Impure...

Long ago,

sometime in the past,

my grandmother

was forced to spend time in a cowshed

 in the backyard,

to hide her shame,

away from light and humanity,

five days a month

for she was unclean and impure,

because she used to bleed.

Today,

and maybe tomorrow,

I, the woman,

with all my wisdom

have to stand outside the temple gate

in the hot sun, hours together,
not allowed to touch anything pious

as I am unclean and impure

five days a month

for I, too, bleed.

So, to utter the word “post modern”

is for me
like pronouncing

Alveolar, palatal sounds

with a mouth ulcer.

http://amolife.com/image/nature/the-smell-of-rain.html

Caution

Now I know why she still neatly stores the

flesh less, vein less, bloodless skeleton of a past relationship.

For she has seen the fullness of her body tamed by practice and will

And those men, sleek like drones, hovering, casting shadows,

with mouth like a dark cavern, gleaming uneven teeth,

 hands swaying like a hooded snake;

also that child around her

with bright dreamy eyes,  jumping like a young goat,

the unseen umbilical cord palpable.

So, she watchfully draws a perfect vermillion circle

 in between her eyebrows

and goes about in cleaning the carcass of an old forgotten love.

She often would powder those ashen love words

 and put some naphthalene balls

and synthetic fragrance to keep away the stench.

To survive

she clings to a love

that no longer has a soul, or a body

but a few lifeless rotting cadavers.

Note:
" a perfect vermillion circle in between her eyebrows" -- a symbol of marriage for most Indian women.

the strange things about love ...

Whatever it was it wasn't love!

It was about getting even.

I hurt you because you hurt me

I lied to you as you lied to me

I deceived for you cheated too;

and both wondered -

why couldnt you love as I do! ...

And this skin communicated thing,

whatever it was, it wasn't love.

and now after so many years ...
when I have held you in my poems

and your smiling face and twinkling eyes 

 come alive from the pages with words not spoken,

 I feel happy that you are here for me.

Now you are always there, waiting,

in the alleyways of my poetry,

a little silent perhaps

and may be a bit foggy

but letting me feel that

I am not alone,

not entirely, that is!

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

withstanding,

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.

http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2012/01/mag-102.html

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

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.

river ...

The river

surging ahead

in monsoon,

inches rising,

bouncing like jubilant boys,

carrying along

the trivial and the significant

silent sighs

villages

cattle

people.

The river

receding

in summer,

drying till a trickle

in the sand

baring

the trivial and the significant

straws

women’s hair

torn paper boats

rusted metals.

The river

existing

in all seasons,

in either form,

roaming like a wanderer,

hoping for a destination

reflecting

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.

linked to

http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2012/01/mag-98.html
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/
http://dversepoets.com/