanity
As I sat on the turrets of the temple
And looked down upon the devotees
And even Lord Shiva’s resplendent lingam.

“My Guru would admonish me
For my irreverence but even him
I would not listen to now
Treating both him and Lord Shiva
With utter disdain and contempt.
I was verily now a poisonous serpent
Nursed on holy milk in that temple.

“One day as I was chanting my mantra
My Guru came, and out of my vanity
I did not fly down to touch his feet
And sat perched tightly on the turret
And kept chanting my mantra as before.

“Suddenly I heard a loud voice
Coming from Lord Shiva’s lingam -
“Cursed Crow, those who show
Disrespect to their Guru
Are condemned to burn in Hell
For millions of eons, or turn into
Slothful pythons coiled to damnation…”

“I shuddered in absolute fright
And fell on my Guru’s feet
Asking with teary eyes
And hoarse voice
Forgiveness for
My unpardonable sin…”

As I told you first time
Vanity, Chicanery and Deceit
Are the express highways
To Hell and interminable Perdition.

Look at my walking-stick
Of stainless steel, I use
For an upright, God-fearing life.
Remember, it will always haunt
Your dark noxious smoke-filled dreams
Though it has also the power
To cure you of your
Vanity, Chicanery and Deceit
And bring you back
To Lord Shiva’s abode of Love
And Blessings and Benediction.


40. You pray

When you pray, with eyes closed
Or visualizing a deity,
You pray to your own soul -
The pure eternal soul within you,
The soul you were born with in this life.
Your body is its temporary tenement
Every time you pray
You cleanse your soul
Of earthly impurities.
Every prayer is a prayer to your 'self' -
Your own immortal soul,
Because it purifies you
And your surroundings, too.
Each prayer of yours
Is in itself your blessing.

All poems/matter published on this blog (C) Dr BSM Murty

The painting by Dali has been published courtsey Google images and is meant to be the insignia of the blog. Salvador Dali (1904-1989) was a famous Spanish surrealist painter associated with several modernist schools of painting like - surrealism, cubism, dadaism. The painting above is titled The Persistence of Memory depicting 'melting clocks' (Aug., 1931). He is also distinguished by his self-portrait showing his scorpion moustaches.

This blog was started on July 4, 2019 to publish creative pieces written by Dr BSM Murty and others.

 I,   BSM Murty, taught English Literature &  Linguistics as Professor at Universities (Bhagalpur:1959-88,Magadh:1988-99,Taiz U.,Yemen:1999-2002; now retired,living at Lucknow, writing books.

You may visit my two other blogs for my writings & writings on/of others:

vibhutimurty.blogspot.com
 vagishwari.blogspot.com

Contact: bsmmurty@gmail.com
Mob. 7752922938 , 7985017549, 9451890020. Add: Dr BSM Murty, H-302, celebrity Gardens, Sushant Golf City, Ansal API, Lucknow:226030.

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