Holiday Post Card

7o3swrbqhws-ron-sThis is not a Holiday post card

Printed on a glossy 3.5×5 inch paper

But an ice rink resplendent

with pair ice skaters drawing circles around one another

spinning in and out of each other’s embrace

with Swiss watch precision on the cutting

edge of Lickety-split ice skates.

 

Or perhaps it is an indulgent recipe

For those too unversed to brew.

Look at the cursive words that spell “magic”

That may well have read

“Steep two part faith into

A piping hot mixture of joy and innocence.

Cool for 5. Enjoy while still magical”

 

Or perhaps it is a promise sublime

A chance for new beginnings,

An omen for good times,

Or something more reassuring

Like the friendly jingle of an ice-cream truck

Pulling into the neighborhood with a vibrant swarm of

Brightly clad children running behind.

 

A Holiday postcard is a lot things but rarely ever

a green and red greeting

printed on a 0.75mm thick paper

Slipped inside a pearly white womb of an envelope.

With words that spell “Wishing you a Magical Christmas”

That jingle and jangle all the way to your front door.

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On choosing a lover

photo-1447688812233-3dbfff862778If I could chose a lover it would be

Poetry; a lonely heart’s companion.

Words would descend upon me like

vultures on a juicy carcass.

Tearing my soul like an old King’s

ravenous concubine.

 

Who needs the rehearsed symphony of meter?

We would be giddy on music & rhythm,

playing on words.

Flirting, laughing, holding hands

we would share a cab ride back home.

 

There, one by one, we will play

all the tunes of life.

Glowing in the florescent light of a

cheap white wine, we will strip

down worldly frivolities.

 

Bare down to our bones, to our souls.

We would dance the night away

Naked, wordless, soulful.

 

 

The hard truth of poetry?

“Ink runs from the corners of my mouth”

Eating Poetry by Mark Strand

The market for poetry is probably smaller than the number of poets in the world. Yet more and more people gladly join the ranks every year, spending their precious time penning a musical verse. To some there is no greater pleasure than the joy of reading and writing an ecstatic poem. There is something so deeply edifying about poetry that it makes up for all the troubles and the poor monetary rewards it offers.

Reading a good poem can be equally rewarding; it is like feeling every little cell in your body vibrate and respond to the import of the words. Emily Dickinson herself described reading a good poem as, “If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?” (Emily Dickinson: An Overview)

TedKooserBut Poetry is less about “What” and more about “How”. Often a good poem is not about what it says but how it says it. Take for example Ted Kooser’s, “Four civil war paintings by Winslow Homer”. It is not the subject matter of the poems but the way that Ted Kooser describes the paintings that makes all the difference. He could very well be actually painting the picture himself in front of your eyes with his masterful brush. For instance in the poem, “Sharpshooter” which is the first of the series of four poems, Ted talks about the shooter “waiting” with his “finger as light as a breath” on the trigger ready to shoot.  The poem starts with, “Some part of art is the art of waiting”, clearly making an analogy between the poetry and the art of shooting. The shooter waiting for the perfect aim is in direct comparison to the poet waiting for the inspiration to pen his poem.  It is within these precious few moments of waiting; that the poet concludes a journey of creation and the shooter makes a perfect kill.

Is the fulfillment derived from this short albeit soul searching journey that makes most poets go back to the tedious task of writing poetry?

Poetry like all forms of writing requires a certain element of pride and stubbornness. Pride because as a writer you want to believe that what you have to say matters and that nobody else in this world has said exactly what you are going to say in precisely the same way. It also requires a certain level of stubbornness. Stubbornness because you need to continue writing, no matter how little recognition or approbation you may receive. It requires an almost die-hard resilience to want to wake up early or stay up late to dip the nib of your brain in the ink of poetry.

EmilyDickinsonTake for instance Emily Dickinson; one of the most celebrated American poets of all times only published about less than a dozen poems during her lifetime. And yet she composed nearly 1800 poems. Likewise Henry David Thoreau, Allen Edgar Poe and many others did not receive much acclaim and recognition until after their death. Not receiving acclaim did not prevent them from being true to their work. And what if they did get credit for their work? Would it truly have made any difference to their work? Poetry even today is not a well-paid art. It is one of those forms of arts that must be undertaken simply as a labor of love.

