Monsoon magic

A poem written in admiration and celebration of the spirit of Mother Nature, especially the beauty of rain forests of Western Ghats mountain ranges of southern India, which occupies a great place in Sangam Tamil literature and is popularly called as the "Kurinji landscape".

Monsoon magic

Where'd it be, where'd it descend first?

On the milky white of coffee flower?

On my nose, scanning, sniffing seventh heaven?

Maybe on a rufous fruit of swarming sandalwood?

Or, on the angry blooms of flame of the forest?

Oh! Await too, the young leaves of sweet almond.

Would it be on *Nishâkânthi expecting its midnight?

Where’d it be, the first drop of this monsoon?

Would it be on the amorous rose-ringed parakeets?

Where’d it be, the elixir churned out of high heavens?

*Miân Ki Malhâr on *Sârangi. Or is it on *Dilrubha?

A menacing cloudscape hangs overhead

Dheem, dheem, dheena, dheem, plays the *Tabla.

A peafowl, the albino, struts through ostentatiously.

Against hooting gale, holds proudly its erected pride.

The lemon grass struggles to hold its ground.

A warty croaky bullfrog’s melody booms through reeds.

A wading pond heron awaits its catch.

A juvenile barbel chinned catfish hits surface.

Within a whisker of pick, between ‘em falls the debut drop.

Two, three, few, more, millions, zillions.

Pricks the pristine waterface, the raindrops bullion.

Bamboo groves sway, the rainstorm rattles.

Threaten to snap off, mountain-bee hives, rain slaps.

Their waxy wax tongues drool over.

Heaven earth lock lips, the love showers down.

Flash of *Malabar lightning, crash of *Lankan thunder.

Rhythmic drum of raindrops on red plantain leaves.

Clamor of paradisal music bears nude sense of Nirvana.

A *Nilgiri Langur drenches with kinsfolks, baby in lap.

Fills my nostrils, a gingerly aroma of ginger coffee.

*Unni sings *Nâdhalôludai, a *Kalyâna Vasantham.

The scent of mossy carpets on my beloved mangosteen,

Weds with the whiff of pale yellow-green clove tree lichens.

An urge kindled in, browse I through memory racks,

Evoking every hidden cherished childhood odors.

As lover’s tender hearts, downpour mates with noble soil.

Ploughing rainsperms chant mystic mythical sacred syllable.

Invoking an ancient charm, opening out the beauty trail.

Melts my soul, the soaked *sholascape’s essence in air.

Rapids of torrential floods, puberty to little singing brooks.

Nearby cascade roars anew, screams of height.

Falls heavy sculpting rocky pachyderms down.

Faraway cries of elephant herds. Rain bard tries tribal fusion.

On high wild *jumbos, nonsensical webs of wild great-vines.

On wild great-vines, parasitical orchids, honey-spurs on lips.

A twosome of two-tongued green vine-snakes hide under.

An amber tree frog crawls up, slips through rain fingers.

Male atop, hunting tree-hollow-pool for frogspawn kids.

Page after page, precipitation plume pens monsoon magic.

Spirited lightning remnant punctures cloud rucksacks.

Emptying heavenly treasure of watery diamonds.

Touch-me-not, touch-me-not, explode jewelweed balsams.

Touch-me, touch-me, persuade under-leaf shield-jewel bugs.

Cloudbanks trickle drop after another, bankruptcy filed.

Skies stand still. Clouds fade away. Trees rain still.

Water beads cow into tree fern’s spiral strangler fronds.

Drip, drip, drip! Sleepy coiled snails uncoil. Drip, drip, drip!

For every drop, playful trees free a mango squashing down.

Mynahs ruffle feathers, shake off rain game mischief.

Pleasing fragrance stray into mindscape.

A wayward squirrel nibbles at *Manoranjana.

The last drop of the day falls on its snout.

A crackajack jackfruit cracks wide open.

An ambrosial perfume seeps through cardamom plants.

Finer maidens’ bosoms alike, mountain summits.

*Kurinji littered emerald landscapes, grassland wonderland!

Waiting to bask in after-shower sunshine primer.

Where’d it be, where’d it descend first?

The first stream of honey colored gentle rays.

