And what is poetry
Yet still I keep going
I listen
There is a crone
With long and grey hair
Who secretly keeps the key of writing.
She lives in a mysterious
And far way land
And her heart is bigger than her head
She never talks much about others
And tells her own story herself
She talks less and never gives
But shows the keys of her secrets
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Half truth is more dangerous
There is no such thing like a half lieAnd there is no black truth, tooAs we have a white lie.
No connection I find between earthquake and rain
At a restaurant I took a plate of fried riceAnd two pieces of boneless fishAnd rubbed my little cheeks against cheeksAnd kissed the pod- lips of white liesBut I wonder what is that to herI did not do anything against herAnd kept myself aloof to save my skin and avoid her bitter tasteI took shelter…
Where do you get
For your poetryDo you have any mine?How do you go extravaganceFor your emotions?Thrift is now the buzz wordAt the time of global down turnIf you go like thisI shall not merry to your daughterWith my only child
Through the little window i see the moon
Both are round and extremely beautifulSo far so nice and I am wonderfully pleasedBut little later the moon goes under cloudAnd the bread in no time swells her bellyTo find out the reason I scratch my headIn the mean time the bread hisses up and sayWhy do I go to praise the spotted moon?Before I…
Before the game
After the gameIs the prize ceremonyDo you dare to claim to be a playerWithout playing?The word is a stageLife is a gameThose are the very old sayingsDo not sit with meFace to faceSlough your idlenessMind your useless indulgenceAll aroundThe taste of sweet breezeThe sunLove and warmth from the eastBirdsBuzzing, chirping left their nestBees are busySinging…
I wanted everything in my life in the shape of round
Instead of changing the world I started to change my mindAnd wanted things in a shape of perfect triangularThe sisters of fate appeared and gave me things in redPuzzled a bit, I proceeded to get my notion changedNo change occurred, all things appeared the sameWith same nature, with same taste and odd puffy smellNo place…
It
What,
What it is,
It is in your heart,
Heart
Just see you,
See you from far,
From far,
One known from far,
Far from,
Not moving close,
Closer to you!
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Bob Dylan’s dilemma
Wrote downWere poems or not,Whetherthese wereCarrying a traditionLearnt from and perfectedOver the years?A singer of heart,A music-maker,He is a rock ‘n roll man,A man gone blues,A guitarist,A lover, a singer, a musicianAll combined in one,A country and folk musician and lyricist.
The world
You knew it not.The world as it was everAs it would be ever.
Time,
Keeps it rotating,TimeMechanical and Cosmic.
Who am I,
Where my home?Where was IWhen I had not been?
A Lahorian
He received his educationIn JapanBut was posted at Dehradun.Was he a Sikh,A Hindu?Was he a scientistOr a poet?A Punjabi writerOr an English writerOr both?Was he a knowerOf many languages?A Sikh historianWriting the historyOf the Sikhs and Sikhism?A believer in Guru Nanak,He was a pious SikhDevout and righteous.
Bhaiyya,
Bullet train hai,Bullet train hai,Chad ke to dekho magarPhir kahana?Big Brother,Which train is it,Bullet train is it,Bullet train is it,Have a ride firstThen say you something about it?
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Got the light from,
The glowworm fascinating
With its glow and glimmer
Giving the star twinkle
Of the starry night illusions
So bespectacled and illuminating?
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Have you got,
Penetrating deepAnd I getting arrow-struck,Just say to,I love you,I love you!
Sarojini is but a poetess
And the small girl brideGoing her in-laws’ homeWhich she unaware of,The boatman and the fisherman.
Badi mon karecche
Jhumar gaanAar sangei-sangei naachLok sangeetAar swar ke saath.Want to hearThe jhumar,Jhumar songsCombined with dancesPlayed with folk musicAnd tuning.
