Well, troubling thoughts alone could be dismissed
On those hills where the band settled to play
Songs and lays and all they’d learnt, known, and seen
In those years that were past and months between.
The mornings greeted by hens that did lay
Would be gone when they’d depart; they’d be missed.
Oh, the birds greet mirth and mirth births love
When winds wind their ways through woods of this land;
And the days turn sound with the nights that shove
The light that brightens the homes that here stand.
The night stepped out
Like a prima ballerina
From the monumental shadows
That reached the very heavens
Behind the great mountains of granite grey
That separated the tranquil realm
From the world outside
A tangerine sun
Came to rest awhile
Upon the tranquility of a placid sea
Where it sipped at the waters
A’shimmer in the crepuscular haze
As they lapped at the distant horizon
Another reason why critics berate Ray is his penchant for natural and realistic dialogues to be used in movies. This allows little space to dramatise situations. Thus, a scriptwriter is always walking on tightropes of ‘extraordinary observation’ and ‘remarkable memory’. There is no scope for writers to use their own experiences and imagination as Ray believed that a writer should forget his own identity completely, enter the character he is describing and, through the use of dialogue, bring that character to life.
Looking out of my window, I see birds fluttering and flying in the breeze,
Squeaking and chirping o’er canopies to search seclusion for nesting in peace.
With the yawning cerulean, they flap the first stroke of their wings,
And into the abysmal blue; in merriment, they fly amidst the cloudy rings.
Winds wind well while cold months, worn, weakened, get wound down;
Assailing coldness that has done a lot of wrongs,
Heralding spring, a season as bright as the Sun
As plants beam, flower, making us sing many songs…
Magical was this Sunset
By the Sea
As the art unfolded
Of the masterpiece
Sunset by the Sea at Twilight Time
As many times
That as l have witnessed
Sunsets and Sunrises
Living by the Sea;
Have l seen such
A torrid turbulence beset the evening
As mists swirled and leaves blew amok one cold night
While fearsome frosts gathered at the edge of the kingdom
Their assault by stealth to commence
Slowly forth by degrees they did creep
Under the cloak of darkness when all were abed
Thousand of whirling stars speckle the inscrutable blue curtain
graciously displaying a jubilant dance before the eyes of curious night owls,
accompanied by soul filled, hidden noises,
enveloped by the warm numbing scents of the vegetal creation.
The morning did beam when the sunlight flared,
Awakening worlds then asleep in men;
It made them alight from their homely den
While raging winds clavered, determined, dared.
The waters of the seas are stilled
And the serene moon
Casts its benign regard
Over the placid scene below
Upon the seascape entire
The crashing of the waves
Pummels the sandy beach
And blasts the granite rocks
As the spray swamps the realm
Here’s Pongal, a festival that celebrates the Sun’s glory, might
Observed well by Indians, its epicentre sure being south
In mainly a state that bears those who employ an old tongue to mouth
Their praises and plaudits to yon great and mighty Sun giving light.
As the brute winds merciless
Like a vast river at the realm do rush
For to pick off the feeble and the despairing
As trees and fences fall at the opening salvo
With faces blanched and by much dread afflicted
As to the ground from whence they came
They now far too soon do return
Beneath the impassive regard of the opal moon
Could you behold the setting ball of fire a while?
Could you discourse with each hill that’s adorned by snow?
The path we’re treading on will take us one more mile
So we may touch the clouds that move in that destined row.
Oh, when the sky does gain its charm and glow at night;
We’ll wander each lane that reflects the Moon’s light.
I oft wonder how the ball of light and fire not once reels;
Moving with a wondrous flair, the Sun hardly seems hoary.
Oh! Behold the skewing rays of our majestic Sun that wheels!
Continuous, the landscape coarse
and choked by urbanite decay,
I tried to sing but sounded hoarse;
a tuneless note of dank dismay,
ten thousand trampled daffodils
destroyed by deeds and dollar bills.