Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

The tatters of our culture of respect

January 30, 2020

तमीज़ के कमीज़ पहना करते थे हम,
बस अब फटे चिथड़े ही बाकी हैं उन तमीज़ के.
गया ज़माना सेहत और सहनशीलता का,
अब हम में हैं बस गुस्से मरीज़ के

We wore the garments of respect for others;
All that is now left are the tatters.
Gone are the days of healthy minds and tolerance:
We now have only the blind anger of sick men.

Chandra, and hope

December 11, 2019

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It seems but a few days ago, O Moon,
That I saw you wasting away to nothing.
Yet here you are, sailing serenely in the clouds,
Smiling at the earth, and at those who see you.
When I am troubled, I should think of you:
After waning, you will wax again to fullness,
Bringing the shining light of eternal hope
To us mortals on Earth.

On our own…

November 17, 2019

We are supported, buoyed up
By friends, family…
But for many, many things,
We are on our own,
Though we may not be alone.
No one can bear the pain of my body
Except me;
No one can help me walk, limping, once again,
Determined to get back my ability to walk everywhere.
No one can take away the sorrow in my heart
That the random events of life fill it with;
I can express some of it to others,
But in the dead of night,
In the small hours when the body and mind
Are at their lowest ebb,
It is I who must bear it.
My sorrow at an insult I have suffered;
My sadness at some hurt I have caused:
Recollections of things I could have done better:
Many are the burdens, often secret
That I must carry myself.
Learning to set them down,
And laugh in spite of them,
Is growing up as a human being:
This, too, I must do on my own.
You may hold my hand, you may even hold my heart..
.But in the secret, innermost chambers of my being,
I am in solitude, and on my own…
And this is true of everyone.

Glory Lily, Bhootanahalli,130719

July 15, 2019

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I got the bud, the bloom, and the fading flower.
I got the childhood, the prime of youth, and the departing hour.

The bubble seller, 160619

June 16, 2019

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He sells ephemeral pleasures
Gently float the bubbles.

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Perhaps, in their rainbow colours
He, too, forgets his troubles.

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Approaching adolescence

February 26, 2019

She lies on the bed, unaware of me,
Reading intently.
In the lines of her lengthening limbs
I see a young woman emerging
From the girl.
And yet, in the curve of the cheek
And the gentle dimples in her elbows,
I find childhood lingering
For a while longer.
Linger longer, O childhood!
For once you are gone
This little one will forever be
An adult, never to return
To this level of innocence again

The difference

February 9, 2019

Some people string together words.
They write well, and their prose
Makes one think, and muse
Upon their meaning, and one’s own opinions.
But others…they pull words together
Like notes of music, and create poetry.
There may be no rhyme or prettiness…
But the words bring a fullness to one’s heart,
And, sometimes, moisture to one’s eyes.
What is prose, what is poetry?
The eyes and the mind may not know the difference.
But the heart knows
Poetry from prose.

The fabric of Time

December 28, 2018

Another year comes to an end.
My daily calendar has just a few pages left
That, like leaves on an autumn tree,
Will fall, and be consigned
To the past, and to memory.
It is we who mark the flowing fabric of Time
With patterns that we call days, months, years.
One such pattern is being completed
On the loom of Eternity.
Under these patterns, these motifs
Runs the lasting warp and weft
Of Time itself…moving smoothly, inexorably
One cannot predict how the patterns
Soon to come, will be shaped.
What colours will they carry?
The red of bloodshed? The white of peace?
The yellow of illness? The blue of sadness?
We do not know…
We flow on, too,
Along with the fabric of Time.

To a dead butterfly

November 1, 2018

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Oh, little one…why did you die?
Were you attacked by a bird
That wanted you for food?
Or did your energy just give out,
As your wings folded up for good?
With so many others about,
Your death throes not heard?
No answers.You lie there…why, oh why?
The stilling of life, the departure of breath…
The profound mystery of life…and death.

Friendship

June 2, 2018

To someone called “Sugar”.

A friend.
Someone with whom I can talk.
Talk…about anything;
From the most mundane of everyday details
To the most existential questions.
I can talk; I can listen.
I can respect the deep wellspring of wisdom
And experience beyond anything I have known
That produces the words I listen to.
The conversation flows along
Like a gentle stream;
Taking in, here a little rivulet,
There a little trickle
Of associated thoughts.
The most profound ideas
Are simply expressed.
I do not know how the time passes.
When the conversation is over,
I feel a deep sense of contentment
And well-being.
Our conversations may go on
Or cease; but our friendship will endure.
Thank you, my friend, for the thoughts, the words,
The affection, the time, and the grace.
Neither age nor gender governs our bond.
I know your friendship to be a precious thing
In my life.