Through which
Go it the martyrs, patriots,
Nationalists!
You pluck me, gardener
And throw away
To be strewn with
Through which cross it
The soldiers laying heir head
At the altar of the motherland!
You pluck me, gardener
Not to be for
Into the hands of lovers
Or into the hair braid
Bedecking it
Or flowers offered to gods!
But for the martyrs,
Nationalists and patriots
Who cross the ways
To lay their lives
For the motherland,
Pluck you to scatter with!
Eklavya,My Eklavya?Do not wantAny guru-dakshinaBut green fruitsPlucked from the wild.Calling him,Want I do talent search,Continue with itWithout any bias.Where is talent,Under which condition,How to support it equallyMy duty.
Doing sadhnaAs for to infuse intoThe powers divine.Poetry if you ask me, then is love poetry,The poems of loveInterspersed withDeeper feelings and emotionsOf the heart, human heart.The stanzas and paragraphs of love,Loveful feelingsAnd loverly expressionsIs poetry,Written in verse.I feeling for you, you feeling for me,The attachment between the two,The bonding in-between,My love for you, your…
Taking a a selfie of hers.Gender, class and society.
And if she comes to not,I shall turn into a sadhuWith the long beardsComing from the ashrama.
As the house not her peripheryTo draw the Lakshamanrekha for her,A housewife with the broomstick threatening,Doing politics and blackmailing her simple husband,A homemaker not but a destroyerAs to be a feminist her first priority.A villagerly quarrelsome wife not, but an overambitious wife,Trespassing Juliet, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth and Portia,A Delilah, a Lamia is she,So dangerous and…
ducking inand outfrom the shell,a small creaturewith the headlike that of a snake,but not a viper,but a turtle.
