Picture Poems

My Picture Poems

B.S.M.Murty

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.

                   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.

                       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’d hairband

And that lovely flute on your lips,

Standing beneath this tree on my street

Where daily I take my morning strolls.

Peepbo Sun

Look, the sun comes peeking at my door

Stealthily every morning, playing peepbo,

And stands momentarily transfixed

Scowling at the criss-cross maze

Of sharp angles and rectangles

Cutting into each other in rage

 And creating a fascinating chiaroscuro

Of bright light and deep shadows

Of a magical cryptogram

Written on the perplexed floor

Or is it some visible soundless song

Printed on time’s music sheet