- M. Manoranjan, ©2009

• Nishâkânthi: Epiphyllum (Epiphyllum oxypetalum), a cactus variety of South American origin, which bears strong fragrant white flower, that blossoms at midnight and lives only for a night.
• Miân Ki Malhâr: A monsoon Râga in Hindustâni music (Indian classical music of North) tradition.
• Sârangi, Dilrubha: Stringed musical instruments of northern India, played with a bow. Both instruments look a bit similar, but Dilrubha is subtler and more expressive than Sârangi.
• Tabla: A pair of small Indian hand drums, a percussion instrument of North India.
• Malabar: A region of southern India, lying between the Western Ghats mountain ranges and the Arabian Sea.
• Lankan: Of the island nation Sri Lanka, then Ceylon, Sri Lankan.
• Nilgiri: Blue mountain, gets its name thanks to the blue *Neelakurinji flowers, which dominate other flowering plants in the entire region at the time of blossom.
• Langur: A long-tailed arboreal Asiatic monkey, distinguishable by its loud call.
• Unni: Unni Krishnan, a singer in Carnatic music (Indian classical music of South) tradition.
• Nâdhalôludai: A masterpiece composition in Carnatic music by Saint Thyagaraja (ca. 1750), which speaks about the beauty of Nâdha, the resonating sacred sound which is the core character of this cosmos encompassing from small infinity to large infinity.
• Kalyâna Vasantham: A blissful Râga in Carnatic music.
• Shola: A type of high-altitude stunted evergreen forest found only in the southern part of the Western Ghats mountain ranges of southern India. Patches of shola forest are usually separated from one another by undulating grasslands. Together the shola and grassland form the shola-grassland complex or shola-grassland mosaic.
• Jumbo: Jambul, jamun or jambolan (Syzygium cumini), an evergreen tropical tree, native to Indian subcontinent, which bears a berry like thin dark black-purple skinned fleshy edible fruit. Wild jambolan (Syzygium fruiticosum), a wild variety, which grows tall and spotting huge monstrous trunk.
• Manoranjana: Ylang-ylang (Cananga odorata), a tropical tree, which bears sweet-scented pale yellow-green flowers.
• Kurinji: Neelakurinji shrub, Strobilanthes Kunthiana, which flowers once in twelve years and is the most popular one; Strobilanthes Sessilis, which flowers once in seven years. Both blossomed together in 2006, which occurs once in 84 years!

Autumn landscape

A poem inspired by this year's autumn fall. I wanted to publish this poem on 20th Nov, but couldn't make it. It was such a pain to carry the poem in head without penning it down. It feels like floating in air when I managed to publish it finally. You can also hear this poem read by me in my YouTube channel mmanoba. The video is also found below the poem.