The thing about poetry is that there is no “right” way to writing poetry, although there are some rather easy to follow “wrong” ways. Poetry much like all other arts has its techniques that you can follow or chose to ignore and still write extremely good or bad poems. And although practitioners claim it is an art that can be learned, the end result can only depend upon one’s inherent talent and the time one is able to invest.

Poetry is all about honesty. The best poems may not be autobiographical or the absolute truth, or even convey a novel idea, but they almost always convey the subject matter in the most beautiful, musical and honest fashion. Emily Dickinson, once said,

“Tell all the truth but tell it slant.”

Antelope Run

BLK 2010 107

Given below is a poem I wrote to break the writer’s block. I forced myself to write for 5 minutes and then spent 7 minutes updating it. Ready, Set, go

An eclectic collection of wild synergism
touted on blackened walls for cigar smoking gallery-goers.
Giant heads of antelope Gods that were once awake to mortal earth.
Now a priceless collection of the dead bearing grave witness to herds
of timeless gazelles flocked around a thinning lake under a Ponderosa pine.

These Artful even-toed antelopes outrunning a riled tiger; a mortal chase of the hunter and the hunted. Anything is game. Dust rises, dirt settles, a daily
test of brawn’s against keen feet. The winner wins life, the bloodied succumbs.
Smell of thorny trees and raw flesh drags its pungent feet across the forest in heat. Whilst the king of the jungle stretches for a sleepy reprieve tired of the macabre dance. The grass is too thin and dry to cloak life. The herds of antelopes have long since dispersed like the smell of prey in the wind. From a distance a sharp hunter fires his aim; eye of the tiger. Obliterating
traces of “how”, “when”, “what” and “if”. This is nature at its wildest, the winner wins life and the loser take its place on the wall; a prized possession.

Inspired by Daily Post

Lamposts

Courtesy: http://jeffreyhing.deviantart.com/art/LACMA-lamp-posts-298380841
Courtesy: http://jeffreyhing.deviantart.com/art/LACMA-lamp-posts-298380841

My mind swims with thoughts of sweet escape;
as days fuse into seasons and seasons glow like
lampposts of life. Each year these lampposts get closer,
glowing with an eerie halo of winter mist. Spring and summer
have waltzed out and fall creeps behind the curtain with tired feet.

I have stopped reading the world in rolled up newspapers,
or counting time with a cuckoo’s tick-tock, tick-tock. Even this bitter
coffee can’t do enough to wake me out my reveries. My heart is like
bees that would forever hang on to the morning, sucking the nectar of youth.
Aah youth that has escaped, like a cloud of hot steam hovering over the whining kettle.

Point Dume

photo 5
photo 3 photo 2Point Dume

You would have to know the hills
well enough to spot this dirt path
that meanders for miles across the
hills, like a dog aimlessly chasing sea
gulls in mid flight.

Even the cool breeze is drunk on sea
salt, and wears the guise of a flower
girl today who runs with her arms
stretched wide trying to catch life
with both her hands.

These hills that stand tall and erudite, these
too have known to heel obediently like the
tired, thirsty dog that heels and then leaps into
the water for a swim; they too bow down and
taper into this rocky path that meets the deep
blue.

Here everything is forever Zen. The golden
shore studded with piles of rocks like a
crowned queen languishing in her reprieve
while the waves adorn her feet with green
anklets of sea weed.

Overhead fly a poem of birds in practiced
symphony, offering a silent praise to this
prairie of priceless perfection.

Praise

2010 074 (2)

Inside the sitting room of my memory

play the retired ghosts of past years.

School’s out. The summer heat shimmers

so bright, even coolers and fans cannot

bring down the day’s fever. In the garden

a chameleon changes colors faster than a

thirteen year old changes her mind.

The trees weary of the heat droop

over; dropping gold coins that curl up

when dry, flocking into heaps of fallen pride

waiting to be swept away the next morning.

In the sitting room my father irons a week’s

worth of his white collar job into perfectly

creased shirts and pants. I lean over into the

floor painting carnivals of landscapes, rich pastels

bleeding into the white marble floor.

Inside the kitchen my mother tosses red chilies

into pots of simmering curry hot as day. And my sister

straightens her curls with dreamy fingers, musing up her

life in teenage novels.

