Monday, January 30, 2012

and the war continues ...

She braved it all;
dead bodies and arms strewn around,
the burnt flesh, the scattered heart, the smell of blood,
she braved it all
fighting the war.
In the slithering darkness of the night
she stood firm
her long limbs glistening with sweat and scream,
stiff back and upright shoulders
sometimes taking shelter in a trench,
warm like a mother’s lap that she long forgot
sometimes hiding underneath the bushes
 safe as in the arms of a lover that she never had;
valour hissing in her breath
gallantry flying in her hair.

The war is over.
The male soldiers of her group enter her tent
in celebration;
they come upon her
one by one and all together
in a masculine excitement
screaming victory,
"the war has ended" - they shout in triumph.

She is not part of the war anymore,
 the war lives in her now;
And for her the war continues.

Friday, January 20, 2012

When your father comes...

When your father comes

he will help you out with your exams
he will fix up your bi cycle tyre
he will tell you all the amazing stories of the world
he will talk to that neighbour who misbehaved
he will see the grocery seller who's charging us more
he will put things in the right place
he will make everything alright

when your father comes ...
if your father comes things would be just fine.

courtesy - google images

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

for the honour of a novice poem ...

Poems are piled up on the table
they want to die but are unable.
 Stubborn un caged words soar and rise
wonder wings filling the days with surprise.
Yet a perennial demise is what they deserve
as they have neither patronage nor any subsidy in reserve.
They have donned aesthetic ecstasy using metaphors of worth
April is crueller for them too and they also are poems of the earth.
They too have played with epigram and clever beats’ rise and fall
and painted the azure sky, nature, ache, humanity and all.
So they begin to peep into magazines and various literary journals
attending workshops, meeting veterans hoping for a smile or some laurels.
But, alas! Only dead poets sell well, famous poets sell well
and profiles with heavy degrees and awards alone, excel.
Striving for a niche for all that beginners stuff
those poems stagger and stumble in an unpublished huff.
They forget the beauty and the fresh sensibility in order to hound
all they could concentrate is how to find cousins of Ezra Pound.
Disillusioned, fatigued and scared they fall on the ground
they sleep for a while and the sleep is sound.
In their dream they get an insight with tears
that life is fragile and only for a few years.
To love, live and be at peace is the best
let’s rest within, there is no quarrel and there is no test.
Let’s not in darkness grope;
for we’ll do what lies in our scope
We will admire the bee poised on a lotus without any qualm
and keep perceiving the rainbow bridge with hope and with calm.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

river ...

The river
surging ahead
in monsoon,
inches rising,
bouncing like jubilant boys,
carrying along
the trivial and the significant
silent sighs

The river
in summer,
drying till a trickle
in the sand
the trivial and the significant
women’s hair
torn paper boats
rusted metals.

The river
in all seasons,
in either form,
roaming like a wanderer,
hoping for a destination
laughter and tears
  debris and moss green leaves
and a lump of soil.

The river,
a life,
the only permanence
that keeps changing every moment.

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