But All Must Be Endured

 

But all must be endured, since even a poor

soul too is made of fire and ice-

while a part of me gets dismantled in silence

the other half keeps gathering my shards to

       go on living.

 

My frenzied heart seeks the god mesmerized

by your honeyed words-

I hold my tongue that craves to expand its hood

       at mere sight of you-

 

your tinkling laughter at sweet nothings

sets my voice to fume;

yet I compel it to devour a sacred silence

      to burst forth in words later-

 

While you make the god to look into your eyes

a flame in me runs wild

to dip my spirit into a black fluid; to make

      your god my muse-

 

My poem is a response to Sappho’s apparently incomplete poem : In my eyes he matches the gods

 

 

 

Posted for Sanaa’s Wild Friday @ Poets United

Advertisements

Looking at Stars

 

The radiant question mark of seven stars

leaning on me

has breath and voice of my father-

“Look, there’s the Saptarshi Mandal,

asking you if you knew the Sapta Rishis?”

said he one night-

“Of course, I know, they are the seven sages

blessing us-

their smile is the light”-

my father let me be happy

with whatever fairy-tale knowledge I had

of Great Bear Constellation-

since that day

I grew a bond with this star-cluster

that held me, my father and the Indian myth together-

 

 

Posted for my prompt ~ Looking at Stars @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Glory

 

Glory is half ‘this’ and half ‘that’-

‘this’ dwells in the Buddha heart-

empires go on building-

a laurel in war is won-

red poppies cover the earth-

so now is the time

when ‘that’ wears the crown

and “The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”

 

Words in quote are from “The Second Coming” by W.B. Yeats

 

 

Posted for my prompt ~ Glory @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Museum

 

In the House of Knowledge

past breathes-

once it took hold of my hand

and walked me through time-

from bronze age to the present-

my feet refused to move

when I saw Samudragupta ((320-380 A.D.)

looking at me from his gold coin-

the walls of the Bhuvaneshwar Museum,

this world-

faded away at the twinkle of his eyes-

only the compassionate king and I remained-

‘dust away the time’s crumb

of my military exploits-

I was a poet and a musician too’-

I hold this dear reverie

in my core to date-

 

 

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif Museum/s @ Poets United

 

Negative Attitude

 

Once I was asked to write an obituary about someone I adored a lot. She was a school teacher and lived in the same building of my parents’ apartment. She loved my mother very much. When I was given the job by the secretary of the housing society I was a bit hesitant at first but accepted the request and set to do my work.

 

Tough part of the job was it wasn’t supposed to be an official obituary. Rather a homage in a meaningful way to convey her personality, her impact on her family, and the world around her.

 

I tried to make it personal and also decided to do away with the fog of grief and flowery phrases. But when it was read out in the meeting much was changed without my knowledge. Was it my writing at all? The spirit was not there.

 

I didn’t react but fumed within and wasted much of my energy in doing that. I did let my ego hurt so easily. Later on I was ashamed to think that I was that fragile. It wasn’t even a direct negative criticism. May be the editor preferred high-sounding phrases and replaced some of the words and sentences. May be even the vital ones. If some people choose to be impertinent why should I suffer?

 

Vituperative outbursts are a very common feature in social media. What about in blogs? I am very fortunate to be surrounded by thoughtful, accommodating and amiable fellow bloggers. I haven’t come across any negative comment full of spite and bitterness so far. A blog is your sweet home where you entertain your visitors with words. But…there is a ‘but’. When you comment on someone’s work and your visit is not reciprocated day after day it begins to hurt your feeling. So once you are aware of the writers’ character trait, instead of harboring resentment and anger towards them it’s best to avoid such negative personality and attitude. I try to follow this rule.

moonlight2bmusings252c2bthe2binteractive2bedition2b-2bmagaly2bguerrero

Posted for Magaly’s Moonlight Musings: the Interactive Edition, #1 @ Poets United.

Televised

 

When truth looks on you on-screen

it is devastating-

it numbs your ears, eyes-

your taste buds die-

but come the ornate lie-

you are suddenly

robbed of your senses

and begin to feel, why,

nothing is wrong with the world-

peace is hanging from every tree-

you have a good night’s sleep-

when you wake up

you find the world resting in peace-

 

 

 

Posted for my prompt ~ Televised @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Stitches

kantha-stitch-22

KANTHA-STITCH-SAREE

 

I was always fascinated by the beautiful kanthas (soft, cotton made embroidered quilts). Even today mas and didas (mothers & grandmothers) of Bengal keep old, cotton saris and cloth to layer them with kantha stitching (very tiny and subtle ‘run’ stitches) for the new arrivals in homes. These mas and didas would remind you of tuntuni pakhi (tailor bird) who deftly pierces and sews the edge of the leaf with the leaf fiber to cradle a nest for its little ones.

 

Then came a time when these stitches began to show up in cotton and silk saris. You’d find all kinds of intricate designs, patterns and motifs done in kantha stitch on the sari with carefully selected threads. Specially in the Pujas everyone had to have a kantha stitch sari. One year, I also bought one blue silk kantha stitch sari with stone age motifs all over it. Threads were black, white and orange.

 

Some wanted to go beyond patterns. They wanted to speak through their stitches. At first their love for mythical characters and happenings found space in the long silk drape, like we see in the ‘Baluchari’ saris. Slowly their narrative art embroidered their own thoughts and stories.

 

This has happened in many places in India, specifically in Gujarat where an artist once stitched how she had crossed border, lived in refugee camps in desert, rebuilt her life, lost everything in a devastating earthquake and began once more. May be the stitches were not kantha stitches of Bengal but they were stitches of blood, struggle and toils.

 

 

 

Posted for Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: A Pantry of Prose, #6 ~ Stitches in 259 words

Bird Watcher

 

Whenever I tell myself

“Now

Let’s look for birds”

they emerge from every corner

of the trees, skies, ponds, lakes-

these miracles of feather-

they are my muse and my songs-

my freedom and my faith-

my storm and my peace-

my virtue and my frailty-

my wisdom and my sky-

my rhythm and my light-

these little miracles of feather

are my soul-

my thirteen ways of life—-

 

Words in quote are from Pablo Neruda’s Ode To Bird watching

Posted for Magaly’s Midweek Motif ~ Not-so-old-fashioned “Hobbies” Magaly’s Midweek Motif ~ Not-so-old-fashioned “Hobbies” @ Poets United