How sad that we should never offer praise to the simpler moments

of life, at least not until decades later when the sitting room with its

resident memories has gone up in gold and silver smoke

billowing into the cool, black night…

 Inspired by DailyPost

How to create a Master piece

Brick WallI wanted to paint life in its rich palette of pastels;
corn yellow, caterpillar green, pomegranate red,
a blessed hue of honeycomb gold, aster blue and
random dabs of rainbow.

Determined to create a masterpiece of sorts. I drew up
a country hut with a chimney blowing smoke, a cockatoo cooing
good morning, cattle grazing and birds chirping; hello, hello.
The scenery was idyllic but the passers-by gave it one look and
said it was “too contrived“.

So I drew up farmers and carts, children skittering in the yard,
a garden and a well used windy path. But the Farmers and the children
in the painting looked at me quixotically and said, “Where are we all to live?
In this tiny, little hut?

So I turned the hut into a mansion, and drew up courtyard fountains,
Rose gardens, stately lounging chairs and a path of white marble.
But they thought it was “too flamboyant, peasants don’t live in mansions!

So I drew up Skyscrapers, Westminster bridge, Trafalgar square,
Charing Cross station, hawkers selling hot dogs, bus stands buzzing traffic,
and lots of people rushing in and out like blood flowing through an artery. But the busy city people gave it a dull look and said it was “too unromantic, too common place“.

So I drew my final painting; an endless expanse of arched blue skies
and flowing green fields punctuated only with wild flowers. Soon birds and butterflies flew in, followed by rabbits and deer’s for company.

I then stepped inside my own painting and with a sigh of resolve decided to seal my peace. At the threshold of the painting I drew a thick red brick wall and sealed the world out.

Later I heard from the birds and the bees they hung my red brick wall next to Cezanne and Pissarro. Staring at it for hours, they say, “So Impressionistic …So Monet!”

Falling in love

Bora Bora 030Maybe one day I shall become a poet,
and write a book. Each page will be
enjambed with my tongue.
I shall publish it on recycled paper
and leave plenty of space in the margin
for your notes.

When you chose to relax
with a glass of wine, open my
book & like a dolphin dive in.
Leaving splashes of my words on
your couch.

Do not swim just sink into my poem
and let the music fill the pores of your soul.
For here my reader, my lover you will be
safe forever…

On Chosing a Profession

Getty & More 080

I suppose I could be
A lawyer, Car salesman, Politician,
Then again I could just be a poet,
Lying glibly like a water through a spout.

Opening the morning newspaper,
Predetorially eyeing for bushels of words,
greedily borrowing from obituaries,
scandals and star sightings.

Rolling alphabets into a poignant poem
like a ball of barbed wire.
Watch Out!
It cuts.

I would take a pregnant walk,
around graffiti stained neighborhoods
and conjure up the Garden of Eden,
Resurrect the Empire State building
our of random rubble,
Dream up kingly processions
out of burial coaches,
Fathom the Battle of Waterloo out of
a mere domestic brawl,
Or manifest the riches of Tutenkhamen
into your upscale New York Apartment.

For it would all be permissible,
with a little poetic license.
Funny what a pen can do?
Who needs truth when lies
give you wings!

But then again don’t politicians
make more money lying?

Weekly Photo Challenge: In Between

Image

‘In Between’ …
Is the difference between the ‘living’ and the truly ‘alive’,
It’s the boundless expanse of human emotions stretching between the two ears,
It’s the time spent sowing a seed to the reaping of corn coyly veiled in silken hair,
It’s the seconds passed between a glance to the sudden recollection of days gone by like an old love song,
It’s the fortitude in waiting for the downpour of rain nuzzling the sharp bark of an angry summer,
It’s the victorious heartbeats hoisting a white flag after a long battle in purple skies,
It’s the black & white words on a love letter and the long sigh that escapes a pair of Fuchsia lips,
It’s children screaming and dancing wildly celebrating the end of school after a grueling semester,
It’s the distant view of the marines on the flickering TV screen aiming their guns ready for battle,
to the newspapers celebrating their safe return home.
It’s the loud argument two people have punctuated by their silent agreement to part,
It’s the orange ball of sun leaking its color on the Red Rock country in Sedona,
to half a dozen American Haiku’s penned in memory,
It’s the lessons learned from a thousand mistakes highlighted and circled in mind,
It’s the angle of the arc drawn by a pendulum as it ticks from left to right and the tiny world it orbits within that arc. ‘In Between’ is the space above an open palm that holds everything and nothing.

