She was the Princess Ajita,
the heaven’s beauty,and the nature’s grace
and he was poet royale Shekhar,
smith of the words, sewing them with a lace
She was the Princess Ajita, the smile broke a thousand moons
and he was Shekhar,on poems of whose the kingdom revelled
He loved her, with all his poetical truth,
and all his white heart.
Yet, knew not the King Narayana,nor the Gods themselves.
Yet sang he when, the songs of his love unheard,
the love of his bosom graced the stars of the sky
O ye! but who listens to this song behind the velvet drape?
Who is it, who peers on his voice with her melodious trinklet?
Manjari, is it, the maid of princess?
Shekhar, loved her not,but her company to keep,
She sat on the evenings alone for his sweetness to seep.
Shekhar, buoyed by his lone muse and presence,
and flowed from his pen the ballads like essence
devoid of all his worldly defence ,
The world knew, the King knew, and so did Manjari,
or so did they think,on these innocent trysts.
But truth is oft a bag of clues, layers filled,
and Shekhar knew the truth and his heart alone,
yet with the jesting world he reeled.
***
The Duel
Day 1
Whose ominous shadows does this monsoon bring?
On whose arrogant wisdom does these trees swing?
It is the Pundarik, oh is it?
The great poet from the Kingdom of Anandapur…
It is Pundarik, oh is it?
The word smith par-less, holding the pride
of thousand bested poets.
“Oh Rajadhiraj, Oh kind and virtuous king,” Pundarik roared
“I seek the war of words, the battle of hymns”, his voice soared
“I have the pride of thousand poets, and all of them implored
afraid and defeated even was the poet of the Lord”
Urged the King, the crowd and life itself,
Shekhar bowed down and glanced at his love,
yet joyous was the court, thought he smiled at the Lord.
“If I be the winner, lady, then thy name be victorious”
So did, the duel begin,
the battle of the hymns, the sound of the seers
The war of the words and clash of the wordsmiths.
Pundarik stood, and so did the court,
raptous were the subjects, hypnotised in short
So began the conquistador, and so began the King’s praise
The court moved, swung in the gardens of Pundarik’s emotions
King swayed, in the swings of his beaming voice.
Shekhar, stood up and lanced with his poetry,
glanced at his King, advanced on his mastery.
The love for his king, the pearls of his heart
the blood of his veins throbbed in his art
Yet it was Pundarik’s glory
The day went on, with both of them lancing around
Yet Shekhar was at a loss, and the curtains were drawn.
the war stopped till another dawn
Day 2
Shekhar got up, glanced at his love
he smiled, unknownst to the world, prayed in his heart
and sang the song of his King.
“I maybe defeated in the play of words,
yet defeated I am not in the love of thee”
Shekhar forgot the trial with his rival,
lost in his thoughts rustling, quivering in the breeze of spring
thus flowed the Song of his Flute,visions of Ajita in his poetic wing.
Yet lost was he, with Pundarik’s art,
flinged him out with the toss of his poetic twig
the court hushed, revelling in the scholar’s clout.
Narayana smiled, and held up in his hand
the exquisite necklace of pearls,
The arrogance beamed and took it as his band
Shekhar lost and dejected, wandered away in the warmth of the setting sun.
The Victory
Screamed did he, in his home alone,
tossing his works in the fiery fire to atone
yet hurt was he, with his own broken love,
couldn’t usher the court in his patho filled cove
“Burn, Burn thee, my beauty, my lady, my fire
thou hast been burning in my heart since the futile aeons
If my life was the gold unshone,it would glow ever brighter,
but it ‘s a turf of grass and nothing remains but dust and ashes”
The night wore on, the jasmines blossomed
Shekhar drank with the acrid bacchus, dipped in poison of his life.
Golden trinklets seeped past this night, the smell of roses rising high.
The poet with his eyes shut,”You are a bit late, My lady, my end is well-nigh”
“My poet, I have come”,
His sight was dim, breath shallow, yet he heard the last of her swallow
“I am Ajita, oh poet, and you were my victor today,
Charmed was I, in your words did I ever sway”
She took the garland of flowers off her neck and put it on his head
The poet smiled on her grace and threw himself
beaten, desolate and dead.
So here is my entry to From Soups to Nuts. Let me see where does it all fit in. A story rendered by Rabindranath Tagore of the same name, presented as a poem by
yours truly. Although didn’t quite expect it to be such a long treatise, yet couldnt quite make it short. Its bit of heavy, so I don’t think at least it will go well with
Hors d’Oeuvres , maybe will send it to
Main Course 
. Anyway do let me know how did you like it…
Another poetry alongside,
Upagupta , inspired from the same man who penned them all…
And yeah if you liked this place, then I would appreciate if you spread its word around.
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If you liked this poem then subscribe to the blog.
), my poetry is heart tugging, yet somewhere I was feeling a gaping void build up. Couldnt help it, could I? And when you stagnate, things dont flow(cliche). Your words refuse to flow and then you get frustrated, get up and leave or keep convincing yourself that it will get better. I took the first choice. 
