some poems, old and new



 

image courtsey: themoonschool.org

My Krishna is blue
I played Holi with Gopala
And now my hair is blue
Having taken on his hue

Deep in the night
The blue seeps through
And dyes my thoughts
Churning ‘em into Love

The cobwebs of ol' patterns
Get washed by the
Sweet sound of his flute song
Waking me from Maya's dream.

 


 

She walks,

She walks with a little leap in her step,

The leap is in her right leg, not her left.

So every right step she takes

She does with a little leap

a leap of trust, a leap of joy.

 

Some call it a disability,

Her special ability to

leap with every right step.

But she can walk,

walk with a leap in the

rightness of her step.

 

Every time she takes a right step,

her heart bounces up in bliss

accompanied by a little gasp,

of effort, of delight, of pleasure

rippling through her muscles

in the rightness of her step,

in the Truth of her Being.

 


 

that little girl
hides in the corner
hoping nobody notices
her plight and her shame

that little girl
turns invisible
to protect herself
and erase her pain

that little girl
cannot say what she feels
or what she thinks
for no one cares to hear her tale

that little girl
cannot complain or confide
for no one believes her
or takes her side

that little girl
has been a stranger to her past
disowning a part of herself
that disgusted her so
though she was not to blame
she was not to know
the fear nay her terror
held her hostage
and made her an accomplice
to the keeping of the sordid secret

exactly what happened and how
is blocked from her mind
though she is certain it was
her dad and his older brother
who subjugated her will to theirs
by the use of force and might
to satiate their salacious lust
they laughed derisively
at her trust and innocence
their perversion had won
trampled over a little bud

that little girl
felt betrayed
on so many levels

that little girl
knows it was wrong
to be victimized for
their inappropriate desire

that little girl
ccould not sing her song
for they threatened her with death
though not her own

that little girl
felt powerless to defend herself

that little girl
felt helpless and hopeless
for her oppressors
were the very ones, who ought to have
been her protectors

that little girl
felt scared
that somehow it was all her fault

that little girl
felt guilty
that if someone found out
she would be blamed

that little girl
felt lost and confused
in that unsafe world
where nothing was at it seemed
or ought to have been

that little girl
was mad
she was fucking raging mad
at her mom and at her dad
at her whole family and clan
for at some level they all knew
yet no one rescued her
no one saved her
no one stood up for her

that little girl
was furious
her fury a rolled up ball
sitting in her belly

that little girl
could explode
any minute now
spill out her guts
and spill out all the dirty little dark secrets
she was made to carry
but wait

that little girl
does not do that
instead she implodes
she swallows it whole
turning it into a black hole
a place of nothing
of no feeling, no sensing, no memory
nothing happened, no one died,
no one had to be buried
no one cried

mom and dad are safe now
uncle and aunt at a distance
everything is as it should be
(on the surface at least)
except she can no longer love them
unconditionally

the implosion
causes a crack in her body
ever so slight and subtle
that sits by the sacral curve
and holds her unconscious distrust of the world

that little girl
has grown up now
and she can write a poem
sing her song
tell her tale

that little girl
has matured enough
to work through her pain
and her myriad feelings
to come to a place of forgiveness

that little girl
is fearless
is free of guilt, shame and/or blame
is a pure, clean, clear, innocent girl

 

that little girl
opens her heart with love
voices her truth with compassion
and sees others as mirrors of her Self

 


 

A husband and wife

Have it all very nice

A house with a view

A garden, a stew

They play and they gambol

They sing and they sink

Into the quagmire of emotions

they never leave behind.

A husband and wife

Have it all very fine

Yet they wonder

and they ponder

what would make

it all worthwhile?

A husband and wife

Have it all it would seem

Yet the distances betwixt them

Do often intervene

And the longed for intimacy

Is somewhere out at sea

Where the angels step in to heal

as the demons come clean.

A washing of the soul

Can bring that joy about

That calls with the fervent cry of

The cuckoo

and the peacock in a cloud.

May all your dreams turn lucid

And all fantasy abound

with the clarity of truth seeking

A homecoming

of ye to y'rself

aloud.


 

Leaves falling from the tree

timelessly

in Castanadian sequence

endlessly

swaying leaves

twirling gently with the breeze

letting drop

their light mass

and the dead weight of loss

Leaves descending to the ground

surrendered to the fall

of the eternal moment

announcing softly the arrival of

the Unborn, Unmanifest & Undying.


A moon cries tears of blood

the kite of hope collects them all

they dance on the string

little rivulets of pain

metamorphosing suffering into play,

little children skip and gambol

in the shower of flowers

and look to the kite

as at a rainbow.



 

i have made my prayers
and am at peace
since the day i
recognised the face of doom
as one of my reflections.
there are others too
who speak of life
in a measured stance
or as a journey from
point A to point X.

 



 

The Epitaph

Jonathan Livingstone Seagull

lies buried

under the sands,

under the sea,

his wings clipped,

his flight castrated,

his limitations

not existing in

his thoughts

but in the

epitaph

of my ideals.

 


Waiting at twilight
 
Waiting at twilight 

for the sun to set

for the wind to rise

for the tide to swell

for my passions

to ascend to a 

deafening crescendo

echoing and re-echoing 

your name....

     
  waitng at twilgiht 

for you to come

for us to submerge

our identities 

along with the sun,

to awaken to 

a new twilght

a new identity

that also waits for 

the second twilight.


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


(this poem features in the digital work opposite)

Do you have period pains?

i don't.

i am glad to be

woman

even with all the baggage it entails.

the collective suffering

being down trodden,

the cultural conditioning

putting the other

above yourself,

intuitive wisdom notwithstanding,

the calling for emancipation,

in you i find my trust and reverence.

