Summer Of Mango Showers! ! ! ! Poem by Seema joglekar

Prolific Spring has thrown in her towel,
To tussel with torrid chaos in warm April,
Sun’s slow winter seduction has gone in vain,
In myriad sighs of lonely distress blazes in ruthless campaign,
Like a flame held too close to the heart,
Hoarding too many years in one brief season,
He unerringly darts,

Feverish Indian Summer dons a crest of heat & dust,
Over hot macadam that tape &measure, the breath of summer,
Land contours that crack crease & dry, a pattern of brine fits the paper sky,
Scorching days like time-worn love that tingles the heart & torches the sky,


Dusty flowers crumble, slipping through his golden fingers,
Two horizons hover, in a mirage of packed dirt in nervous squiggles,
The hurting fields furrowed, poke heaven in the underbelly,
Temples find no devotees glistening in communal sweat,
Like its turrets in filigree,
After the scorn of summer, days shall return with the resoluteness of winter.! ! ! !

Nature lays out a charpoy & unabashed sprawls for a siesta in the open,
Polar houses & streets wear the wrestled dust of an entire season,
Only love weathers in the throes of summer -upbeat,
Each day kindles love’s slackened heat.

From under dusty lashes comes the long glance of parched thirst,
Not for love’s tender flatteries, but the touch of a glance as soothing as strumming rain,
Bringing a kernel of goodness of paralyzed spring,
Heaven swings in lachrymal downpour to aid mango ripening,

Clouds crack a lightening repartee in a screaming whistle,
Wind blows her phlegmatic bugle, ground rushes to meet in a sizzle,
Clouds sail on first sigh & on a second dropp a downpour,
In rhythm to the peacock’s dance prepare for mango shower.

Mango trees shudder with their skirt lengths dropped so low,
Under the hem even the bare tree hips do not show,

Scenes hang in stained glass as water trickles in aluminum foils,
Howling in a spate of red wine, crops douse in turbid sheets of oil,
The farmer sickle in hand seeks ten thousand divinities to bless his land,
Early mangoes dropout in sweet panic, exuding an incense of turpentine.
Rainbows in hairpin curves, are plucked & washed in nervous puddles,
Nature shows herself in wet garments, sun stealthily peeps,
Like bridal showers consecrated with the sacred fire.
bidding farewells the bride weeps.

Our first affections, made these years a puff of listless delay,
Cherishing more than what these hapless years can take away.
The rains bring a memory: -
When we ran in the rain, ‘cause Proust was left open in the library,
And he didn’t deserve such indignity'.

To everything there is a season, a purpose under heaven,
Sun and rain move like two people, without condition or suspicion,
Each takes solace in the other’s shadow, certain.! ! ! !