ON THE MOON
Perhaps this July Moon shall wander no more.
The ever radiant object of this still sky,
Flyeth no more, nor feign sympathy’s cry,
But remains present within deep heart’s core.
Tranquil it shines, tranquillity’s colour
Colours her pure soul; No Earthly pastel
Can reflect devotion to night so well,
This must be Nature’s most truest valour.
No star adorns her, nor no cloud obstructs
The lone pilgrim’s view- the pilgrim of love,
Who melancholy removes from worlds above,
As if her rays penetrate darkest ducts
No fancy entreat, for beauty’s the end,
One who hast foreseen would higher be sent.
Today’s the birthday of melody!
No nature’s music sounds more natural
I ascend the ultimate Poet’s tree!
How carefully careless thee, Songstress!
I cannot but drown in thy enamelled sea.
No harp, no lyre, no flute better dress
Thy sweetly sad song a Heaven’s seagull
Could only deliver; Oh! If this debris
Would listen to my Cuckoo’s preceptor sing
This poignantly pleasurable Kingdom’s queen,
I have not been prouder, nor lovelier been
Any song, for this past melancholy bring.
For I have overcome outrushing fears,
Thy voice transcends from the valleys of tears.
“With ye, my dear, what tumult dare suppress,
What mountainous valleys journeys disturb?
To what breaking limits the dismal press?”
Loud saith he, as we prepared to curb
That day, whilst the clouds thundered with rain,
Night’s darkening sky like monsters prancing
The visage of forests- beyond lies the Main,
Where can be overheard Oceans dancing
And adversities more, the snow capped peak,
The silver smeared beauty through those woods bleak,
But while the clouds clapped beneath the Heaven,
Seen not one hope save one retreating raven,
We thought and thought of that freedom unseen,
Yet moved not an inch, for the moon would not gleam.
WHERE ARE THEY?
Where are those purple dawns and purple dusks?
Those twilights that twinkled on violets blue,
The perfume of dendrons whose sensuous musk
Travel many a mile; Oh! What bizarre flu?
What fever was it? Why was slipped away?
Why now are my senses betrayed of thee?
When sunk in polluted passions knee deep
What remains to express? What remains to say?
No doubt greater truths are nearing history.
How can this virulent world be saved
From infidel airs and morning’s saw dust
From juvenile touches, from illusory sleep?
Cross over this state as Martyrs braved,
And entered the trance of Nature and her crust.
TO THE ROMANTICS
I sit amongst dozens of ancient books,
While Shelley in mystic abodes doth breathe,
Those works of Wordsworth my natural hue shooks
When Haidee in Byron’s vigoured laps writhe,
And Hermes wanders foreign shrubs and weeds,
I sit thinking- should I adopt their creeds?
“No!” says the brain, “Thou art a freelance bird,
A Northern star- why should adopt their ken?
May fluent flow their ideas in thy words,
But must lurk thy emotions in their den?
If heart loves them, love too, with unheeding will
Yet construct thy own warm solitary hill.
How appeal’st me, the blue Sun and the Sky!
The heart of the Classics, my soul’s libertie. (liberty)
Shouvik Narayan Hore has published two books of poetry- The Horizon of Thoughts and Poet’s Choice(Volume 2). His poetry has been published twice in The Penwood Review (USA), selected for publication in Journeys Along The Silk Road and Temptation Of Lost Tower Publications (UK), and published in Taj Mahal Review, Diganto Patrika, Cuckoo, Efflorescence, Labyrinth, Panorama Literaria and Abhih(IND).He is currently the co editor of the Creative section of The Literary Voyage and is pursuing his Masters’ Degree at The University Of Hyderabad.