Aubade

Being in love with you
Is to abandon the piano:
It is to take up the castanets,
The bugle,
The kettle drum.
It is to sleep naked, with all the
doors and windows open,
Fearing nothing.
Being in love with you means
many days I am so happy
I can barely feed myself:
I laugh or weep or both and set
aside the fork.
It means I wake one morning
feeling
Such warmth rising inside me
That I am suddenly confident
All snow would melt
Within my steady gaze;
And I dress quickly
To test this
On the crisp,
DecemberLandscape.
Being in love with you further
means the rhododendrons
Are in bloom, the mongoose
Is mating, the moon is full and
the wind strong
Along the western ghats of
South India.
Being in love with you sings arias
In my head, hums loudly
In my bones.
It beats the drum.
Some complain that being in
love with you is merely an
airtight ferocity,
Or a kind of rococo piety,
But we proclaim it
This Resplendent Helmet,
A radical and luminous sobriety.
Being in love with you is crucial.
Everything depends upon it.
In summer, being in love with
you is red, raw and delicious.
In winter it is blue, lucent, and
shimmers when touched.
Being in love with you is to
forget
For a moment the use of fruit:
It is to stare long at the
splendour
Of a green pear
On a white porcelain plate.
Being in love with you is old as
Laughing Buddha,
And as fat.
Being in love with you is only
now,
Cannot be remembered
Or imagined.
Being in love with you is to
notice the basic radiance of all
things,
And is thus a simple, unarmed,
fundamental bathing.
Being in love with you is as well,
a small well-kept apartment
In the middle of busy Kyoto,
Where, with great contentment,
A young couple sit
At a low table
Eating their evening meal
Of sweet hijiki
On beds of warm rice,
The silence broken only
By faint, almost musical
Clinks of chopsticks
Upon the oval bowls.
Being in love with you for even
one second
Is enough. The big picture
changes.
(When the honey jar is
opened,the whole kitchen is
instantly sticky.)
Being in love with you is a deep
thirst,
An undermining hunger.
It is a desperation like that of a
barn swallow caught
In a kitchen mousetrap,
Dragging itself with his wings
And one good leg
Towards the dog-door,
His only hope.
Being in love with you is
ludicrous and cannot be
explained.
Being in love with you sneaks up
on me from behind.
It is a kind of ambush.
Or worse, it is an avalanche
In which I am tumbled furiously
For a time, then stopped cold
In whatever absurd position the
snow
Finds me - perhaps only a hat
Or a handVisible to the outside
world.
Being in love with you sits on my
doorstep
And weeps. It calls pathetically
To be let in the house, rants
About my neglectfulness. I runTo
open the door but - when I
touch
The doorknob - feel a tap
On my shoulder, turn around
And it is there,
Smiling it galling
Cheshire smile.
It is the holy guardian of
archways, the faithful steward of
All tunnels and bridges.
It is alpine and religious, naked
and fierce.
It is the kiss of candour, and the
cherished cup.
It is "the low down" and "the
real dope".
Being in love with you is to
dream, at least once, that you
live inside me
Like a mysterious Spanish town
at twilight: you are the red dirt
roadThat winds into town;
You are the squat houses with
lamps lit and drapes half-drawn;
On the horizon, you are sunset's
silent fire;
You, bouncing are the green and
orange swirled ball that children
run after
Laughing in the street - and on
the porch, the old man, head in
hands,
Watching;
You are the young lovers in the
town square at nightfall, the
moon's play of
Light and shadow on their faces,
you are their lips, their kiss;
And yet you are also the several
dead drunk matadors,
drapedover chairs,
Spread-eagled over the hotel
bed;
And you, too, are the town idiot
on the tavern roof, dancing a
pot bellied
Belly-dance to the slender
crescent moon;
And at the farthest edge of
town, you yourself are the
yelled-at mule, who
Will not budge.
In spring, being in love with you
is green, resilient, and sways to
the rhythms of wind.
In autumn, it is pale gold and
fills the sky.
Being in love with you is
centripetal.
Moreover, it choreographs
And christens.
It cradles and cherishes, yet
Confiscates as much as it
confers.
It clobbers and clocks, then
cloisters - but only to clarify
And cleanse.
It seems to cathart then catnap,
but later celebrates
And celestializes.
It cultivates and cumulates until
it is continual combustion.
Or, saying the same, is a kind of
ever spontaneous consecration.
It cures and cushions,
Compels and completes.
If threatened with congealing, it
may creep
Aside, churn and circulate,
Conspiring to colour the cosmos.
Being in love with you is
centrifugal.
It is hard to believe
Being in love with you
Was once
That tiny space
In my heart
That has since exploded
Into a vast cathedral
Of sky
Under which I stand alone,
Looking up.
It is raining cats and dogs.
I am drenched.
Being in love with you has
soaked me
To the bone
And I will never again
Be dry.
- Michael Londry

Ranjha Ranjha kerdi ni main apey Ranjha hoyi,

Ranjha Ranjha saddho ni, menu  heer na aakho koi.

 [Chanting the name of Ranjha, I have become Ranjha myself.

O call me ye all Ranjha, let no one call me Heer]

Whilst deciding if I liked the lyrics over the music or vice-versa, I thought of You..And how You managed to give me the lyrics -

"tere bina chaand ka sona khota re
peeli peeli dhool udaave jhoota re
tere bina sona peetal
tere sang keekar peepal
aaja kate na ratiyaan"
{Nothing's beautiful, nothing's meaningful without you.
All Treasures are worthless sans you, and even troubles sooth when am with you.
Come, for these lonely nights shall not pass.}

It was 2 in the morning and my heart yearned for Yours. With my eyes closed, I hummed along sketching You in the darkness, and all I could see were those 'kale til' on both Your lips, humming in harmony. This silly heart then desired You to listen me sing this song, but more than that, I was tempted to explain it to you, phrase by phrase, each feeling that resonates in this poetry, and my own affection. But then this is not how we meant things to be...

I like to believe that I am over such temptations now, just like I am over 'speaking many things I wish to speak of'.

I convinced myself that I am over 'thinking of You' and went back to the song.

Jal ja, jal ja Ishq mein jal ja, jale se kundan ho

Jalti raakh laga le maathey, lagey to chandan hoye

[Burn, burn, burn in the fire of passion, for its only when you burn that you turn to gold.

Rub the ashes on your forehead, so you may find some peace]

It rained this morning, and I thought of You.....

Sulagtey koyle, re koyle, ab bujhna mushkil hai...

[These burning coals - my heart, continues to burn]