Autumn Landscape

My mind on mutiny of melodious muteness

Pathetic painful moronic oxymoron

Whistles she along with radio singer

Cheerful chauffeuse, drives me to her chateau

Backseat Oskar meditates on scenes pass by

Trains and station fade behind him

Serpentine roads and leaves strewn landscapes

Brumous fog or heavenly drizzle, hard to gauge

A gentleman on curly horse salutes us warmly

Passing him, changes she the gear

Stands there a golden couple of good old chateau

Kisses of welcome and knuckle crushing handshake

A decor of taste, surprise, awe and charm

Inches of them speak of her, her fondness, intellect

Every time I visit them, stand I with my eyes widened

Shameless pride in her proud father’s eyes

She the treasure not his chateau

Breakfast ready, drags she me to her terrace garden

Oskar leads us to the greenhouse, tail dancing

Her treasured orchidarium and my beloved orchids

Varieties of them and a little pond of wonder

Lotus and lily, pinks, yellows and whites

My blue lotus too, no Victoria, ask I, smiles she killingly

Bees, honey and bumble, ply between nectaries and hives

Hives assembled half in rest out, her prudent pick

Blows she on glass and wipes the vapor film

Scenic beauty rushes in yanking my breath away

Rising cliffs, rolling slopes, thick woods, green blanket under

Merry pair of cooing doves dives down and then jives up

My silent prayer, a heinous hope for a queerish pair

Falling crimson leaves attempt to imitate them

Her saddened heavy sigh mends the mist curtain

Her love for tea and her garden trees of autumn fall

Pin oak, golden maple, liquidambar, lists she crazily

Japanese persimmon, maple, Chinese pistache, tallow

Claret, golden ash, scarlet oak and then maidenhair

The color of your hair, my Xavi’s too, slips my tongue

Freezes her smile, gloomy stains across her face

Asks she my pardon rectifying her mien

Feeling remorse take I her supple hand

Longs she the touch lasts longer, for unknown eternity

What is on today’s menu, change I the subject

Alice in wonderland and little fishing, replies she gleamingly

Oskar jerks hearing the very word, shrills, tail goes crazy

Mushroom hunt, trout fishing, no bad menu for German Hund

Oskar the great, grand champion of black truffle hunt

Bamboo pannier, tools inside, angler’s angle, turf creel

Hardened slushy wild wood windy trails

Glued to it, red leaves, deep yellow, rotting brown

Myriad shapes, size, nature’s hand at mosaic art

Tranquil clear lakes, leaves littered ponds

Fallen fresh leaves decay drown down, rejuvenate surface

Broth like hot steam on surface, water fowls paddle, V behind

Riot of colors of autumn landscape, slothful sun above as well

Serenity bleeds, a distant remote shot injures stillness

Terrified flutterings of assorted wings, twice and again a gunfire

A Bean-shidh croons, darling bird’s plume in her hands

Frightened eyes, pounding soul, female of merry pair returns solo

Tragic numbness clogs up throats, tireless Oskar flirts with hares

Nature’s bounty basket full, ample catch of singing brooks

String of caterpillars, one behind other, journey to pupal homes

Autumn’s treasures in timber boats, gold leaves, dew diamonds

Scarlet leaves, rubies, mossy branches, worthy emeralds

Standing guard, coots and ducks, renounce posts now and then

Distant swan pair at love making, Oskar guides promenade back

Against her head, wishes she my shoulder, fogy veil falls heavy

The chateau manifests mightily, drifting amidst paradise mist

The chateau of delicious souvenirs, where I met Xavi first

Her grand aunt’s uncle’s only great-grandchild

The day I gifted them the love of Oskar, then pup

The chateau, it’s every bricks, I love, yes, every bricks

Every bricks but her adored violin and a photo by it

An image of mine trapped frozen in, shreds my heart, zillion cuts

Every time, her violin ends solo cries, theaters stand applauding

Few with bleary eyes, most with runny nose

No just music, she adept at, kitchen too her orchestral ground

Regal diné lies ahead, vin jaune, Beaujolais and dirty jokes

A week or so more to go

Far from Xavi, in bosom of a family, my friend of childhood

A splendid fair lady, researching net on Victoria lilies

Khongorzul - Mongolian traditional music - The Long Song tradition

[Before starting, this was a strange journey. Of course, music is a strange journey.

Every thing started with the song number “Kora Kagaz Tha Yeh Man Mera” in the Hindi film Aradhana (1969). The song starts with a flute like music, which I mistook for the strong nasal sounding flute, which has a very important place in North-East Indian states, famously called the seven sisters of the North-East. The flute could be a derivative of chinese Dizi, sometimes called Di or Hengdi or its other variants.

It was the time when DoorDarshan (public television broadcaster of India) was bringing amazing sights and sounds from all over India and SAARC countries and sometimes occasional Iranian and Chinese movies. This particular strong nasal sounding flute made me to love North-East India, China and their respective musical traditions. This is the same flute variety introduced me Nawang Khechog, the great Tibetan flautist, who came to Dharmashala, India along with Dalai Lama, and it is he who made me to love Tibet and Ladakh and their traditional musics.

So, what is the story all about? Well, when I first heard Khongorzul singing, her voice immediately brought the pictures of vast never-ending deep plains, a typical geographical wonders of Mongolia and the Himalayan sacred kingdoms, cold deserts. Her voice, like the Ladakhis’ and Tibetans’, belongs to great plains. It is unique! And found nowhere in the world.]

Khongorzul Ganbaatar is a singer from Mongolia. Her tradition is long song (Mongolian: Уртын дуу, Urtyn duu, sounds like OOr tin DOO) traditional songs. Since, Mongolia has deep vast plains and people shepherding on the back of horses needed a very good way of communication as well as entertainment, they developed this long song tradition.

They are called long songs not because the songs are long, but mainly because each syllable of the text is extended and stretched for longer duration. But in some cases they are indeed long. It is developed and evolved in this way for entertainment along long journeys on vast plains. A four minute song may only consist merely ten words. The long song tradition is declared by UNESCO as one of the Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.

