Alas! O Mighty King, This poor man has nowhere to place his stick Until I pierce it through the body of my kin For my land is carpeted with corpses, Alas! O Mighty Lord In your kingdom I have no wood to cook, For it is burned up in the funerals Oh! Great Shah Where do I put my seeds? My son's body will take time to enrich, Enrich the fields on which I sow Your land stretches so far May it stretch farther But may the echoes of cries, leave your mind and body to peace. Alas! Your valorous majesty, What shall I do but lament For the rivers of this land are no longer blue What shall I quench my thirst with? Take away all we had my Sultan, Elephants, jewels and spices But do leave your arrogance here For this old man Shall burn it, with the rest of the corpses.
What shall I write about you? You are poetry herself Yet some fools like me Shall make garlands of words for you. The inkblot of the magical light You keep all our secrets You, my dear Are the journal of earth. And since the beginning of our time, We all see you, We all loose ourselves to you. From the verandahs of gold, From the balconies of sandstone, From the streets, From between the bars. Your glow is not blinding, Yet it brings tears to my eyes Your moonlight, Lighting my pen Though you are not with us, all the time In the darkest of nights You let us fight But you don't leave us in such nights, do you? It's because you hide The nights are dark You let us trip You let us trip, and tell it's fine You look at us Without raising a hand You let us get up on our own. While you bring us hope, You cut yourself in pieces Each small piece, residing in us.
Fertile black soil, Fiery flowers blooming high, Grey grass drifting slow.
My first haiku!
Blood is the flower In History's garden Ashes, merely pollens. Fallen crowns with every jewel, except the cheapest jewel of all The jewel in the prickled hands of masses Having no price at all Gleaming in the hot sun, Its glow blinding and futile to our leaders. They find charm's glow more soothing perhaps Daughter of love, She is nature's heart, Humanity's greatest feat. Scoffed and scuffled now, It's people's misfortune. She is kindness, Mother of hope. From the carcasses of Harappa, To the corpse of Anne Frank Kindness has flowed from different hearts, Hearts beating under rags. Yet rags they remained What's the use of silken hearts, When silk is worn By ragged hearts? So they lived and so they died, They might have carved Themselves in someone's heart, But a mountain stands taller, doesn't it? A shoulder to give A blade to take, Love to give, War to take. Kindness is like a manifestation, But in History's garden. History's amazed yet afraid of her, As it tries to conquer It's new blooming batch.
The featured photo is of Miep Gies, the woman who helped Anne Frank’s and 4 more Jews into hiding at the secret annex, a brave act of kindness. This is a tribute to her too. So, this was my first ode, actually quite irregular Pindaric ode. Now I missed the previous week, I’m sorry, I was not quite well. I got inspired to write this after seeing the kindness of people and their concern during these times. I wanted to participate in the NaPoWriMo, but as you know, it is quite late for that. But I’ve pledged that I will only put the stuff I’ve written this month on the blog, and it is going to be poetry.(obviously) I hope to try any new poetry form, or write something other than my writing style like I did in the first poem of this month. So, that’s it to my banter today.
A mistress looked at her glass, the image was shattered yet the glass was new, Salty water quenched her thirst Fires of rage turned her dreams to dust. She looked for long at those once-rosy cheeks Now they had turned as blue as her dreams, Her eyes were glittering still From the burning pyre of her joy. The mirror was shattered now It glowed crimson, The shatter buried in her pale throat, Yet the hand who did it wasn't hers The body surely was.
I am back! Well I am done with my exams, and they ended a week ago. I am so so sorry for not posting as soon as they got over. Well, better late than never I guess 😦
I clicked a picture of my memories, In that came a lone, strange tree It was different from the typical ones Because. It had birds instead of leaves It stood there with its indented boughs, It stood there with its hanging roots, I was captivated from its beauty I thought the birds would always be there, Nobody was so selfish to eat them No cat, no eagle, no fox would be so cruel, To eat the tree's bird- leaves. I saw a big shadow I thought it was mine, But what came was a horror, Cause I saw animals that looked like me They caged the birds, They cut the miracle, Its last watering were my tears....
You are enough, you have done enough Enough is not perfect, Yet perfect is not enough Forgive them, forgive them now, The people, the world, your thoughts and your mind. Let it beat let it beat your heart on your chest, It is knocking so hard So you let it play, play a melody for you. Let all of it free Be kind not caring, for you have cared enough. All of it is enough You are enough, Set loose; hope.
Welcome to my first Hindi post on this blog! For all the non-Hindi speakers, a translation is there in the end.
मैं दीपक हूँ मैं दीपक हूँ तम तिमिर से ढके कमरे का मैं ही तो दिनकर हूँ मैं दीपक हूँ मैं दीपक हूँ । राग-द्वेष से भरे चित्त में शान्ति कर पाता हूँ मैं दीपक हूँ मैं दीपक हूँ । क्रोध की ज्वाला को आग से ही बुझाता हूँ मैं दीपक हूँ मैं दीपक हूँ ।Continue reading “दीपक”
Extremely sorry for not writing the previous week, I have my finals approaching so you might see some irregularities till mid march though I will try my best to upload. I apologize in advance. I present to you again one of poems:
The peace giving scent of wet soil The violet sky, The strike of the lightning that disturbs the darkness. The little green droplets on the leaves And when they slide from them Making a heavenly sound, A little earthquake in a puddle. And when the wind blows, it carries the water like a horse, riding on the air... 'Oh how can I explain, oh how can I The beautiful feeling in words? I don't know if anyone else feels that too, But I love when that feel comes, And no words can ever describe. That peaceful feeling, Like a gentle blow on a fresh wound, The feeling I get when it rains.
When I was in class 6th, I learnt from my general knowledge book that cuckoos do not build their own nests, instead lay their eggs in the nest of the crow. That was when I wrote a poem on this idea.
On the train of deep thoughts During the sleepless midnights, Did you ever wonder? Why he makes the ear piercing trills Why doesn’t he sing with a sweet voice? He is crying his fate, How he was made a fool And to save his infant, he was too slow. You like the cuckoo, don’t you? But the moment you read the poem You will probably go all blue. The little cuckoo Makes a plan In the crow’s nest she has a feast.Continue reading “The Cries Of A Crow”