The Birds

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They arrived here last year

And made a litchi tree of our neighbor

Their home

The white bellied pond herons

With a buff-brown back

Strangely there wasn’t any water body

Where they roosted

Even croaky frogs left disgusted

As the pond was sucked up

And a dry new land appeared

For new houses, new life new happiness…….

With the pond

Vanished

The fishes, crustaceans and aquatic insects

Did the herons go foraging a long distance?

Strange is the way of Mother Nature

She must have fed the birds well

Otherwise how would they sing

Their night away

With those hoarse songs

And scare the skeptic owls?

The topsy-turvy dance of Nature

Scares me

Reminds me of Apocalypse

What’s gone wrong I wonder

They are still here

Their tribe multiplying

Massing

Have they seen Hitchcock’s birds?

 

 

Posted for Peggy’s prompt Looking Back @ Poetry Jam

Silent Wait

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I scattered my dreams

To the wild sky

I stand alone

Bereft of my joy

I wait for

The mercy of Spring

 

My roots are deep

Strong in faith

Ordeals can’t shake it

Let the snow fall

I wait for

The mercy of Spring

 

Posted for Poetry Pantry @ PoetsUnited

He

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Born He was

Born He is

Born will He be

Among all races

Again and again

Will bear the cross

Bleed, be killed

By His fellowmen

His only fault being

Loving them

Teaching them

To be Men

We will make Him a god

After the deed is done

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ A Man’s Day @ Poets United

Eyes

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All her singers are back

The tree dances in the breeze

Casting me an oblique look

With her thousand leaves

I look at her happy face

When the blue kingfisher

Swoops into the pond water

And gets its prize

When the black cuckoo with its red eyes

Gives incessant call to his beloved

When the white cranes

Meditate on one leg hiding the other

And the frogs with their bulging eyes

Cover for shelter

When a star peeps and winks

From the dusky sky

When darkness with its glowworm eyes

Twinkles in joy

When the owl mother feeds her babes

With the heart of a field mouse

When life dances in joy with death

When the cricket song fades

With the slow rise of a golden eye

When vision creates beauty

And all her singers are back

The tree dances in the breeze

Casting me an oblique look

With her thousand leaves

And I look at her happy face

Posted for Mary’s prompt Eyes @ Poetry Jam

Oasis

Sarada Devi : Source

I rest my weary feet

On this emerald island

To replenish my soul

Foamy, froth of discontent

Disappears in the shore

Where peace lies in granule form

The sapphire morning sky

Gives me an indulgent smile

Crows, mynas, sparrows

Are birds of paradise here

The islanders are few

Only four in number

But they wear saris of fire

They speak in Love,

Their mother tongue

Our chilled bones are warmed

Their words kindle a lamp

In my heart cave

Light fills every corner

These souls are

Empowered with the blazing force

Of renunciation

That come from the poor widow

Sarada Devi*

 

*Sarada Devi (Bengali: সারদা দেবী;   Sharodā Debi (help·info)) (22 December 1853 – 20 July 1920), born Saradamani Mukhopadhyaya (Bengali: সারদামণি মুখোপাধ্যায়), was the wife and spiritual counterpart of Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, a nineteenth-century mystic of Bengal. Sarada Devi is also reverentially addressed as the Holy Mother (Sri Maa or শ্রীমা) by the followers of the Ramakrishna monastic order. Sarada Devi played an important role in the growth of the Ramakrishna Movement. Courtesy: Wikipedia

 

Ramakrishna Sarada Mission is a women’s monastic organization in our little town Balurghat. We fondly call the nuns Matajis. It is an entirely independent charitable organization exclusively for women run by the nuns carrying out various philanthropic, cultural, spiritual and educational activities. The Mission named after Sarada Devi has centers in various parts of India and abroad.

 

Posted for Brian’s prompt Local @ Poetry Jam

&

Sharing it with Susan's Midweek Motif ~ A Woman's Day @ Poets United

School

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A huge three storey cage it is

Birds inside look longingly

At the empty sky

The sun is cruel

Its each drop is a link of a chain

That ties them up

An uncanny hush rules the cage

Birds hop silently      

And count hours for freedom’s bell

Ring, rIng, riNg, rinG

Goes the bell at day’s end

They trill, sing and fill the sky

 

Posted for Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

To the Martyrs of the Bengali Language*

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She is a mother

Living in every land

Blessing her children

With her love

Which her words carry

Suckling them

With its blessed touch

Raising them

In their cadence of warmth

Giving them

All her strength

To stand upright

When tyranny’s hands

Shoot them with hatred

Mother comes out

As drops of fragrant bloom

From the deep wound

Of the heart

And fills the world

 

* Language Movement Day or Language Revolution Day or Bengali Language Movement Day (Bengali: ভাষা আন্দোলন দিবসBhasha Andolôn Dibôs), which is also referred to as Language Martyrs' Day or Martyrs' Day (Bengali: শহীদ দিবস Shôhid Dibôs), is a national day of Bangladesh to commemorate protests and sacrifices to protect Bengali as a national language during Bengali Language Movement of 1952.

In 1952, Bengali students in East Pakistan rose up and protested against the Pakistani government for declaring Urdu as the national language. The majority of the Pakistani citizens (as of 1952), about 54% of the citizens, were Bengali. In the protest several students died for defending the Bengali language for themselves and for the future generations.

Now UNESCO's declaration of 21st February as the International Mother Language Day has brought fresh glory and prestige to Bangladesh.

                          

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~Mother Tongue @ Poets United