But the beauty is the majestic voice of Mongolian people, like Khongorzul. To penetrate the deep plains or simply because one can sing at one’s own will since the mighty plains absorb any sound no matter how loud it is, the voice turns into something unique, unique in a sense it does reach not only the other end of the plain but perhaps even the heavens.

I first heard her singing in the album When Strangers Meet by Silk Road Ensemble founded by Yo-Yo Ma. My goodness, it not only cuts deep through the vast plains, but also pierces one’s soul bringing tears of joy. Yes Khongorzul, on hearing your country's music I started to love Mongolia.

Thanks Yo-Yo Ma for introducing this majestic voice and for the initiative of Silk Road Project. Let the Strangers Meet and exchange knowledge and culture.

Mongolian Traditional Music - The Long Song (Yo-Yo Ma and Khongorzul)

Urtin Duu (Khongorzul)

Khongorzul - Song for a Mother (A masterpiece of it's own kind! Don't miss it.)

My favorite quotes

Why intellectuals toss their quotes? Dictionary says repeating or copying the exact words spoken or written by someone is called quotes. What they really have in their mind while tossing such quotes? Do they consult and drill through many pages of a dictionary, a thesaurus, trying to put right words in right place, wasting stack of papers, filling the dustbin, emptying the ink-bottles, scratching their heads while pile of hairs comes off between their fingers and nails so that the particular phrase could stand out in their books or article and have a chance to become a quote. Or as in some cases or often in speeches, it is like in-a-jiffy, “Ha! Here you go! Catch a quote!”. It is funny to think that why intellectuals toss their quotes or why we turn their humble phrases into famous quotes.

Any way, much burden to some intellectuals’ cardiac tissues and facial muscles to express deep sadness for not picking their quotes, I have my own way of selecting my “quotes”. They are:

1. Yâdhum Ooré Yâvarung Kélir (Tamil: யாதும் ஊரே யாவருங் கேளிர்) means “To us all towns are one, All men our kin”. It is the first stanza of a Purananuru (புறநானூறு) poem written by one Kaniyan Poongundran (கணியன் பூங்குன்றன்) who belongs to the laic Sangam literature community, ca. ~4th century BCE.
2. The non-secular Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam (Sanskrit) means “We all belong to one single cosmic family, from gods, demi-gods, other ‘exobiological’ entities, planets, galaxies, ‘humble’ human beings to neutrinos, neurons, dust and mist.” We all belong to one single cosmic family. It is from Hindu philosophy. Time unknown.

Though the above two are my favorites quotes, the following quote, which is also from Hindu philosophy (Rg Védâ, ca 1500 BCE), on creation amazes me all time.

“Who knows and who can say whence it all came and how creation happened? The gods themselves are later than creation. So who knows truly whence it has all reasoned? Only he, who surveys it all from the highest heavens, only he knows. Or perhaps even he does not know.”

What made this particular philosopher to wonder that the god himself may not be aware of creation or he himself is a creation of creation. He does not start his humble phrases with “God knows everything”, but instead he starts with “Who knows and who can say”. How bold it is? It seems he is not aware of hell, I suppose. And he continues with “The gods themselves are later than creation”. And the final phrase is such an audacious one. “Or perhaps even he, who surveys it all from the highest heavens, even he does not know it. The creation. The origin of creation”. What kind of freedom he enjoyed from his faith to think like this? That too few thousand years ago!

So god, who are you? Where are you? I am left with questions, but no answers. Why do you fascinate us, divide us, or creating an illusion that seems you are dividing us? Why not stand shoulder to shoulder with man and beast? Why do you haunt us? Why don’t you just leave us making us immortal fearless spirits? Just questions, nothing more. Or perhaps even he does not know the answers for the above questions.

Anyway, it is too funny to think about quotes and the intellectuals behind them.

Cultural eunuchism in India

Recently someone added a comment to one of my videos on YouTube. The video is about lyrics, translation and explanation of a music/dance number of one Indian regional language film. The person whose mother tongue is that regional language itself, expressed his inability to understand the lyrics and the literature of that language. And interestingly, this person lives in that region and not in other country where he is obliged to learn things in that country’s language.