Inspired by Weekly Photo Challenge: Containers

Picture of woman holding the sun courtesy of

A Shadow

Shadow_2014_005Ever since birth this dark billowy figure
follows me. Shape shifting; thick and stout,
or narrow and long, depending upon where the sun
rests on the celestial compass. Reticent yet resolute;
watching my every move. Like the spy that
never gives up even after the war is waged
or like the shepherd who never stops
cooing its sheep with the ‘broken leg’.

This dark side that we all must endure,
like a cross forever on our backs. Watchful,
of its hungry power that like a predator waits to
pounce. A single remiss moment and the darkness
overtakes. Climbing around, entrenching its wily hands
within, like an ivy on a splintering wall. Taking over what
it sees, until what is seen is no longer what was.
This burden I must carry, like Eve’s promise
to never eat the forbidden fruit. Melancholy I endure,
like the shadow that lurks behind my back.

Art of reading a Poem

Image

Above Picture Courtesy of : http://www.azavea.com/blogs/labs/2013/03/geotrellis-0-8-has-arrived/the_lost_city_of-_atlantis/

Art of reading a Poem

A good poem is like the glistening hollow,
of a sea shell inviting you with its “whoosh whoosh”.
But be warned and tread with caution.
Reading a poem is not for everyone.
If you are ready, sit with a glass of wine
under the yellow spell of your lamp and open
your book of poems. Like a ballerina plunge,
leaving behind splashes of words, on the couch.

Sink,
never swim, letting the music fill the pores
of your lungs. Never once coming out
to catch a breath. Not until you have reached
the ocean bed. For here within the eddying depths
beyond the grasp of structure and style
lies the lost city of Atlantis.

Void

Image

Your pearly skin shimmered under the dim
lights of your parlor when I last saw you.
The world heavy with the weight of your beauty
and the foggy twilight stretching lazily over the city.
Your laughter shaking out a rabble of butterflies
folded like a prayer on their colorful blossoms.
Your long hair braided like a thousand moonless
nights twisted together endlessly into a dream less sleep.
Your rosy shoulders yet untouched by the weight of the world and
responsibilities. And above all the mole on your neck
dark red with the blood of your lovers and mine. You my
heartless tormentor, you danced, talked and sang and above
all you stole. Then ever so casually with the lightness of air
you walked away leaving behind a void the size of a giant valley in my heart.

Image

 

Inspired by Weekly Photo challenge

Frozen

Hampi Ruins

Mouth full of air waiting to blow
a candle. Lips curled up into an “o” as if to whistle
a soft tune. Foot on the gas pedal waiting to ignite
the Chevy truck into motion. Boeing 747 hovering inches
above the ground ready to land. A Pianist about to hit the piano keys
for his first concerto. The wind about to blow off a flurry of leaves hanging
to their trees. Universe paused around us as if frozen in motion waiting for you to utter, “Yes I will”.

 

Happiness

Bora Bora 036aJust before the celestial change of guard
the sun and moon fleetingly share
a bed in the clandestine skies,
I walk alone on the beach.

A pair of dolphins burst out from the sea
doing cart wheels like two happy six year old’s
and swim parallel to the shore
their big clown smiles drawn permanently on their faces.

I too cannot help but slip out of my adult proprieties
and find myself running and somersaulting in the sand
While the waves wash the shore and my inhibitions along.
Happiness is at once so intuitive and unassuming.

Time passed, love Lost

Bora Bora 018

Memories haunt the troubled mind,
like Shamans performing a witch dance,
Or northern lights orchestrating their macabre dance;
in shades of red, yellow and green.

Siphoning a melody out of a wordless song lost in time,
Years later, words still hanging on the tip of the tongue unconsummated,
Email still sitting on the keyboard unsent,
So many rights easily undone by one misgiving.

Flights of fancy grapple with sensibilities,
Memory perfected to provide instant gratification,
Yet browsing a photo album of time passed,
Always turns a smile upside down,

Wasteful waking hours followed by
bursts of circadian rhythm offering a surreal vision
of reality in dreams or dream like reality,
What’s real and what’s absurd?

