Wednesday, 29 April 2015

Poetic Justice


We are the people of Stupidity Street*

For us remains a blind sky

A blanket of rheumy air

A few dead sparrows

A scarecrow

In a desert

And sighs

Of poets



*I used the title ‘Stupidity Street’ of Ralph Hodgson’s poem here.


Submitted to Susan’s Midweek Motif ~Justice or Poetic Justice @ Poets United

Tuesday, 28 April 2015

Where I am From

Ajanta painting source

I’m from the Divine Desire

I am the ancient land

Where Rishis saw the Mantras

Written in letters of light

And sang the Vedas

I am from the Divine Desire

I am the ocean

Embracing the streams of all Faiths

In my vast bosom

My face is of Ajanta painting

My two hands are

Chanakya and Aryabhata

My heart is of the Buddha

I speak in more than

Thousand tongues

I am from the Divine Desire

I am the divine song

Sung by the ecstatic Mirabai 

In presence of God

I am from the Divine Desire

I am the Dark Age

Where the righteous suffered

And sinners thrived

I am Suttee

Having climbed the pyre of my husband

I surrendered myself

To the sky touching flame

In many a birth

I am from the Divine Desire

I am a witness

I saw Them coming from other lands

Lashing me with their ruling whip

And trying to break

The backbone of my children

By holding them captive in their own land

I bore all      

Though the wound still oozes despair

I am from the Divine Desire

I am the flute

Of eternal lovers

I am the mother

Of all who resides in me

I am the dust grains on the streets

Still touched by holy feet

Bharat is my name

But all by mistake

Call me India



Posted for Mary’s prompt Where I am From @ d’Verse Poetics

Saturday, 25 April 2015


Pashupatinath Temple, Nepal

With a reeling head

We all throng

On the school compound

“Will there be another quake Ma’m?”

Asks a little angel

In a quaking voice

“What if there is?”

Quips another

Sounding like a rock

Or like the Temple of Pashupatinath

Without a scratch

Still standing tall

In the foothills

Of the Himalayas

Where Mount Everest

Is mourning deaths*


*In the base camp of Mount Everest 18 mountaineers were killed in yesterday’s earthquake.


Posted for Poetry Pantry @ PoetsUnited

Thursday, 23 April 2015



The lanky man with four pairs of eyes

(Two of course are glass made)

Is an ambush predator

He loves truth mimicry

You wouldn’t dream

How he has kept

His other six legs hidden somewhere

You better walk past him

Because once he spots you

The lines in his mouth

Begin to stir, tongue rolls

To form word web

You’ll be unwittingly ensnared

And your legs will get caught

In that subtle, silky spiral orb net

You will be a helpless immobile prey

His hidden legs will then show up

A beam will play about his mouth

Highly satisfied

Thinking his day’s not been wasted

He will make your mind numb

And slowly devour you

So be the last person

To pay heed to him

Politicians are crafty, beware!


Posted for the prompt Last Legs @ RealToads

Wednesday, 22 April 2015

A Lament


There is no Prince among the bees

Who would bravely fight the seas

And rescue the Southern Breeze

Whom the sea has held captive

So they sing their mournful song

To send to forest where flowers throng

Honeyed blooms can’t linger long

They fall to the ground with souls restive


We are the honey bees

Forgotten by the Southern Breeze

North Wind’s leading us astray

We have all lost our way

To your fragrant home

To fill our own honeycomb



*In the Sunderbans the honey bees are obstructed by the unfamiliar cold North Wind to proceed further into the forest. The bees take the help of the South Wind (still there’s no sign of it) rising from the Bay of Bengal to fly deep into the forest of The Sunderbans to collect honey.

Monday, 20 April 2015

Of Names


Su is good

And Man is mind

Sumana is then

The possessor

Of a good mind

Literal translation

Of my name in English

Sounds somewhat like that

I am content

And who would not be

If one can become

The chalice of a divine virtue

By the virtue of one’s name?


