Author Archives: Jagdish Singh Ramana

About Jagdish Singh Ramana

Jagdish Singh Ramana is born on July 01, 1998 in Sriganganagar(Rajasthan) to a peasant Mr. Gurbaksh Singh and Mrs. Amarjeet Kaur. A PG student from Maharaja Ganga Singh University,Bikaner. "Everything is ok.", "Sometimes solitary is not silence and clamour is not noise." Growing my heart for poetic reflections....

Philosopher Trees

Philosopher Trees

Trees are the living-ones, they have
Their hearts and souls, the souls
Which reverberate love in the hearts
Of philocalists, the philocalist owls.

They see, they sing, the hear, they taste,
And they sense our senses in true sense,
They are makers; they make poets,
Obliqueness is their beauty, and fragrance.

Winds are their messengers, their lovers
Are flutterbies, bees and we, the poets,
Every leaf that falls down reverberates her
Sonnet, ballad of life, and odes.

The last leaf tells her story and
Acompanies her friends- in the stack,
They tell their ballads to wandering winds
And winds sing it to buds and bees.

The ballads must be set in autumn archive,
O, poet jagdish, the philosophy must be alive.

The Wind

The Wind

Wind is the one who can bring back
The years rolled in one’s prime,
No other thing can do but wind.
Each single year we’ve seen feels us back
T’is merely the wind of that particular wind
That felt we in our prime.
Whether the sweet jargonig of birds
That makes the heavens mute,
Or the singing monsoon rains
That inspire the buds to dance
And quench the earth’s ears thirst,
No other thing can do but wind.

Wind is a hope for a dying one,
For him who has forsaken all his will,
For him who is drowning in the water
Would any blade of grass may save his life.
Wind perches in nests, in earth’s womb
For seeds to grow, and in firmament
That the clouds will melt on to us,
In fire that blows its flames sharp
And in waters, to let it go forth
On the voyages of new land shores.

The Wind: An Extreme Instance

The Wind: An Extreme Instance

What is the wind? -a flow in many forms, What the bards have call’d thee
All are their melodious evergreen songs, As a philocalist I see the wind in me.

Wind, a divine secret agent of the almighty, Invisibly roaming over seas, soils and nature For tidings of the colourful world slightly,
And the deeds, white and black of the creatures.

Wind, a messanger, takes the messages fairly
Of innumerable flowers’ fragrances,
Sweetness of fruits, melodies of bird-songs, tastes of poetry, And to the peasants love of animals’ disturbances.

Wind, a bondage of love and peace
Amongst the diverse hearts of its creatures,
And for a painter, wind is a moving picture
Oaf far-fatch’d fields, blue skies and solitary seas.

Wind, a wander’r rolling up the fallen leaves With her into the spelly paths making sound,
A Sufi singer; the song of herself can be listen’d In a loud silence all around.

Wind, a great saviour, a transparent shelter,
Creatures, all the three, are under her absent presence, They find haven in heaven of the lady defender,
The wind is wind, an extreme instance.