Memories rooted in the past,
Unearthed and replanted they perish fast,
Where language fails, eyes speak volumes,
Where the brain surrenders, heart reconciles.

Richness of color, intensity of experience
A matter of personal preference
Hunt for the perfect Bloody Mary, or blessed Virgin Mary,
a matter of intrinsic spirituality.

A love once lost, Paradise never regained
All that’s left are worn out tatters of
Scattered memories pulled together
Into this unfinished rhyme.

Stay a while with me

Bora Bora 021

When I am dead my dearest,
Stay a while with me,
Dress me up as a bride,
Break open a champagne,
Throw a Big farewell party,
For I lived a long and fine life.

When I am dead my dearest,
Stay a while with me,
I will watch over you from the moon,
Where all the other angel brides be,
I will be the wind in the woods and whistle you a fine tune,
You can smell me in the Jasmine,
Or the wet moss beneath your feet,
You will find me humming in the rose buds with the golden bees,
Or giddily swimming with the fish in the pond near the cherry tree.

When I am dead my dearest,
Stay a while with me,
Plant a kiss on my lips,
Cradle me softly with your love, before you put me back to sleep,
Dim the lights my darling and sing me a soft lullaby,
When I am dead my dearest,
Do stay a while with me.

Won’t you stay a while with me?

Spring

Carlsbad - Flower fields 044Carlsbad - Flower fields 042aCarlsbad - Flower fields 024Carlsbad - Flower fields 009Carlsbad - Flower fields 017Spring

For years have I have been jailed,
Inside these walls of decorum & propriety,
Like an obedient wife,
Caught in the duality of desires & duties
Until the transgressing thoughts flew through,
The keyhole of these iron gates,
Breaking the darkness with their brilliant colors of the rainbow,
I jumped on the backs of one of these thoughts,
And flew out of my captivity,
Disrobing my cocoon like a butterfly,
Flying out into the eternal Spring of Creativity.

Weekly Photo challenge

Carlsbad - Flower fields 030aWeekly Photos: Orange 

A Sumptuous Breakfast

Sunset in GoaI fry the setting sun in a saucepan,
Constantly waddling the edges,
So it won’t burn,
Then let it slip gracefully onto my plate,
And fork the gooey center,
Until it bursts;
The Brilliant sun melting into the blue Horizon,
Forever gone.

Until Tomorrow.

Picture Imperfect

Sailor kissing the Nurse

(Picture courtesy: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/V-J_Day_in_Times_Square)

If you look closer, you can see the shadows
In these pictures, reveal the tell-tale clues,
Of the darkness slowly lurking, into their then sunny lives,
Years before they finally waived goodbye,
At London’s Charing Cross Station.

This picture shot on a sunnier day
On the Hungerford bridge,
Of the happy couple framed in marble,
Lips forever sealed with a kiss.

And soon after, this long angle view
Outside the New England Chapel,
Rendering the newly wedded
A misleading sense of power and size.

Unlike the lies feigned
In the world of Romantic poetry,
Unhappiness, not love makes the world go round,
For human brain is not wired to stay happy for long,
And short term memory is infamously short.

Here is the blow-up taken atop the Tuscan Bell tower,
An interesting view of the ancient city
And their lives below,
The lofty dreams, plans and promises
Soon to become diminutive,
Under the deafening wheels of time.

If you look closer, you can see the shadows
In these pictures, reveal the tell-tale clues,
Of the darkness slowly lurking, into their then sunny lives,
Years before they finally waived goodbye,
At London’s Charing Cross Station.

A copyrighted property of UBeCute

Waiting for the Verdict

“Waiting for the Verdict” was painted by Abraham Solomon in 1857 and instantly gained popularity in the Victorian era. A close look at the painting should explain why. The painting is a poignant portrayal of human pain and anguish where a common man awaits the verdict of his trial with his family. The future of his family depends upon his acquittal. The painting is so beautiful and genuine in its portrayal of this close knit family that eagerly awaits the “not guilty” sentence for the anguished man. When I first saw this painting, unfortunately I had little idea how famous it was. But the painting was so well received in its own day that the painter was forced to paint replicas of it.