This is posted for Bjorn’s challenge @ RealToads: Take your name and use its meaning to create a poem.

Friday, 17 April 2015

A Kikobun*

Blazing summer with fire rain is knocking at the door in our part of the world. Sweltering heat will sap our soul. How would the words flow? Ah…we wait for you dearest Jasmine Nights…


Blooms of perfume made

Sing their song in fragrant words

Drooping souls listen


*Kikobun is a literary form similar in format to haibun 

Posted for Carpe Diem Time Machine #8,Perfume

Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

"feeling alone"

feeling alone

in the woods around Edo

just the autumn wind


The murmur of ginkgo trees*

My invigorating soul



*The ginkgo tree (Ginkgo biloba) is considered a living fossil. It has no known living relatives and has endured for millions of years. The ginkgo is one of 170 hibaku trees that survived the atomic blast of Hiroshima that took place in August 1945. Despite suffering extensive damage and predictions that nothing would grow for 75 years, the trees fully recovered. For this reason, ginkgo is attributed with being a symbol of endurance and vitality.

Posted for Carpe Diem Tan Renga Challenge # 81 Yozakura’s “feeling alone”



My soul awakens

To their mellifluous hue

Forget-me-not blooms


Forget-me-not blooms

In every cell of my blood

When I think of you


When I think of you

You whisper in petal voice

Forget-me-not Ma


Posted for Hannah’s hosting Transforming Fridays with Nature’s Wonders @ Real Toads

Wednesday, 15 April 2015



In that Elfin grot*

(I mean in that restaurant)


A handsome he

Was waiting

It was a long, long wait


A lovelorn he

Was he

The sun shivered

Light was withering



So young he

Was he

He would wait

Forever it seemed


Someone had him

In thrall


Pushing the darkness aside

She emerged

La Belle Dame Sans Merci


*I used some words like these from Keats’ poem “La Belle dame sans Merci”


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

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

Bhai- Phonta (Brother's Day)


Come late autumn

Golden heart of the paddy field

Sways in joy

Has that moment arrived

When the beloved brothers

Sitting in a row


Reverently receive

The sandal paste mark

On their forehead

By the sisters’ little fingers

Of the left hand?

Chanting of the old rhyme

Of Yama and Yamuna myth*

Makes a stronger bond

Prayers of safety, success and long life

Woven into Mother Earth’s

Paddy grains and grass shoots

Are showered on their crowns

Sisters’ blessing they are

Among wisps of fragrant smoke

From the incense sticks

Blowing of conch shells

Brass oil-lamp holds

The flame of faith

Among siblings, cousins

Sisters hand them the special dishes

To sweeten their mouths

Gifts of love are exchanged

Young ones touch the elders’ feet

Mothers melt in the warmth of love

Shared by their sons and daughters

The whole day is a celebration of love



*According to Rig Veda, Yama and Yamuna were twins (brother and sister) born to Surya (Sun god). In their earthly incarnations, Yamuna once longed to see her brother and invited Yama to her house. When Yama, the god of death visited his sister, his sister prayed for his well being. The other legends regarding the origin connect Vishnu, Krishna and Mahavira.
However, according to folklorist and social historians due to various societal changes with the advent of agriculture, the sisters began to pray for their brothers’ safety, well being, and success. The bhai phonta festival is rooted in that social practice: Wikipedia


Posted for dVerse Poetics: Oh Brother!

Sometimes It's Time

A serious moment for the ant is*

When it finds a morsel of food

And charges towards it

To store it for future use

Unlike the foolish grasshopper

Who becomes a lifeless stick

In the European winter


A serious moment for the cuckoo is

To lay eggs in the crow’s nest

And be relieved of the responsibility

To rear up the fledglings

Unlike the foolish crow

Who takes all the trouble from nesting

To bringing up to unhappiness


A serious moment for the mosquito is

To suck blood without getting killed

A serious moment for the chair is

To take a sitter on its lap

A serious moment for a river is

To meet another at a confluence

And be one and flow


What is serious for man is

To take time for a new beginning

To follow a dream

Even risk taking a less trodden path

To listen to time’s call

And respond seriously

To make a man of man



This poem is written in the vein of Kenneth Koch’s The Boiling Water that begins like this:


“A serious moment for the water is

When it boils….”



