The Flower: Rose (A Ghazal)

 

Being a lowly born I couldn’t aspire to be the flower rose,

though I saw how the sun in the feminine sky slowly rose.

 

My crimson days of fame had enough nightly thorns,

yet I flung away the worms and never was a sick rose.

 

I was the new woman; don’t you dare call me a harlot,

and the stage, the hot bed of immorality where corruption rose.

 

I never minded cross dressing; playing the role of Chaitanya*,

I received His** grace to go beyond the flower rose.

 

In spite of all your scorns, in your nightly sky,

As ‘Moon of the Star Theater’ even though for a while I rose.

 

 

[ This poem is about Binodini Dasi, also known as Notee Binodini who was a 19th Century, Calcutta based Bengali speaking renowned actress and thespian (Wikipedia). Born to prostitution, she lived her life on stage, that gave her the desired freedom. She did become an intrinsic part of Bengal theater. However Indian News Daily in 1876 wrote: “….the theater has by introduction of harlots on the stage become the hot bed of immorality and corruption.”

*Chaitanya (Born 18 February 1486) was a spiritual leader.

**’His’ refers to Ramakrishna Paramahamsa (1836-1886) the Indian mystic and yogi in the 19th century who instigated Binodini’s spiritual transformation. ]

 

 

Posted for my prompt The Flower: Rose @ Poets United Midweek Motif

&      

Shared with Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #22 hosted by Thotpurge

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Poetry (Micropoetry #21)

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Some necessarily choose

a darker sky and shoot up

to shine and twinkle

for the star catchers

to be beyond me-

I let them go with a sigh-

a few stay to let me collect

molten words of their hearth-

I feel their street urchin breath-

hear their buzz for a new bloom-

see their muddy feet-

on the other side of rhythm-

I make my home corner

with their stale wrath of desperation

 

 

 

 

 

Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 # 21 hosted by Thotpurge

Micropoetry #18

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Where I would be if you hadn’t been those celestial orbs for me, I often wonder. Your words like birds of migration take me far away where death loses its sting, becoming a classical dancer speaking in the ankle bell words. You are my Bhairav raga tuning me for the day, my afternoon soiree filling my lone soul with your music. If ever those sleepless eyes of mine like the wavy Cypress speak in a broken-nest tongue, you drag me to those whirling stars as was in the art piece.

 

the wind on a carnage

shreds the dark clouds

into pieces

pulling out misty autumn

intact from those clutches

 

Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #18 hosted by Thotpurge

&

Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

Micropoetry #17 (Tanka)

 

I

a treepie alights

on the wooden window sill

for biscuit crumbs

I hide behind the blue door

to pick words from morning bowl

 

 

II

 

to step in or not

a shy, hesitant winter’s

clumsy feet quiver

shiulis* are yet to arrive

for the leased out date palm trees

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GOOGLE IMAGE

*Shilulis are people collecting sap of date palm trees to make date palm jaggery, a delicacy of West Bengal.

 

 

Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #17 hosted by Thotpurge

Graffiti

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he spun hued words

of his world of black and white

and let it soar beyond the wall

to an impossibly

bright sky

 

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colors were his daggers

he would often draw upon

his muted soul

joy would roll down his cheek

giving a hue to his gray face

 

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what he was he was

life sparked in his eyes

the lips radiated that aura

of bonhomie

at this crestfallen world of sham

 

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he couldn’t say a hello

let alone hold her hand

all he could do

was pour his heart out

on the wall

 

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once I saw

a picture of Helix Nebula

that reminded me

of his infinite heart

which was all seeing even in deep waters

 

 

Posted for dVerse Poetics: Street View hosted by Lilian

Meteor Showers

it started with a beach death,

on the right hand column-

four hapless whales

breathed their last

in Aceh Besar in Indonesia-

then rose the storm of meteors

of dark words…

that kept glittering

in their sinister shine-

fat, medium, thin headlines-

on the foreign page-

I was gobsmacked reading…..

how could a teen be accused

of raping a hen…a hen?

even on the Sport page glowed-

Dokic* revealed abuse

in her autobiography,

Why was this…

When…

How…

I better shut up

and stop abusing

poetry-

after all meteors are meant

to be ashes only

*Jelena Dokic, former world No. 4 tennis player

 

 

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Meteor Showers @ Poets United

 &

 Also sharing with Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #15 hosted by Thotpurge