thus do learn how to tolerate
the blow of wings
of the most inflammable flesh

after the successful sacrifice of the student-hostel
jumping into the peacock-foams
how dangerously is changing the total travel-route of the nail-polish

in the high tide of the coconut-kernel
that conquers the world
today the water-pigeon gets pain

only by the flute made of palm-leaf
can’t be written the pleasure-trip in boat
of the injured-knee night-queen that is deposited heavily
on the collar of the village-moonlight

even-then the gramophone would be playing on
even-then the courageous pheasant would proceed further
to throw towards the squirrel a dinner-sleep

then all the daughters in disguise of birds certainly
may come out from within the salted mosquito-net
burning open-ground in their  eyes

even after  
the small boats of the fig leaves                      
would slip from the chorus song
of the roses

then they are to be pulled forward to the river-bed
of the late afternoon

to make them understand again

that such Xerox-centre which can ignore its metallic-birth
does not grow even now  on either side of this muddy road

so look at to see how the  epenthesis
of the screwpine-leaf withdraws her beak from the old dome

and pours
all new mathematics

into the compact-disc stitched with the back of the sea-tortoise

if that’s not real
how in the left and right
such evil-company of the oxygen would creep

if the next part of this commentary
resumes from the umbilicus cavity of the x-mass
would the blood-sugar of the water-plankton be rising continuously

look there again
the feather of colour that is in her adolescence  
touches the cold magnet of her gamut
to disperse the cherry orchards

now if the doors of this brown triangle be got open

you can see on the screen one by one
the projection of the apex-points of the red-palash

and in the night-texture of the kathakali-kathak
they are supplying continuously  
small sun-shines in poly-packs

Amit Narayan Satpathy   Poems  
Published 51  Drafts 7

Amit Narayan Satpathy now
Untitled
O the sky has filled me with light
I will fill the sky with songs
O the colours of notes
Will I cut through
The winds!
O the colours of dance
Cut through the air!
O palash,o palash
O the peaks of
The coloured colours
O you spread fire
In directions
All that are there
O the raga raginis
Of my heart
Are colored
With colorful tunes!
O in the southerly winds
The shivering flower
Forests don't stop!
O in the golden radiance
In the blue skies
The nupur of young leaves
Is heard!
O shirish,o shirish!
In the interval of gentle smiles!
You fill the airs
With your scent!
O your scent in my words
My heart pulls me there!

Beauty around
Peace I've found
Spring at its best
An all new zest

Oh life...
I am falling in love with you

Colors sprinkled
Artistically mingled
Heart merrily sings
Mood's upward swings

Oh life...
I am falling in love with you

The glacier of frozen desire
Melting in solar fire
The warmth is soothing
The tenderness oozing

Oh life...
I am falling in love with you

Bumblebees are humming
Right on the buds, chumming
The rivers are calm
Nature plays a balm


Oh life...
I am falling in love with you

Koel birds are singing
On the branch of Palash, swinging
The heart plays encore
For love opens it's door

Oh life...
I am falling in love with you

Filled fagun, a downpour
The air is clear, clear as a crystal
What a wonderful creation.

Swallow, Cuculidae are soaking wet
Calling out "crystal clear water!"
The sun is covered behind the clouds
The ground becomes cold.

Rain water is pouring in the field
Falling on the tin roof
Awakes life in the rive
Increased water, in the upstream of Matamuhuri.

Decorating nature, what a magical outfit
Sea, hills, forest
Blooming Shimul, Palash, Bakul
The earth is full of softness.

O in the new joy of phagun
O am I weaving a song
In a tune!
O the forest path
He hears the sounds
The blessed beauty
Of the kokila!
O the forest filled
With the fragrance
Of the bakula!
O the honey filled spell
Of the madhavi blossoms
Fills the horizons
With varied colors!
O my words pick up
The buds of palash!
O I will tie them
Around your
Forehead!
O in the new joy of phaguna!

Often the paintings keep expressing in unexpected ways
Freeing their internal spirit and the weight of subjects spreading their rays
They come alive with simple joy, touch and taste
Muddy smell of earth fills in their nostrils chaste
The painting of spring bloom of palash
Spreads its fragrance all around and abash
The paintings of the blue sea
Tastes salty and the waves dance in glee
Paintings of huts with Cowdung mopped floor
Straw and hey roof and vessels earthenware
Appear sophisticated and fair
All the painting S's consciousness seems collective
Classical theme of rare subject is objective
Painting canvas is loaded with variety of motifs
Birds, animals, nature all appear natural not stiff
To determine artist's imagery remains a puzzle tough

Everyone is welcome
to my little golden village.

Where sing cuckoos and peacocks
where you can see magpie-robin
The water of the small river flows
towards its own address towards the sea.

Where shepherd play his flute
The mind becomes sad a little
The water drains down during ebb
Calling by gesture.

Where the water-lily filled the ponds
Children swim in the water
All the groups of farmers
go to the boundaries of the field.

Where silk-cotton, Bakul, Palash flowers flourish
Seeing that mind becomes cheerful
Fishermen go to the river to catch fishes
On the edge of the small river.

Everyone is welcome
to my little golden village.

Through the wavering tides of seasons flows the current of consciousness,
An eternal mantra echoes in the abyss of time,
A solitary inscription of truth upon the ***** of spring,
From its immortal breath, love is born—
Love—an ineffable utterance of existence.

The blaze of Palash awakens the fire of yearning,
Winds of longing whisper the bliss of passion,
In the silent embrace of midnight shadows, hearts tremble in supplication,
Sworn oaths inscribed in the language of love,
Love—returns beyond the confines of time.

A strange yearning stirs in the quivering pulse,
Yet the radiance does not fade beyond the horizon,
Its resonance resounds even through tenebrous ages,
From every petal, every silent woodland grove,
Love—an everlasting hymn of an epic divine.

In the depths of the horizon, an unceasing yearning for purity,
Love rises from the very heart of the earth,
Its essence unwashed by the currents of time,
Its echoes return, reverberating through the soul of spring,
Love—eternal, primordial, a cosmic touch.

All that the world erodes in its cyclical decay,
Love remains—a sublime, indestructible truth,
A conch-blown call amid the thunderous tides,
An eternal invocation in the cuckoo’s song,
Love—resonating in the heart of spring—immortal, undying.
© 2 hours ago, Azahar Raza   love • nature