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The journey of a poet

Image credit: Google images I understand who I am through the records of my life I land in sound, silence some hear...

Friday, June 23, 2017

Memories



It will not wither
It's not a newspaper
Like a novel it's to stay
Not disappear in yesterday.

It will not burn
It’s not a candle
Like the sun it's to flame and remain
Light up your dark space again.

It will not come and go
It’s not a sporadic rainbow
Like a canvas with its glow and hues
It’s sure to rest inside you.

It will not sing only in Noël*
It’s not a carol by a seasonal Koel*  
Like the daily chirps whistling into years
It will ring and nest in your ears.

Memories murmuring moments
Mellow, merge, misunderstand, marry
Meanings, moods meander, mock, melt
Moving minds, mingle, mar, make merry.

Note:
1. Noël - Christmas

2. Koel - The Asian koel (Eudynamys scolopaceus)is a member of the cuckoo order of birds, the Cuculiformes. It is found in the Indian Subcontinent, China, and Southeast Asia. The Asian koel is a brood parasite that lays its eggs in the nests of crows and other hosts, who raise its young. They are unusual among the cuckoos in being largely frugivorous as adults. The name koel is echoic in origin with several language variants. The bird is a widely used symbol in Indian poetry.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

Copycat

Google images















In this world of tit for tat
I am not a copy cat
If you hit me, do I hit back?
Ah no, for this I have no knack.

You press the anger button
Do I become angry?
Ah no, try me.
I am not a machine but a human
To negatives I don’t give entry.

I am good and light this way
I shoo all the disease-germs away
If you want you may also try that
For love of life we can be our copy cat.


Sunday, June 11, 2017

Thoughts in the greenroom


One could sense the heat
in your eyes, on your face
though you leave a mild trace
perhaps your victory is in your defeat?

Then why do the thoughts
travel in silence, for ages
freeze in your minds,
mountains and icebergs
never come out
not even as mud, rivulets
on the waiting page;
who has fastened your mouth
covered your visage
what fear do you have
feelings bickering inside
burning in the kitchens
failing on beds,
bruised in the open market place
a mound in the womb
inside, never to see light?
The relegated volumes
could turn them
into a new chapter
if you unearthed some
from your cemented souls
sky could fall in your garden
looking for the shining stars
if the saplings came out from your greenroom
appeared on the stage.


Your not wanting to speak
rains in teardrops
inundating every home of the world,
still homes
you efface your own letters
before they could
form into words,
what could keep the thoughts
so long in prison.
The tired stretch of silence
tied for years
seems to loosen
appears to screech
tends to break apart
constantly simmers.

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Your world


Minerve chassant les vices du jardin, painting by Boticelli - Google images

I have never felt so cheap
when you changed your pic
following my compliment
but hey it's your world
your thinking, your perception
your belief-system,
your reputation, your name
I have nothing to do with them.

I have never felt so disrespected
when you were hurt
by words that came from a pumping heart
when you were using suicide bombers
in the lines of your attractive texts
but hey it's your world
you know how you can tame
I have nothing to do with them.

I have never felt so unlike you
when you had the dagger of words
masked with kindness
pouring ego-bloods of shylock and pozzo
I wish I could let your ego
go, from your accolades and fame
I have nothing to do with them.

But hey it's your world
the knowledge you treasured
to write your lines
white lies
because in your world they sell
like madona's touch, gold as hell
why wouldn't I let them be
you also have the right to not be lke me
it's your world
your words
your stage, your game
I have but little to do with them.


But if ever you came
into my peaceful world
would welcome you
with open arms
to my charming golden garden

green with singing birds.

Friday, June 2, 2017

Bani’s children’s coping mechanism

Google images

There you see Kali
limping in public hee hee
this way she earns money
and gives it to Bani
and there is your bamboo,
we call him so he’s lambu
he sings all day with his broken voice
people look at his plucked eyes
he gets sympathy notes and coins
for the noise he makes in his lines;
but there, there can you see?
Pinky, Rashid and Rani
with severed legs they sing and dance
Bani is happy for the money
they get her every day, with their romance
and their jaw-dropping stance
I do everything; cleaning, performing, cooking
collecting dough from the earth
each day we spend laughing and roaming,
we are Bani’s children, right from our re-birth.

We have one whole meal every day
so what if we have severed our parts?
for good we are not here to stay
Bani is our savior, our mother clever and smart.

Thursday, June 1, 2017

IN MY HIDDEN MAP


Two soft roads break by the brook I still know,
As a child I’d wonder as to where they’d go;
Stories of the place, about the lines that went,
I could feel even now, their sound and their scent.

Not a public place but I’d call it tavern,
I could hear it speak to me, although taciturn;
I’d imagine anything, pain was also fun,
Flirt with the moon, gold-dig with the sun.

The twin roads are full of flowers,
With precious jewels, rivulets;
Unheard birds and fruits,
Trees breezing leaves, hanging nests.

Every bit of the joint is vivid and clear,
It’s hidden in the map of my mind;
I came running in my form to see it from near,
Outside of me, I could never ever find.


Poem selected for Triveni

Universe understands




Universe
doesn’t understand your verse
kind or unkind,
complicated, meaningful
sublime words.

It understands feelings in those letters lifeless
affectionate, pure, blissful thoughts
chanting inside in the random words
to laugh from within first, then on the page
hug, embrace in the mind then take the pledge;
when words marry the thoughts
the vibration thus born corresponds,
all scribbling on the leaves
with feelings exactly the same
texts that are formed, prose or poem
universe understands,

responds to all of them.

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