Sometimes on Discovery TV,
there's time-lapse to teach and dazzle us.
We might see that naked jay (before he's turned to blue)
in just mere moments transforming!
He masquerades in feathers and quickly grows.
Maybe we will witness the feeble endeavors
which finally propel him into flight;
as the camera follows him, he goes. . .
On some enchanted tropic isle
is the species of a tree
that some of us have never seen.
The camera's eye might focus
on a random bud among its glossy leaves.
Soon it blossoms pink petals
and if we watch some more,
perhaps we'll see the purple of its star apple emerging.
Then we'll see it grow,
and if left not plucked, shrivel up and go. . .
We are but mere ions
in the spectrum of a universe
we've entered through a magic door.
Miraculously born, we grow.
But at first it all seems so slow. . .
Then one day we try our wings.
Some of us may soar.
Others, like an apple never tried, will fall.
But all of us will look back before we go,
and we'll think how much it seemed a dream.
Time always goes. . . .
and then
we're
gone.
In the countryside, while walking
It was a joy to pick and eat wild guava
Papaya, star apple, lomboy, and berries
Our mouth always stained milky or purple
Life was so sweet to remember then
Going back and forth from school walking
We had this routine finding fruits at roadside
If we find one, all my school companions busy
Picking and cajoling the fruit tree's blessing
It's fun, joking and merry eating around the tree
Almost dusk we arrive home because of that gag
Until this moment of adulthood I can still recall
My high school days had never been that fun.
the season-change of the vagrant pole-star easily picks up a sip
from the list of ducks of the night-watchers
standing on the bye-lane of the horse-race … by the weight of the confession made
by the spelling-mistakes of a moonlit night to the lotus-leaves … the amputated
tongues of the night-bulbs gradually rolls down to the banyan-pods of the side-characters
the sharp archer of the star-apple moves away some furlongs from the usual
word-stairs and swallowed a whole grammar with fumes by spoon
thus with the number of velocity-poems that the punjabi with boutique prints
can produce… or will produce … gluttonous flower-vase of the magic-painter
can make cool the slaughter-ground … spread to the horizons of the krishnachura
that is deviated from its own track