I made a very faint attempt at capturing the scene heavy with human anguish with a poem of my own. I hope you like it and that Abraham Solomon will forgive me for my gauche attempt. Getty & More 028

i. The Man
Outside the courtroom hangs a life,
Tied loosely to a mortal tongue,
The Judge’s “Guilty” verdict cuts the tether by knife,
“Not Guilty” sets him free with children and wife.

ii. Wife
Brows furrowed, gaze askance,
Five mouths to feed, a husband to lose
Face; the ashy color of worry, immobile in a deep trance,
So many lives hang by this man, whose life hangs to a mortal tongue

iii. Mother
A heart painted with contrasting colors,
Besotted love for the grand children, pain for the son,
Smile askew on her sunken pallor,
Heart tied to the son, whose life hangs to a mortal tongue

iv. Sister
A worried sister waits for the Messenger,
Who will bring the final Verdict,
Out to the family in the antechamber,
Sister prays silently for a brother, whose life hangs to a mortal tongue

v. Antechamber
The chamber colored in shades of brown,
Dark with human distress and self-berating,
The Chamber’s ceiling window painted like a church’s pulpit,
Under which sits the wretched man frozen in oil paint, forever waiting…

Why is it…?

Embed from Getty Images

Why have we studied the cosmic skies for Ages?
Yet we know so little?
Why do we try to clone man and play God?
Yet we have no cure for common cold?
Why is that we worry about Extra Terrestrials?
Yet we don’t know our next door neighbor?
Why is that the universe is constantly expanding?
Yet our hearts fail to follow?
Why is it that science claims to have all answers?
Yet it has none for how man was made?
Why is it that we study the seasons, the weather and tides?
Yet we cannot control our own mind?
Why is it that each year we think we grow wiser?
Yet life raises more questions than it answers?
Why is that we question, wonder and expostulate?
When all we have is bunch of curious questions without answers.

What happened to Max?

Teddy BearShe laid her claim on Max,
Eagerly pulled him off the racks,
The moment they first met, inside the underbelly of Hertie,
Mama’s favorite department store in Germany.

A white furry Teddy bear him,
And pig-tailed, brown eyed girl she,
Became best friends and buddies,
She was six and he was fresh off the racks,

He followed her everywhere,
On her Odyssey to the deep jungles of Amazon,
Shipwrecked with her on the man-eating island no other would dare,
She sowed a web of stories and he played each character with a flair.

She turned girly by thirteen,
Painted her nails and wore designer jeans,
Invited the girls to her pajama parties,
But Max was in on all her schemes.

By sixteen she drifted into a new world,
High school and boys, a new life unfurled,
Max moved into a dark closet,
His position usurped.

And the day came, when she left abroad for college,
By now Max had weathered hands of time,
Washed and dried and stitched with patches,
Max stayed behind.

She flew the world and lived her dreams,
And came back home four years later,
Midst joy and tears and crushing embraces,
By nightfall she had talked herself weary,

And retired to her room, she searched,
Inside cupboards and closets, the old attic upstairs,
but failed to find, her childhood friend and buddy,
And wondered in dismay, “Whatever happened to Max?”

Inspired by Daily Post

I sold my little sister

Girl with the dog

I sold my little sister,
When I was seven and she a wailing two
She kept us up with cries all night,
Her tangled hair and clumsy walk,
Her yellow dress, and squeaky shoes.

My mother made me watch over her,
I rather go out and play,
So one day at the neighbor’s farm,
I sold my burden for a puppy white as day,

But by evening my morning cheer was gone,
My little puppy too heavy to carry, too little to play,
Tiny hands curled into sweaty fists,
As I wondered, “What would they do, what would they say?”

Was it too late to change my mind?
“But a sale is a sale, no returns”
Chided the neighbor with the toothy smile”,
With head sunk down into my toes,
I walked the puppy back to home.

With teary eyes I rang the doorbell,
And looked into my Mother’s frowned forehead,
She greeted me with gushing kisses and warm embrace,
“Where have you been all day, my child?”

At the hearth a fire kindled,
And my little sister played beside,
Giggles and laughter floated the room,
and a tiny tear escaped my eyes,

Decades have passed since that day,
Now Tatjana has kids older than two,
But I can’t stop thanking the kind neighbor,
Who stopped by to return my sister soon after I made the sale.