Posted for Mary’s prompt Sometimes It’s Times @ Poetry Jam

Sunday, 12 April 2015

I do not know which to prefer*


I do not know which to prefer

A perfect round blooming sun

On the thin bough of the horizon

Or the wrapping of the silver shawl

Woven with moonbeam

One is Truth yet hard to bear

The other is only a Reflection

Of the reality


I do not know which to prefer

The gigantic and unmoved waves

Of shaggy rocks stilled by time

Or the dancing feet of the ocean

That wove wanderlust into the mind

One is pure meditation hard to be

The other is unceasing work

And no Repose



*I used the line “I do not know which to prefer” of Wallace Stevens’ poem Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird



Posted for Grace’s Sunday’s Mini-challenge: Wallace Stevens @ Real Toads


Saturday, 11 April 2015

She is Words


Those unread words

On the pages of your diary

Call me day and night

I have strength not

To touch or caress them

With all my heart

When the moon whispers

In her silver voice

Do those words sing

I wonder

You loved the gleaming disc

Glued in the sequined sky

The monsoon dance

On the tinned roof next door

Lulled you to sleep

You told me

May be the pages still hold

Those lively steps

The loud summer sun

You eschewed

Your sweetness calmed me down

Are those words made of that cool shade

Falling from the banyan trees

And wrapping up the weary souls

I wonder


You are

Only words

My baby

Shall I touch you

In your word form

No, not now

Come to me

When I breathe my last



Posted for Poetry Pantry @ PoetsUnited

Wednesday, 8 April 2015

Thou Art The Sun


I scoop the sun from the dark night

And hang it over my drenched soul

Each drop of tears turns into light

As I scoop the sun from the night

Icy crust of fear loses might

The broken vessel becomes whole

As I scoop the sun from the night

And hang it over my drenched soul



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

Tuesday, 7 April 2015


It is an impossible train

Running through an endless tunnel

Most compartments

Are nightmare made:

A few imported from Paradise


A septuagenarian nun

Is gang raped and………

Culprits roam about scot free


Girl child is unwanted

And killed before seeing

The light of the day


Cacophony of politicians

Their adulterated promises


Wedding bells in discord


Ivory towers of the rich


Beauty wafting from the fragrance

Of Buddha’s lotus, incense sticks,


Joy glittering in church stained glasses

And even in some golden hearts


Sari clad beggar mothers


Film stars in skimpy dresses


Tagore songs at traffic signals


Lofty ideals of renunciation

Still picking up a few


Sigh of the oppressed


Students after being beaten

Offering flowers

To the posse of policemen


Etc. Etc.


A never-ending train

Like the tunnel…


 Posted for the prompt Impossibility @ Poetry Jam

Saturday, 4 April 2015

When Man Becomes God


That huge mass of soil

Floating on the water

All on a sudden

Began to tree

A man who was the god

Was behind it

He was alone

No angels were with him

And neither was any devil

Good for him

He was the father

And the mother

Of that barren land

That became

An emerald island

That now chirps and twitters

Runs with deer feet

Roars in a tiger voice

Trumpets in joy

And plays with the sun

And the moon and the stars


*A little more than 30 years ago, a teenager named Jadav "Molai" Payeng began burying seeds along a barren sandbar near his birthplace in northern India's Assam region to grow a refuge for wildlife. Not long after, he decided to dedicate his life to this endeavor, so he moved to the site so he could work full-time creating a lush new forest ecosystem. Incredibly, the spot today hosts a sprawling 1,360 acres of jungle that Payeng planted — single-handedly. Source

 Posted for Poetry Pantry @ Poets United