The language in question is one among the eight classical languages of the world. Among this eight elite group, it is one of the few living classical languages and holds a unique position that, among hundreds of thousands of world languages, this is the one and only language which held conferences, intellectual and academic gatherings to beautify it and ameliorate it in the fields of literature, music, dance and theater. This language is often discussed among linguist - for a possible motherhood - to create a link from this language to other languages like Japanese, Finno-Ugric, and even isolated languages like Korean and Basque, but not the other way around. This language has an unbroken literary tradition spanning over more than 3-4 millennia till current date, as few film songs employ some 4th century BCE poems as if they were written just the day before.

Same kind of elaborate discussion on the above language can be attributed to the two great music tradition of India, folkloric music traditions, the eight classical dance forms and other folkloric dances, Indian gastronomy, other Indian arts like painting or martial arts, Indian lifestyle and dress codes, the Indian sacred texts like the four Vedas, more than hundred Upanishads, the two great epics, numerous Puranas, Mimamsas, Smrithis, Siddhantas, Samhitas, Sruthis, Shastras, Sutras, Stotras, Tantras, Vedhantas, Aranyakas, Brahmanas, their sub categories, sub-sub categories, the secular and non-laic literature available in classical languages and other more than thousand languages. And the dimensions of the very soul of everything, the Indian civilization, themselves are something truly mind-boggling.

For every Indian, no matter of religion, caste, creed, or language, the proud moment of joy must be to understand that this vast, time-tested, incredibly subtle and genius, error corrected, refined, re-refined knowledge has survived all the odds since the civilizational foundations were laid and passed on to us. It is a great privilege bestowed on Indians, and not on any other parts on the earth, to have access to this ancient knowledge, store it in our brain and process it. Imagine how capable would be Indian brains to process such a huge amount of knowledge, say since some five thousand years, if Indians go by their own tradition and culture. Additionally there is still enough room in brains for the Indians to be lawyers, doctors, poets, mathematicians, pilots, IT geeks, tourist guides, humble drivers, be faithful to other religions, to learn other languages or to appreciate other cultures whatever the form they may take. In plain words turning our attention to our own culture is a great invaluable exercise for the gray muscles, which is available only to Indians. Imagine what kind of new generations the Indians can produce?

But what the Indians (I don’t prefer the words “majority of Indians”) do is, they simply abandon everything Indian and go for “look west” policy since their childhood and having difficulties understanding their own culture and mother tongue, like the person who posted comments on my video (I guess he would have probably been sold to “English medium” and have taken a “western path” to acquire knowledge). The Indian tradition is absorbing everything and turning it into uniquely Indian anchored deeply in Indian tradition. This was the case till the colonization, the worst episode of the Indian culture, before which we didn’t lose the economic might.

It’s justifiable to admire economically superior nations and upto some extent imitate their culture, when a nation has an inferior economy. The Mesopotamians did so when the Harappans were placed at the peak of their civilizational comforts. The Romans, Greeks and mainly the Arabs did the same, heavily borrowed and propagated Indian riches and knowledge, of course adding their own contributions. The Europeans followed the course, borrowed heavily from the Arabs and got a renaissance. Even the redoubtable Japanese did the same after the World War II and got more or little americanized. But no one abandoned their culture or the languages of their own mothers.

If we just have a glance at the Indian film culture, music industries, media, it is stuffed with western influence, from language, music, stealing Hollywood bikini culture, to McDonald’s, Pizza Huts and Coffee Shops. I really don’t understand what NY caps and T-Shirts got to do with Mangalore or Shilong or Tawang. Since the media is city dwellers puppets, it corrupts even the remotest villages in Tripura and Ladakh. I hate the media most when I happened to see advertisements like these (shame on people who endorse such ads):





It is pure and simple cultural eunuchism. No matter what you try, skin level or effin’ li’l English, you are not going to be an American or European. Neither an Indian, with a thick skull of no cultural values. Foreign languages and cultures are supposed to complement someone’s knowledge and his cultural background, but definitely not to replace them.

India, such a great civilization, mother to great thoughts, philosophies and sciences, while still very much ready to be alive with her traditions, why her younger generations more and more abandoning their cultural values? Why not proud of Indianess? Why not proud of belonging to a great civilization?

It is because of this cultural values, the processing ability of tonnes and tonnes of information by our brains passed on to us by our fathers and fore-fathers, India shattered her quasi-socialist protectionism, plugged herself into the global economy, faced all the consequences and now in result getting respect from every corner of the world. Is it permissible to turn the fertile minds, the new generation who are going to represent the new India, into barren consumerism-drugged monotonic wasteland resembling some vague occicentric pathetic egos?

