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.
nice ..................
ReplyDeleteबहुत सुंदर कविता आशा की किरण
ReplyDeleteLovely creation !
ReplyDeleteDear Rajiv sir
ReplyDeleteMY 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 !
Very nice & lovely poem...
ReplyDeleteKeep writting...
सुंदर भाव पूर्ण कविता
ReplyDeleteYet, it’s not mine
ReplyDeleteThis is the wind
Across the mighty wind
Blowing in all directions.
excellent!!