And many more decades shall pass,
Before I forget the day when I almost sold my sister,
I was seven and she a wailing two.

 

The Witch

History is testimony to the atrocities that have been meted out unjustly to the poor and weak in society. Women have unfortunately gotten the worst of the deal. While it is important to look forward and be proud of the accomplishment women have achieved thus far, it is equally important to look back and pay heed to history. For history repeats itself. Unfortunately, women have been burnt under the guise of religion, ritual and faith around the world in distant and recent past.

This poem is written in 3 parts and is loosely based on the Witch trials that took place in colonial Massachusetts between February 1692 and 1693, famously known as the Salem Witch trials. I decided to add Prequel and a Sequel to my exisiting poem called “The Witch”, since I thought it was imperative to end my poem on a positive note and show, that no matter how monstrous an act may be, it cannot shatter the hope and faith of the innocent.

Foresti. The Girl

In the green valley betwixt the far mountains,
There once lived a little girl,
Sheba of the pastures, meadows and fountains,
Apple of her father’s eyes; peerless pearl

She had magic in her hands,
Her childhood companions; animals and birds,
She could cure the blight of any cursed land,
Blithely hopping in the wilderness on her fleeting sojourns.

Her father taught her to catch a game,
To make a clean kill, causing no fear nor pain,
To shoot a perfect arrow, or a wild animal to tame,
She would be the greatest witch; this was preordained.

But little did she foresee, that her father whom she adored,
Would be lost to her while killing a wild boar,
For the beasts feral power did he mistakenly underscore,
And thus came she to live orphaned in the meadows evermore.

ii. The Witch

There once lived a woman, alone on the mountain top,
So infamous, that no child strayed past in play or in jest,
lest she may drop, the child in her burning black pot,
The pot that brewed magic potions and evil in her breast.

So wicked was she, to Satan did she pray,
And cast her dark spells on the village,
Condemning the people to die of plague,
Countless souls did she and Satan pillage,

Until one night, tired of her afflictions, the villagers did hunt,
with pitchforks and torches, her hut did they burn,
But the sly woman fled, rather than confront,
Her home razed and the meadows burned for her never to return.

“O’ Magistrate, ’tis sad they should hate, what they do not understand,
And slander the innocent, beat the weak,
No magic potions, no evil spells did I brew, upon this blessed land,
All I hoped was to undo, the pain of the poor and hurt of the meek,

These wild herbs, some prayers and my two hands,
is all I used to cure,
yet they slander me, banish me from my meadow lands?
‘Tis as well the birds warned me, & I fled alone and obscure”

The magistrate believed her doleful story,
yet to the gallows did he her send,
For what else could he have done? On him the masses would have turned,
With knives and pitchforks, tempestuously burned!

Why do they hate that which they fear?
To hate than to reason, to kill than to save; is hardly a glitch,
To the gallows did she leave, with a prayer and a tear,
While the crowds in unison sang, “Burn the Wicked Witch”

iii. Spring Equinox

The Bewildered village elders saw,
On the third day from the day the witch was burned,
Unexplained happenings, around the time of the spring equinox,
Even as the plague gnawed the lives of men & women spurned.

While the witch breathed no more,
Her name spread across the village and woods like wildfire,
A song echoed the hamlet, sung by the blind troubadour,
The louder he sang, the lesser the plague harangued the shire.

“The witch still lives, in the woods and daisies,
The mountains and the meadows echo her songs,
You can chose to hide the truth,
But truth rings louder than any church gongs”

And the hapless Magistrate saw,
His little girl emulate the ways of the witch,
She prayed to mother earth, and her powers from nature did draw,
And hundreds of witches came out of their shadows the old church to ditch,

Never again shall mother earth be defiled, or a woman burned,
The clergy men saw with disdain, a revolution churn,
Rumors spread, that believers have seen the Father and daughter return,
To the green valley, around this time of the Spring equinox.

P.S- This poem including all original works on this blog unless explicitly stated are © copyrighted to Ubecute 2014.