Dance of Mâyâ

In Indian mythology, Mâyâ, the illusion, is considered as the sister of Lord Vishnu, the protector among the divine trinity: Brahmâ – the creator, Vishnu – the preserver and Shîva – the destroyer. They are the three important manifestations of the Nâdha Brahman, the ultimate reality, the origin of creation, which wears the form of sound. They occupy certain sort of ‘posts’ than being gods. Or, in other words, they represent three important phases of the life cycle of any objects: birth, existence, and death. A star born out of gaseous stellar clouds by acquiring gravity, starts to fuse hydrogen to fuel it’s existence, and finally dies either as supernova burst or neutron star, or black hole (one fine day even the neutron star or black hole dies out). This divine trinity applies from humans, five elements, protons to even the large scale cosmos.

Vishnu sometimes does the job of creation and destruction to maintain harmony (dharma), but it is more or less like a human body creates and destroys cells between ultimate beginning and ultimate annihilation, that is during its existence. He employs the power of his sister, Mâyâ, the illusion to fine tune his job to hide the secrets of birth, death and existence. And makes the humans a bunch of morons for thinking that they possess the dominating intellectual superiority among other beings.

Mâyâ creates an illusionary world, where a 4D space looks ultimately real for a being who is gifted to sense just only the 4Ds and this applies to 2D, 3D up to nD. In other words, whatever the capacity of a given species to sense things, it is unable to look beyond it’s capacity and the world within it’s range of ability looks supreme real to that species. Par example, for humans, what we see, sense, invent, our maths seem real, but for the species who can sense 6Ds, all our observations seem ridiculous and primitive.

The dance of Mâyâ is everywhere. Observe, how just the distance reduce our ability to see things differently. A sun or moon close to our earth, at the same time distanced by few astronomical units looks no more like a sphere, but a round two dimensional disk. The stars further away, look point like single dimensional objects. If I am a scorpion, from earth perspective the constellation may look like a scorpion. But if we bring the entire constellation in 3D or nD to our table, from X axis perspective it may look like a peacock and Y axis it may look like a tiger.

Strange even, how the same distance distorts the time and makes us believe the past as present when we observe the stars. A star viewed from earth dieing today is actually died out millions of years ago and the light simply took such a long time to reach earth due to the mind boggling intergalactic distance. But we see it as an event of that night!

The color of my red sweater looks red to you and me. But for an ox, which is color blind or for a butterfly, which can see even beyond the VIBGYOR spectrum, my attire looks differently. For a being which is equipped with sophisticated organs to see and sense 4Ds and much more see my red pull differently. So, the red garment looks red to only the human beings. But not forcibly for all the beings on earth, let alone other species of this entire cosmos.

It is just because of the dance of Mâyâ, Newton’s theory became false when Einstein revealed his models of relativity. One great day Einstein’s theory will definitely become absurd when someone starts to see things differently. It is just because of the dance of Mâyâ, so many technologies became obsolete. What we have devised so far, our modern mathematics, our modern science and research, all are just hopeless tools, which help us to lead just a comfortable life for humans (just only for humans) on this planet earth, but not to find the truth behind our life on this mighty cosmos.

Is it possible to find the elementary particle of this illusion? Just like the graviton for gravity? It seems that Mâyâ continues to dance her dance of illusion in this consumption driven stale modern mad world, which contributes a large number of devolution factors affecting our genes. That is why the wise Hindu philosophers said in one Upanishad:

Om, asato ma sad gamaya
Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya
Mrtyor ma mrtam gamaya

Om, Shanthi, Shanthi, Shanthi

Oh! Om, the ultimate reality, From delusion lead me to truth, From darkness lead me to light, From death lead me to immortality. Oh! Om, you who wear the formal form of music, the sacred sound of this mighty cosmos, Shanthi, peace, to the interior world, Shanthi to the exterior world, Shanthi to the world which I have no ability to sense.

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When love engulfs me...

It was one of my friends who asked me to write more as she wants to hear from me more. Since I have no time to write something afresh, I dusted down this poem written in early 2002, which I tried in French as I wanted to augment my vocabulary (which never worked anyway). I was in third level and it was after 160 hours of class in French (around 4 months) I wrote this poem entitled “Quand l’amour m’engouffre...” meaning “When love engulfs me...”.

