Monsoon

Source

 

 

 

I

 

My dark blossom,

last night

I saw you blooming.

Each of your petals

made the moon and stars dim

till they all blotted out.

You were happy, weren’t you?

I heard your timpani laughter.

I know

now all the embers under my feet

will turn into soft grass once more.

I will cease to be a fire-walker.

 

II

 

The dark one

I have been waiting for you

for your fragrant moist touch

on this feverish skin.

You are never a mere flower

but my kohl eyed beauty

Krishnakoli*

who ends all desert days.

I will cup

every drop of mercy

from you

to drink to my fill.

 

 

*Krishnakoli (black-bloom) is a famous song of Tagore. Protagonist is a dark skinned damsel.

 

 

Posted for Sanaa’s prompt: Rain showers my spirit and waters my Soul [16] @ A Dash Of Sunny for her Prompt Nights

&

Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

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Picnic

Courtesy: Poets United

 

 

Once we took our VIIIth Grade students to a picnic. We hired a bus to take us to the spot. The day was bright so were our girls. During the journey even the shiest ones were also coming out of their shells. They had brought a music system with them with a plan to shake legs when opportunity came. It was no potluck food festival so the cooking was to be done by teachers taking occasional help from the girls if they wished. The bus meandered through the narrow road in between the vast wavy rice fields. The bird watcher that I am was excited to see from the bus window hanging nests of baya birds from date palm trees. The occasional green ponds here and there were spotted with duck families swimming with all the time in the world. Then we arrived at beautiful Saranbari, our chosen spot for the day. Ah, it was indeed a slice of green tranquility.

 

Our girls began to get down one by one. The moment they touched the ground they were transformed into butterflies. Believe me, it is true. They spread all over the place fluttering their wings. Some hugged trees and some soft tiny grass flowers that bloomed on the pond banks scaring the wits out of the little black cormorants that flew off to nearby trees with probably pounding hearts. They had never seen such noisy butterflies in their whole bird life. Some of these highly stung pretty winged souls were into a singing contest with song birds with their Bollywood numbers blaring out from their music system. How did we feel? Can’t say. Sadly and gladly we the teachers remained as we were, humans, happily burdened with the task to make our excited butterflies stay safe with their wings intact and feed them with non veg. nectar. A few of them folded their wings and joined us lending their hands to our surprise. Aw…such motherly golden souls they were! However at sundown all had to return to their old form to remain once again “…long in city pent*”

 

Pearly day

With rainbow glow

I cherish

 

*from the title of Keats’ sonnet “To One Who Has Long Been In City Pent”

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Picnic @ Poets United

Beauty

courtesy: A Dash Of Sunny

 

 

I wish I were a tree

who loves to dance

to autumn tune

letting her leaves free.

I watch intently

her beauty broken face.

How she wears winter

with majestic grace!

Porous imperfection

is filled up with truth.

Truth is beauty

and beauty truth*.

 

 

*the last two lines are from Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn in a roundabout way adding one more word.

 

Posted for Sanaa’s On Popular Demand – Imperfection is Beautiful – [5] @ A Dash Of Sunny

&

Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

Bullying

 

 

 

You presumed I missed

that malicious glint

in your eyes

the smirk

in the corner of your lips

while you were busy

in your attempt

to numb my soul

spray fears

and toll the bell so untimely.

No.

I saw everything.

Sorry, Death.

Faith is hard to shake.

You failed

to make me your perfect victim

to wail day in and day out.

I still Stand.

And

I thank you

for teaching me forbearance

and opening my inner eye

to look within.

 

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Bullying @ Poets United

Birds

 

Photo Credit: Deepak Amembal’s Magiceye

 

I become all feathers

My bones turn hollow

Hands wings

Lips

Beaks of Munias*

Throat

Holding songs

For you,

You alone,

My Muse

Whenever

You fold your wings

Alighting softly

On my palms

Looking at me

With your

Dudhraj** eyes

And promise me

To ‘fly me

To the moon’

 

 

*a kind of finch found in India

**Indian Paradise Flycatcher

 

Posted for Sumana’s Midweek Motif @ Poets United

Walking

River Lidder, in Pahalgam, Kashmir

 

 

 

 

“Walking is a virtue, tourism is a deadly sin.”– Bruce Chatwin, What Am I Doing Here?

 

I was just having a mosey round Pahalgam, a town at the foothill of the mighty Himalayas. Tourists on ponies were leisurely passing by.  Tall meditative pines exuding peace filled my being. I was cautious not to step on the beauties peeping from the grass leaf wearing their multi color attires. Everything here from the teeny tiny grass flowers to the birds fox-trotting, hovering kites, dappled ponies, long coated street dogs, the velvet green valley, mountain, babbling of Lidder* and above all, the people are carved from Beauty. Yes, they truly are.

 

My physic ached for a touch of them yet my boot, overcoat, woolen cap and also the language bar wouldn’t let me do so. My thoughts became faint bubbles disappearing into almost nothingness. My soul longed to be immersed into this deep and vast ocean of tranquility yet the hourglass in the mind would keep reminding me to end the walk and get back to the tourist bus, waiting to take us to Chandanbari and Aru valley.

 

Dewdrops on leaf

The kite like lightning swoops down

We walk homewards

 

 

*a river in Kashmir

 

 

Posted for Haibun Monday #13 – Walking @ dVerse

Secrecy

source

 

 

If

we are

adventurous enough

to overhear

open sesame

we would always

love

secrecy.

 

Who wants

this universe

to become

an open book

read

a hundred times over?

 

Let mystery

thrive

in

the hearts

smile

nature

words

to keep

our quest

going.

 

 

In the meanwhile

some would

never want

that little bit

of skinder

on dit

heart to heart

tete a tete

and the walk

through the grapevine

to end.

 

Surely.

 

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Secrecy @ Poets United