Holy Day


Courtesy: Google Image

“Hell is empty

And all the devils are here.” – The Tempest: Act 1 Sc. 2


Thus spake the Bard.



I try to seek holiness

in butterfly wings

gilded by sun-dust;

in rippled pond

where a heron meditates

on one leg for a fish;

in needle billed sunbird

that sweetens its life

from a saintly lemon blossom;

in lotus words

gathered by the truth-seekers

through the ages.

Any day could be a holy day

only if these MOAB-y Dicks

would return to where they belonged.



Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif Holiness / Holy Day @ Poets United


Wings of Egypt

I see

angel* wings torn and lying

on church floor

on Palm Sunday.

I pick up

the scattered red feathers

from the white marble

and turn them into

wailing words

in vain.

The humans have lost their eye, ear long ago.

Their sniffing nose prowls for gun powder

to begin their feast.

The human beasts!

What fun, what delight

in peeling angel feathers!

But the immortal hearts

beat in the quills of poets

beyond the knowledge

of these triumphant pests.

*in one of the explosions at Coptic churches on Palm Sunday in Egypt occurring in the pews near the front of the church, many of the dead were children.

Posted for Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

The Book


One of my books

in a plastic jacket

contains a stain on the cover,

a burnt spot.

I was extremely annoyed

when my mama (maternal uncle),

who took it for a reading,

while returning it,

in an apologizing tone

confessed: so sorry,

I fell asleep

and it’s my cigarette’s doing.

Only a badly sketched smile

appeared on my face;

no words of wound

escaped from my injured heart thankfully.

It was once upon a time.

I was a college student then.

He is no more.

I sometimes place my hand

on that black shapeless mark

and feel his presence

and sigh.




Posted for Sumana’s Midweek Motif ~ Books @ Poets United




Google Image

She is all sugar and spice-

flowers and songs-

colors and light-

she is the sun, moon,

sapphire sky,

all the stars

and queen of your heart;

but you should see her

in one of her Nor’westers* moods-

when her thick droopy hair of fronds

so lush green-

go all erect, upright

vehemently nodding,

at your every cajoling word

to calm her down.

This headstrong lassie

will drown you

in her tears;

deafen you

in her squally voice:

gruff, rough,

and thunderous;

don’t you dare cast an angry glance

at her kohl smudged cloudy eye;

what does a good mother like you do then?

Let her be.

Let her howl, growl,

gnash white teeth of lightning;

scratch with nails of icy hails

on your window panes.

No panic, no worries

if she tumbles head over heels

throwing root-y foot upwards

while thumping the grassy floor

with twisted leafy arms.

Let an hour go;

she’ll change; as all children do

after a hell of a tantrum.

All her tresses now pulled back

with a milky-way band

she’ll nudge

your feverish skin

with a sweet cool zephyr

loaded with her patent fragrant touch

and twinkle with a guilty, nightly smile.

Oh bless her, bless her for that

with a word of rhythm and rhyme.

*Nor’westers or the Kalbaishakhi is a local thunderstorm which occurs in India and Bangladesh. Kalbaishakhi occurs, with increasing frequency, from March till monsoon establishes over North-East India in June. Kalbaishakhi is accompanied by strong squalls and sometimes by hail. On extremely rare occasions, tornados may also accompany them too. However, the rainfall in these storms is beneficial for the tea cultivated in Assam and for the jute and rice cultivated in West Bengal: WIKIPEDIA



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

A Rise



I watch the wavy half-curtains letting in the playful sunbeams and wind into this room where my fingers are tapping on keyboards and giving my thoughts a form of a word. I wonder why the rays couldn’t transform themselves into those little yet mighty sparrows that would plunge on the shadowy cobwebs of grief hanging in every corner of this room and devour those spider thoughts stopping their weaving once and for all. Golden sparrows exist. They reside in words of rhythm and rhyme to pull me up from caverns of my sorrow.



From nebulous nights

Dim stars surface one by one

The fire bird at dawn



Posted for Haibun Monday: The Shadow Knows over @ dVerse hosted by Hayesspencer



We are

a lamentation of swans-

singing our last song

of war:

we’re staying afloat-

our home is a boat

bobbing on the waves

in a dance of death-

we are afraid

our dream is pieced

by the keeper of peace

of a heartily belligerent shore—

we are afraid

we are letting

our hands and feet,

our throats and lips

go winter

Posted for dVerse Meeting the bar: Irony hosted by Frank Hubeny




I walk in the footsteps of Nature.

I am a She and believe She too is a She.

Her rivers run through my veins

so my feet tap unwittingly

to the rhythm of rain;

to the songs of rainbow;

I have embraced the Flame of Life.

In the thunderstorm days

I had learnt forbearance from Her.

I have seen how She is robbed of Her treasure;

She is abused, pummeled and battered

in the hands of greedy marauders

yet she breathes Her blessings into the sky

in the words of star-full nights

sunsets, sunrise.

Taking cue from Her

I’ve come to terms

with the child snatcher Death

and turned my sighs into words.




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


Manasarovar Speaks


Source: Lake Manasarovar

I live in the foothills

of Mount Kailash

who has been meditating beside me

since eons.

His snowy tress matted in rocky locks

hang precariously.

I stay agape in reverence.

It is spring.

I am melting into joy

as slowly I take off

my white shawl,

putting a turquoise one

in its stead.

Soon they will come;

the brownish Brahminy ducks,

gulls, herons

and other birds of passage

to bloom on my wavy hands,

to tickle me with their webbed feet.

I’ll shiver in joyful waves

by their touch.

Along my edge

the buds have already begun

opening out their golden petals

in profusion.

They too will come;

the pilgrims.

They call me holy

and take a dip in my calmly waves

to gather piety.

I love to hear them speak

about their travails,

Woes and joys.

I offer a Brahminy duck of peace,

scent of flowers, creepers

in their heart

when they take leave of me.

I have been like this since eons.

*Lake Manasarovar (also Manas SarovarMapam Yumtso; is a freshwater lake [4,590 m (15,060 ft) above mean sea level]. This lake is considered very sacred by Tibetans Buddhist, Hindus, and Jains and appears excessively in Tibetan folk songs and dances.

Posted for dVerse Poetics: From Nature’s Point of View




Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

When the Sky Is the Mirror


How come the sky

all on a sudden turns so sunny bright

even here

where every day is chopped,

hacked and burnt;

where people feed on bombs;

where broken walls of schools

bear black bloodstains;

where rowdy nights

in a miasma of rotting humanness

smirk in malicious delight;

where tattered souls

still breathe a yearning

for a drop of peace on their tired tongue?

Oh why not?

For angels of valor have come out on streets;

pulling out the sun

from the debris of despair;

healing the air with the song of hope;

creating waves of love to spread across the world

while fluttering their invisible wings and glistening in smile.



[I must say Sherry’s poem Children of Syria overwhelmed me and also the video attached with the poem. I wished to include the video in my blog too but my WordPress blog would not let me. Brrrr]



Posted for Sumana’s Midweek Motif ~ Mirror @ Poets United