Tuesday, April 5, 2011

My Lost Sundays

My Sundays are lost
Like other Working days
And still
I have a soft corner
For you,My Love

My days with books
And apart…….
Are those
Wherein
I see nothing,
Nothing beyond you & …………..
Still Sunday comes
It will come sure
But I don’t know
If the sensation will sneak
Into me the same way again
As something is changing
Incessantly in me
With careless control.

Yet, it’s not mine
This is the wind
Across the mighty wind
Blowing in all directions.

9 comments:

  1. बहुत सुंदर कविता आशा की किरण

    ReplyDelete
  2. Dear Rajiv sir
    MY Lost Sundays is a just not a nice poem but a magnificent expression of overwhelming heart. While going through this poem, I just recalled a poem of Wallace Stevens "Sunday Morning". Stevens is considered one of the most talented, intellectual and dynamic poet of America. He just explored inside a profound philosophical framework the dualism between concrete reality and the human imagination. Please read a part of that poem ....
    " She says, 'But in contentment I still feel
    The need of some imperishable bliss.'
    Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
    Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
    And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
    Of sure obliteration on our paths,
    The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
    Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
    Whispered a little out of tenderness,
    She makes the willow shiver in the sun
    For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
    Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
    She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
    On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
    And stray impassioned in the littering leaves."

    keep writing sir !

    ReplyDelete
  3. सुंदर भाव पूर्ण कविता

    ReplyDelete
  4. Yet, it’s not mine
    This is the wind
    Across the mighty wind
    Blowing in all directions.

    excellent!!

    ReplyDelete