Women studies,
It is of women, by women and of women,Women speaking for womenRe-telling the stories of lifeAs seen through,Borne with and undergone,Women speaking for women,Women recounting their stories.Women as seminarians,Receptionists,Sales executives,Resource persons,Women as housewives,Women as domestic helps,Women as human beings.Women for women, by women, of women.Women in the need of women,Women speaking for women,Women helping women,Women…
Dark Daughter-
Tell me, tell me, who you are,What your identity, where your home,Who your parentsAs see youAs the sculptures and figurinesLying on the entranceOf the terracotta temples,Into the mist of the starlit skies,Dark and lonely,Stand you,All alone,Away from homes,Nostalgic, homesick and reminiscent ofYour small, small brothers and sisters?Dark daughter, tell you, tell you,Who you are, what…
Calcutta, Calcutta call you not me,
Your buildings,Buildings high and rising,Tower-like, V-shapedwith life pulsating inLike I not,Calcutta, O Calcutta,Your industries and smells,Toxic air spread around,Smokes and fumesSpiraling,Traffic jamsAnd red signals,The hours of waitAnd restlessness,Resulting in giddiness,Vomiting tendency,Calcutta, O Calcutta,So busy, so fast,So mechanical, so artificial,With no time to think, no time to rest,Always panting for work, workAnd money,Calcutta, O Calcutta city,City…
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Want to ban
Chinese goods,
Are they not good,
Are they not useful?
What have the goods
To do
with politics,
What have the companies
To do it here,
Think of it too.
Think of the company men,
The people associated with,
Workers and labourers,
The investment and machine tools
Applied in
And the plants set up.
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Ma, ma, ma, your son
Ma, ma, ma, your son,They have tunred into an addictAnd the mother weeping,Tears faliing down the cheeks,O, God, who to help?Even You come to not when call we urgently.O, my son has turned into an addict, an adict,The good boy spoilt he himself,Has turned!The drug-peddlers, liquor-men, ganjeris, bhangeris and daru-taken,All of them his friends now,Not…
You love me, but don’t be sad,
And you if sad and lonely,Heartbroken and forlorn,My confidence I shall lose it.It is your love which has but turned into a loverAnd an unknown singer of love,Ay, the singer of heart,So, if you in the sighs and sobs,The eye-lashes splashed with tears,My brush fall from the handsAnd shall I fail in making a sweet…
Just said I,
She said to me,I love youAnd leaving our homes,We kept gazing at, smiling, waving the handsAnd greetingAnd gesturing.Is this called love,Love and its madness,Let the spring come,I shall hand over wild blossomsWhich but the love-mad cuckoos know it well.
With a counter,
He the Acharya’s, Indian astrologer,Horoscope-makers’ sonSelling certificates and degreesOf distance and open boards and varsities,Looking out for probable customers,CustomersWith which he hasA double-storey marvellous building,What will you takeMatric, H.S., B.A. M.A.Or Ph.D,What do you want,Want, sir,Matric, H.S., B.A., M.A.Or DoctorateFrom open, distance learningSchools and varsitiesAnd even from regular deemed varsitiesOr full-fledged onesWherever there lies the…
Who is the man
Calling,Ma, ma,Ma, show me your face,Ma Tara!
In my times of sick hurry and divided aims,
Just see I passing the ambulancesFlashing and wailingAnd the ambulance-driver taking them awayWithout feeling about lifeAs these are as usual things for him to see.Many a time averted I my gaze from seeingThe patients on drip,Oxygen given to,Blood being transfusedAnd the patient in pain and agony,Writhing with,Moaning and groaning.But to my horror and terror, see…
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Modn, modnistic or post-modn?
My grandfather and grandmother had not been,
My father and mother
Turned they into daddy and mummy
And now is she mum, mom,
I dad and pa.
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Parmatman
The Greater Self.
How will it be
On Mars,The Red PlanetFar and far awayFromThis earthOf ours,Planning forMy next settlementAnd colonyAfter my trystWith here?
I think about her,
She would have undergone,The trouble and tribulationBorne, facedBy the Austrian womanIn giving birth to Anita,Rearing her all alone,Living namelessly,Why did we suppressThe news?
