A five year old me standing near the hedge fences on my first day for school: Photo taken by my father
In my bumble bee days I also had wings. I’d stealthily flee from study books and pour my soul on the hedge fences and watch the mother Bulbul incubating three tiny eggs with Kathamrita* eyes in their twiggy nest. The eggs were always three; never four or two, with purple sprinkles on off-white shell. When the teeny tiny hatchlings without eyes opened their mouths they were almost like baby Gopala’s** showing His Ma Yashoda the universe. I’d often fake their mother’s call when she wasn’t around just to see those large hunger-holes quiver for food. Their father, who would always be nearby in the mother’s absence, of course disapproved my curiosity. His angry alarms and flying over me flapping wings rather noisily sent me inside for fear of rousing my grandpa’s wrath. What hunger! What growth! Both parents fed them in such quick successions that I would often worry about their stomach. I took it upon my duty to shoo away the scheming cats whenever I happened to be there. Sometimes there would be nasty ever-hungry red ants in files and rows before it was time the fledglings could fly safely. Sometimes I would see one chick less and grieve over whatever had happened to the poor angel.
Those butterfly, firefly days did not last long. Change like the Bengal Tiger had me in its grip. I lost my wings to Time just as hedge fenced houses made rooms for the bigger housing-complexes with less greenery, lesser sky.
Carefree, bubbly stream
Will not stop till meets the sea
To lose all sweetness
*Kathamrita literally means ‘Word-Nectar’. It’s also a hagiography in five volumes on the life of Sri Ramakrishna, who often likened the eyes of yogis to the incubating mother bird’s eyes. He used to say that mother bird’s mind is in her eggs so it sees or hears nothing. Similarly when yogi’s mind is on God he is so immersed that he neither sees nor hears.
**Gopala is the God in His baby form in Hindu Mythology. It’s said that once while playing, Gopala put a little lump of earth into His mouth. So His mother Yashoda was very angry and wanted him to open His mouth. At first He would not listen but when His mother threatened to spank Him He opened His mouth and Yashoda saw the entire universe whirling there.
Posted for my Midweek Motif ~ Nature: Her Words @ Poets United
PHOTO: RUPAK ROY
There are no suns, moons or stars in you-
neither the ocean, no sky nor even a firefly
ever made any presence about your being,
yet I hear your silent steps in my heart.
Your lips are the exotic trees with rare blossoms-
that unfurl their petals not in profusion
to drown me in colors or perfume,
yet I feel their soft touch in my core.
You are no flower but a hardened rock-
that rose above brine water of the eyes
of my broken self in a broken world.
You rise as did our Himalayas-
with the warm heart in layers of snow
while I am a pebble of prayer.
Posted for dVerse MTB ~ Neruda and the free sonnet hosted by Bjorn Rudberg
Shared with Poetry Pantry #367 @ Poets United
Flood is: always,
Not to my liking.
Let me be calm,
be at peace with me.
I pray for placid, deep water
always half inch
below the edge.
Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Flood @ Poets United
My dreams are not
but rather a bit Dadaistic
of cut up imagined memory
by an inner ‘I’-
making me ride a hobby horse
from one cube of darkness
in false reality.
Posted for dVerse Quadrille #38 ~ Dream hosted by De
The flowers of dreamscape
Crossed over to the real world
To be in my tub
Once I saw
Gossamer, scented wings
Of night flowers
Tied up with a silk string
In a bouquet
The peony headstone spray
Posted for Poetry Pantry #366 @ Poets United
I never knew I was so fragile
that I’d be reduced to pieces
like a china cup
at one knock.
Neither did I know
those living close to my heart
were all Kintsugi artists.
They lovingly collected
all the shards, that was my soul
and mended with words of gold.
Now I’m a Kintsugi vase,
broken yet whole.
Posted for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Kintsugi: Art of mending
She was lust fodder.
So she had to be sold and cooked
in dark flames of lecherous greed.
Yet she couldn’t be consumed
for she’s to be an undying candle flame
flinging away night around her.
Here is a LINK, the source of my poem
Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Human Trafficking @ Poets United
Words glide down,
to the end of fingertips
to begin their dance-
of sunrise and twilight
void and darkness
and of a blood red dawn.
**Cherita is a poetic form [1-2-3] of three stanzas telling a story. The first one has one line the second, two and the final stanza has three lines. Cherita is a Malay word for story/tale. This form was created by al li
Posted for dVerse Poetics ~ The End hosted by Paul Scribbles
I find a sanctuary in your smile-
that’s rose-soft with latitude
and rock hard too-
where I keep my nest of dreams-
my frail and brittle soul,
secure and safe.
Posted for my Midweek Motif ~ Finding A Sanctuary @ Poets united
The moist road under my feet sings
while the glossy grass
carefully hold their dots of blooms
against the naughty wind in their playful mood.
This bonny morning
pulls me into
its enormous foyer of exuberance;
where trees enjoy monsoon manna
and give a shake to their roots
to go deeper,
where merry brooks
weave their delight into babbling tune
just as the moist road under my feet sings,
telling me to move on.
But my heart chooses
to be a megalith of grief.
Posted for dVerse Poetics: Flexing your verbs hosted by Kim of writinginnorthnorfolk.com