English Lyrics (from collection)
Lover Crane
I crane my neck… and fly
Beyond windows and walls
When the day stalls
Or a snowflake falls,
Riding the light in my eyes,
Breathing the openness
Of the lanes of heights.
So watch your head
Beloved, ‘cause I
Won’t have you block my sky.
The arches of ambitions
You plant in our conversations,
May backrest at times,
My nightly worn spine,
Even induce an odd dream-line,
But ad nauseam
Their rise seems an encagement.
So let them not confine
My nesting grounds and hovering eye,
Cause I
Won’t have you block my sky.
Don’t you sometimes think
That nearness should be a heaving, loping thing –
A breath bound to an elastic string,
Warming feathers, on the shoulders,
Then drifting back,
Flapping solo behind the pack.
So let your lungs relax
And their feverishness die,
Cause I
Would rather take you to the sky.
I crane my neck… and fly
Beyond windows and walls
When the day stalls …
– Bolbul
Angles of Winter
Winter come,
Give me that angle of the Sun
To lean my face against…
Feeling cellos under the skin,
Hum your timeless hymn.
Winter come,
Give me winds skating sidewalks and streets,
To raise the collar to
And take my daughter to
The bookstore and return
With animals to talk to…
Blanket pulled up to chin.
Come winter,
Shower vertical crystals and frost
Upon glass panes and garden pots,
Let us taste with fingers, the colors
Of rediscovered views
We wish never lost.
Winter come,
With the evening hunter Orion
Wearing belted gems,
Poised to shoot in the direction
Of tusked demons,
Keeping nights clear of ’em.
Winter come,
With that angle of the Sun…
– Bolbul
Limey for Grimey
Sir, you don’t need to call.
Here I am… your fingerbowl.
Tell me what stuck to your head
As you worked the table-spread…
Until the day was dead.
Recount the morning jam
With the marketing redhead
And how you two broke bread.
How went the conference with the corner man?
You cooked his books but were left
Without oily shares in the pan…
May I offer warm words spiced,
Guaranteed to soothe conscientious strife?…
Or loosen the tie,
Heat the pork pie?
I play all these roles,
Ignoring damn toes and soles.
Sir, you don’t need to call.
Here I am… your fingerbowl.
– Bolbul
Trill Pill
(Mama to Infant)
Give me that look again,
My pickup pill, my will,
My light over the hill…
Say – I’m all the sun
You need… mum
When the snow touches the window sill,
And every moonbeam to pin
Where dreams wear thin.
In your arms I rest,
Your north, south, east and west…
And we shall plant
On cheeks joined,
A pink Kiss-Me-Quick forest.
Give me that look again,
My pickup pill, my will,
My light over the hill…
– Bolbul
Kerb Line
People read certain streets
As lyrics that speak
Of a city…
Recited from pages of collective memory,
Stepped to by passersby,
With lines lining kerbs
Reflecting the sun,
Talking of something or someone
Who took your breath away
And brought it back gift-scented.
These streets give even more –
To improvise, a full score
Of windows, shop signs, table tops,
Beers, chairs, waitresses whisking mops
And bands hyphenated
With kerbside addresses.
People read certain streets
As lyrics that speak
Of a city…
– Bolbul
Meena’s Rock
Meena tells a rock
In crumbly pink chalk,
How a boy yesterday asked…
If he could catch the train
To Sweet Mango Lane in Patna
Where lives her old man…
‘What about? Something pressing?’…
She’d pretended ignorance,
‘Cause my dad doesn’t like to talk!
Not to fools anyway,
Who think too much of themselves…’
Humbly his words came,
‘May not be worth more,
I shall say…than a strewn rock
But I am steady, sir…
Shall remember Meena’s wishes
And my promises,
Never to walk back…
As if lines in stone
That wiggle not with the clock…’
Meena tells a rock
In crumbly pink chalk,
How a boy yesterday asked…
If he could catch the train
To Sweet Mango Lane in Patna
Where lives her old man…
– Bolbul
Decimal Girl
Recalling tours
Of vased, rose-petalled faces,
Asked a seeking wish today…
Why cling to mere surfaces?
‘Look,’ offered an embered fly
Pulling the mind inside,
A girl working darknesses,
Sifting facts, writing analyses,
Who once shared schoolbuses…
You know, in the bones,
To three decimal places.
She buys custom cosmetics
At rock-counters by spraying seas…
At turrets crumbling over trees,
Where turn histories.
Her restaurants serve sandwiches,
Feature live… balladeer breezes
And gladly accept tips
Left over… if a dog feeds.
She holds her own
Against charms of parlour thrones,
Walks a path known
By those skirting stones.
But mate, take a date
If you could be… future sworn.
Recalling tours
Of vased, rose-petalled faces,
Asked a seeking wish today…
Why cling to mere surfaces?
‘Look,’ offered an embered fly
Pulling the mind inside,
A girl working darknesses,
Sifting facts, writing analyses,
Who once shared schoolbuses…
You know, in the bones,
To three decimal places.
– Bolbul
Day Waves
Where days are waves,
Waist-deep he waits,
Catching swells with fizzy breaks
Until the mind touches a golden state.
The water has depths, cold and uncertain,
Calling his paddle-board of innovation,
To superscribe arcs of flotation,
So fear sublimates.
The wind is his soulmate,
Blowing dry, hair wet
From dunks and perspiration,
Every hour, day and year
Until smile sunrays on his silver and grays.
Where days are waves,
Waist-deep he waits,
Catching swells with fizzy breaks
Until the mind touches a golden state.
– Bolbul
Tune of Moon
‘To the moon they rise…’
Began the diary line,
‘His night colored eyes…
Leaving Earth behind.
He’s happiest in the sky,
The ethereal guy!’
‘In test tubes, imbuing molecules…
With medical joules, he wishes
That over pain ecliptic
May rocket relief ballistic,
And clear be sky views.’
But the earth edges one day
Into darkness manmade
Such that he fills a glass
With the reflection of stars
And of the round moon…
Which to the bottom zooms.
‘To the moon they rise…’
Began the diary line,
‘His night colored eyes…
Leaving Earth behind.
He’s happiest in the sky,
The ethereal guy!’
– Bolbul
(In memory)
Bolbul's Patch 