Sing once more,

sing a new song

Aparijita.

[for suhita]

Silent, tall trees

the eternal presence

they look at me dispassionaately

and relieve me of the torment

of my passions

Tall, silent trees

comfort me

restore me to myself.

The other night

they rained.

I cried

to be one with them

and him, who

i met under the trees

when they'd rained

once, ages ago.

(remembering christopher anand scott)

Individual trees

collect

to form a community

called the forest

some tall, some short,

some thin, some broad,

all with a trunk and foliage.

All mute collected beings

form a collective uprising,

against the raucous noise

of the animate voice.




 

[A R.D.Laingish poem]
i long to belong to you
will you be long in belonging to me?
we belong together
in our longing for belongingness
with each other.



 
 

Explore the labyrinthine

intricacies of your psyche

and prepare to encounter

the demons and the ghosts

of childhood

with the wisdom

of acceptance.

Divulge your secrets

and exchange them

for peanuts.

Diverge from oft-repeated

circulatory patterns

of thought -behaviour.

Dispel your fears,

dry your grievances

in the summer sun.

Enrich yourself

in the halcyons of

trust and forgiveness.

But foremost

be gentle

with yourself.

(a la Desiderata)

 



 
 
In the hour of darkness,
the night is long and king, no beacons show the way,
the promise of morrow's daybreak is thin,
all is pitch and black,
moroseness rides high,
the hope of light, of white - only an abstraction in the mind.
In the hour of darkness
we writhe and cry for a respite
or blind our eyes with unshed tears,
we cringe, we hide in fear
and shut our eyes to ourselves and others.
we refuse to recognise our fates
morbidity grips us, yet we struggle and fight
anything but surrender to the evil might.
In the hour of darkness
we tire, we take a break from the relentless turmoil,
we rest our burden of guilt and shame
of anger against injustice, wrath against rage,
our overworked shoulders slump and let slide
the control in our fatigue;
And lo, the light shines from wihtin,
the glow without awakens other slumbering souls,
and rouses the self to step out of the shadows of the ego
the new day breaks unannounced.

In Your Absence

You are always in my mind
and in a sad sweet, safe corner of my heart,
that i reach in certain moments of solitude.
All my thoughts i address to you,
you are the silent listener of my inner commentary.
And when my thoughts are still, as sometimes
my lonely heart calls to you,
can you hear me then?
And when my heart is still, as sometimes
can you feel me then?
feel like i do? One heart, one soul,
no desire,
no urgency, no impatience, no nostalgia even.

but right now, i long
to be in your arms again,
to cry against your chest
to feel the touch of your lips against my cheeks,
to hear your voice softly saying 'hello'
drawing me out of myself - to you.
The sun has set, beyond the trees
the sky is many beautiful vivid colours,
the crows are cawing noisily, returning home.
Distant noises of the traffic in the busy city around
reach the 'red garden' that i am sitting in,
on a small rock-hill,
leaning against a rock pillar,
looking at the first star in this evening's sky,
and making a wish for love, peace, death and release.



 

At The Bus Stop

A serpentine queue

nine standees long

waits for the 87 Ltd.

Outwardly distressed at having to wait,

inwardly rejoicing for getting to cackle

two female clerks

bicker and crib

about the dual duties of home and office.

Four men, involved -
apparently in four different activities :

reading 'Midday',

whistling tune,

correcting wristwatch,

folding umbrella

- in stealing glances

at young Xavierite in a mini skirt

hope that the next bus is a crowded one!

The 'mini-lady' endeavours

to show unconcern but

fails when she spots

a fifth youth ogling

without any pretensions

and with utmost concentration.

The one least affected
in whatever manner

by the bus's delay

stares into vacant space

with shining eyes and lolling tongue

visible through a mouth drooling open.

This dim-wit waves 'Goodbye' to the bus

as it carries away its eight companions -

and then goes and joins

the queue for the 81 Ltd.!

 


The Halcyon Spring

"Your poetry is like musk

fragrant, decorative,

seemingly colourful,

a luxury.

Make it a necessity

a kind of a drug

that calls for

absolute addiction.

Turn its simplicity into confused philosophy.

Become a little more ambiguous,

and you could be a lot more famous"

"Dear well-wisher,

you want me

to gain a wide following

to give my poetry a pedestal

on which it can strut.

My poetry is not motivated

towards creating an impact.

it simply serves the purpose

of giving a form to

my musings and feelings.

When this form is aesthetic,

I am happy.

and happiness is an end in itself."


nevertheless she laughs

she has cried

tears of pain and agony

faced the betrayal of friends

struggled on the path of lonesomeness;

and looked at trees and flowers

with a new freshness. she has suffered

depths of despair

and longed for release

from the darkness;

she has listened to the sounds around

and their profound silence.

she has awakened to a new identity

in losing her personality;

nevertheless she laughs.

she guffaws, she bawls

she tirades, she crawls

she even yearns,

now and then,

nevertheless she laughs.


the dance of essence

saturn turns around on its rings

in elaborate twirls and twists

while consciouness springs up in strings

as the elegance of the universe

unfolds its dance

in multiple manifestations of essence.

out of one comes the two

out of two comes the three

out of three comes the many

out of many come each and all

but all are dancing

the elegant dance of the universal essence.

the indivisible advaita charades in many forms

time and space are but two such norms

others include energy mass shape size weight

characteristic color caste creed race

or any other distinguishing feature or trait

their essence tucked neatly inside

the elegance of the universal dance.


 

 


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