I really have no clue at all about what will happen when love engulfs someone since it never ever happened to me. The Indian cupid, Manmatha, got bored of and turned his back to me very long ago, after trying with all his pretty interesting equipments: sugarcane as bow, line of honeybees as bowstring, five fragrant flowers as arrows, cuckoo and parrot as his companions and attended by nymphs, spring as his preferred season, breeze as his chariot displaying fish banner, rainbow as his horse or whatever and so on.

The poem pasted a smile on my face as I went through it. It was full of mistakes, naive and stupid words as any French can observe it from the very title, strong vocabulary in inappropriate place, etc. So, here you go. I didn’t change much while translating from the original. If it set a tiny smiley on your face, I would be more than happy.

When love engulfs me...

Melting are my heart and soul. Lakes turned tender long ago.
Arrogant are cherries of blossom. Care a damn bees.
To the humming, butterflies dance. Oh! Danseurs nobles!
I am hopping here and there. It is flower strewn trail.
Excuse me, calls someone. I scan trees for cuckoo.
I turn to see this girl approaching. Descending fresh from paradise.
Pretty shame, I lost my language. Beautiful! Just sighs my mind.
My heart does thousand leaps as she hops avoiding flowers down.
Are you lover of flowers, plays she harp. Carnivore eyes feed my heart.
Yes, never seen such huge flower say I searching her eyes.
She smiled, making flowers drop dead of shame.
We did the path together. Eyes crossed swords. Mind swung me to her.
Sun menaced to fall westward. Worried I of his envy.
It is time to go, said she making void inside me.

Sun showers gold on splendid landscapes, spreading warmth till heart.
We meet in park, speak a lot, discover days are short.
I strip my senses as her thoughts replace them, like serpent.
I occupy little space in this mighty world, but I traverse everywhere.
Day was drizzling. Sun set himself amber. There a rainbow in east.
That day, I told her I started counting all stars in sky.
I started counting all bubbles in my bread, she replied.
I live in cocoon, I revealed. Am I in your heart asked she.
Our troubled eyes met. She kissed me. I hugged her to my soul.
That moment we exchanged the parole of life. The language of heart.
Paths in heaven, clouds, moon, stars, all started to know me well.
Hillside, rocks, lakes, trees, feathery friends, started to know us well.
Fairies speak in my ears, nowadays. Always telephones speak to us.
Don’t ask me where I live. It is warmth of her heart.

Hill-scape turns sad as maples already caught fire.
Sombre clouds promenade together. Wind tries to hunt them down.
Vague desire grows like waves. Serenity disobeys.
Air is chill. Misty fogs embrace hill. But the pines seem negligent.
When rains we prefer go out under a single umbrella.
When is brumous we prefer chase-snailing inside one single jacket.
Fallen leaves ride wind-horse. Not forgetting their destiny, earth.
Some hides-and-seeks with breeze. Some plays with me. I await her.
There she is at distance. She replies me to my waving.
No, wait! She is not my girl. But she approaches me even so.
Who is she, a Venus? No doubt! Where goes the path, asks she.
I guide her. Thanking me she sends a kiss in air from distance.
I reply same. True beauty say I turning. There stands she, my other part.
Speaking null, menacing tears heavy in eyes, she left me ahead I utter word.

Sail-powered snow flakes combat storm. Pines bear whitey white caps.
Deafening silence all around. I am all alone. Worthless my explanations.
Far from her, bleeds my heart. I am no more in her heart, but head.
Frigidly frosty cruel love engulfs me. Take a pen I commence writing.
“Lakes get-go freezing. Glaciers turn emerald feeding on worthy algae.
The swan awaits his female. But, more glacial is she than icy poles.
Nevertheless he waits. Dying is he of biting cold. Bit by bit his soul faints.
Heart-mind distance pains his soul. No dreams. Painful wings. No flight.
Determined is he, will wait her forever. His life worth void without her.”
I cried aloud calling God! Fine sunshine warmth inside! Replied she finally.
“Nemesis at game. Swan turns dream, ethereal, thinning, thinks of you.
Fragile she dying chanting you. Send her breath, a word of mercy.
Present your presence, warmth of kiss. Lives she, hugging tight your soul.”
Glorious is sky. Wind opens window. Dripping are ice icicle.