Sri Krishna as a child,
The colourful paintingsOf His?
Bombay is not what it had been in the past,
The journey from,But today everything sells there.Bombay is not Bombay which it had been once,A changed city is it,Where the primitive cluster of villagesDotting the island?Where the real Bombayans, the Marathis, not the duplicate filmwallahs,Copying music and cinematography from HollywoodAnd telling it own,Where that natural scenery by the sea?They make you dream of the colourful…
Ecology-relating,
Encompassing inClimate change,Global warming,Acid rain,Atomic summerAnd after-effects,How to save this green earth,Green earth from destruction?
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Oh no, ’tis not
that there would be
a pressing need
to share,
with you
or anyone
as there is not.
I write these words
to re-assess,
perhaps,
but mostly
to live through
the wondrous time
with you,
again.
I know you will
forgive me
if you find
a smudge,
or even two
as I remember
yours,
they were so small,
barely equipped
to hitch
a ride
on gravity. I kissed
those tears,
surprised
at me,
as I would
other times
and loves
avert my eyes.
Men do not cry,
so it is said
and it is true.
For you
there will be times
where
tears of shame,
or anger,
sadness
overflow
to signal that
all is not well.
My tears
come from the
deepest well
down,
near the bottom
of my soul.
They speak in whispers
as they blink
and see through bleary eyes
the picture that is you.
I love you
as you know
and may I tell you
that I love
those little tears,
just knowing
that they are
from YOU.
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The doctor wore his undertaker mask this morning.
All tests completed and the biopsy is back.The room is pregnant now with dark-skinned twins,one half is expectation, the other odds-defying hope.‘Some tea, Miss Jones? ‘ This gesture breaks no ice.‘And cream or sugar? ‘Dammit, is it bad?You beat around the bush if you’re afraidthat bogeymen or cancers hide within.‘I’m giving you six months’, he…
It’s lazy dazy, says my ambidextrousTerrier,
Those Sundays never are the more the merrier,I much prefer my ordinary days.A Monday is a sign from our Godthat work is needed just to pay the bills.On Tuesdays we may find it rather oddthat all the aches at last have yielded to their pills.Wow, Wednesday triggers thoughts, just two more daysand Thursday is my…
She was a sorceress,
had known.Her incantationscould be heardby no one.A Magyarand heir ofAttila, the Hun.Though fate,not magichad transplantedher to the plainsand gorgesof Dracula.Moldaviaand Mongolia,a sprinkle ofthe Kasakh,amidst the Wanderersfrom Asia,the sour-facedGreek merchantsand the Csabas,took on the mountainscalled Carpathians.Oh, Dracula,oh Transylvania,give meyour Saxonsto re-unitewithin theFatherland.And let usbring her back,this sorceress,to drive the Csangosand the Vlachsinto the hillsto jointhe Gypsies,and…
I had been busy with those things
attending to them just as iflife itself would cease to be.I always fret, because of fearthat, somehow I may notbe up to it, to slay the dragonsin the raging sea.Harsh words escape at speed,they travel so unerringlyand find her lovely ears,ring tones that never fail.A tiny tear had squeezed itselfout of her leading lacrimal, the…
Veni vidi vici,
snug on the great Kontikiwho then denied it all?They spotted in their travelsimperfect specimenswhen DNA unravelsincrimination wins.Yet those of us who slitherunnoticed into griefwe are condemned to dithersuspend our own belief.The climber was ignoredand left in snow to diewhile human beings scoredso close to God’s own skymuch glory for their nameas few have what it…
Sick of the misery of Lent
And stocked his car with beer and food –in minutes he was in the mood.As you may know, the Autobahnbrings out in vehicles the brawn.No limits to the foot of leada big mistake – and you are dead.After the Pass, the Autostradahe overtook a coughing Lada,then blasted into Italywhere winds are warm and thoughts are…