Three Poems by Shouvik Narayan Hore

The Lyre in the Dream
On a hushed moonlit September
Lyre in hand arose one member
Beneath the silence of the stars,
Beyond the boundary of plush cars,
And tranquil still the Summer sky,
Only pure Autumn’s petals fly,
Half ambushed standing one eve’s hill,
Whose valleys gurgling waters fill,
A fondling music whispered near,
Too far to feel, too fine to hear.

Arose he under sacred skies,
Where shyness extreme slow death dies,
Lyre in hand his voice poised, slow,
Blossoming in firefly’s glow,
More slowly did his face reveal,
Those truths his heart had long conceal,
What greater solace calmness bring,
How Heavenly could nature sing!
He began- and was witnessed by,
Merging in Nature’s melodie.

One rabbit sat, one pigeon hung,
The fruit bats lent their voice and sung,
Dearer the night dove flapped her wing,
Burrowed squirrels to rhythms cling,
Sooner us joined a nightingale!
Grecian delight! Oh hail! Oh hail!
A deer listened and grooved in joy,
Her glee unmatched; No human boy
Can match his steps- save my lone girl,
Flare like torched me her glorious curl.

She sat tight lipp’d but smiles serene,
Escaped her eye- I further glean
She wrapped her arms around my hand,
We two in God’s unity stand.
The lyre fell off faster! Prompt
I descended; No sooner romped
I lonely stood- what fate, Alas!
While winds soften the moonlit grass
I dream of Wonderland- A Dream,
The woodland thrush, the silvery stream.

To S.S.
Full in a Crimson red dazzlement shone,
The airs with a drift of floral flairs laid
Upon whose nectar the honey bees moan,
Upon whose casements pearl cymbals displayed,
Her mouth bore the source of cavernous gold,
Her hairs could make well Rapunzel a maid,
Her eyes His masterly momentous mould
That drowsed the undrunk in beauty’s soft braid.

She was a Goddess or woman of earth,
A purple nymph dressed in a backless gown,
One twitch chastised- the other washed with mirth,
Like Sun shimmered sand when stooping close down,
The poet in his garret though sang these once,
He owned them All- just not the happy One.

The Tremor
Night is come- perfectly stealthy, and quiet,
The owl’s screech- hurriedly haughty, heard low,
What heaved air, mystery profound- staunch breasts
At fronts bleak- aloofing sighs, furred wings
On leafed birch- asteroidal calm, the waves
Look ablute. No breathing shiver - The stead,
A pull felt of cosmic genus; a quake
Of breadth mild-of sensation huge-only
The lone shake, a parochial flaw, one second
Had seemed full journeys thirty Hell bound.
Calm fast came, no damage touching, but one
The poet’s stare-that absorbed vision-she’d gone.