Hills

 

Reflections

Sunset in Goa

Tethered to life by a flimsy lifeboat,
Like a fetus bound to the umbilical cord,
Desire to survive; to stay afloat,
Under the devouring heavens, prayers soared,

Haplessly marooned on an ocean blue,
Long nights and merciless days,
Hope wanes, life plays peekaboo,
Rations dry up, strength decays,

Left a goodbye note inside a glass bottle,
A note to loved one, an apology colossal,
“I wish I had never left you my love, for this journey ill fated,
Wish I had stayed back, in your arms satiated,
A single hope implores me on,
To see your face once more, my beautiful paragon”,

A speck of lifeboat this, lost on the farthest echelon,
Of the blue earth, slowly dwindling…until gone.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/25/prompt-moments-to-remember/

The Witch

This poem is inspired by the series of Witch trials that took place in colonial Massachusetts between February 1692 and 1693, famously known as the Salem Witch trials.

The Witch 

There once lived a woman, alone on the mountain top,
So infamous, that no child strayed past in play or in jest,
lest she may drop, the child in her burning black pot,
The pot that brewed magic potions and evil in her breast.

So wicked was she, to Satan did she pray,
And cast her dark spells on the village,
Condemning the people to die of plague,
Countless souls did she and Satan pillage,

Until one night, tired of her afflictions, the villagers did hunt,
with pitchforks and torches, her hut did they burn,
But the sly woman fled, rather than confront,
Her home razed and the meadows burned for her never to return.

“O’ Magistrate, ’tis sad they should hate, what they do not understand,
And slander the innocent, beat the weak,
No magic potions, no evil spells did I brew, upon this blessed land,
All I hoped was to undo, the pain of the poor and hurt of the meek,

These wild herbs, some prayers and my two hands,
is all I used to cure,
yet they slander me, banish me from my meadow lands?
‘Tis as well the birds warned me, & I fled alone and obscure”

The magistrate believed her doleful story,
yet to the gallows did he her send,
For what else could he have done? On him the masses would have turned,
With knives and pitchforks, tempestuously burned,

Why do they hate that which they fear?
To hate than to reason, to kill than to save; is hardly a glitch,
To the gallows did she leave, with a prayer and a tear,
While the crowds in unison sang, “Burn, burn the Evil Witch”

P.S- This poem including all original works on this blog unless explicitly stated are © copyrighted to Ubecute 2014.

Home

007

Home

It’s been twenty long years
since I last was here,
Today I return to warm embraces and tears,
And this humble abode that I so revere.

Draped across these four walls
my childhood joys and fears,
our innocent games, countless brawls,
those plays, the music bands; oh we were such racketeers!

Everything here reminds me of days passed
bedtime stories, midnight feasts, picnics and parties,
Hopes, dreams, drive, enthusiasm unsurpassed,
playful fights, feisty reprieves, teddies and barbies.

Twenty long years have I traveled & strayed, life’s such a masquerade,
Stranger have I been, to the zillion memories that still live inside this effusive dome,
But Providence and good sense in the end did prevail,
As I found my way back to unveil, the cobwebbed gates to what was once; my childhood home.

Daily Post: Home

Legacy

Time 333

Daily Prompt: Don’t you forget about me!

Imagine yourself at the end of your life. What sort of legacy will you leave? Describe the lasting effect you want to have on the world, after you’re gone.

Photographers, artists, poets: show us LEGACY.

——

Instead of falling in love, let me rise

Instead of craving riches, let me share mine,

If I lose my way and stray, take me back to whence I started,

For to trace back one’s way, is not time lost, as long as it is a lesson learned in time.

If I fall far and deep, then let me have the courage to believe,

Climbing back up may be hard, but it’s a journey worthwhile,

Every fall that hurts, hurts more only because you survive,

May I never leave sight of those and that which is dear,

May I have the fortitude for truth and reality to endure,

And when a countless stars are breaking in the summer skies,

Let me bask in their divine glory, coy but demure.

Above all I pray to be carefree and happy;

To give more than I receive, to love more than be loved,

So when my time is up, let upon my tombstone be writ,

Here lies the girl who once truly lived.

Of Art and Wine

Since times immemorial, humans have treasured the joys of Art and Wine. Here is a poem commemorating this sublime relationship between Art and Wine:

——————

Of Art & Wine

A swirl, a sniff, a sip. Lipstick stains on the wine glass,

Knees weakening, cheeks reddening, blood stained lips of the young lass,

Crimson sparkles exploding in the carafe, pouring into my glass; an exhilarating dance,

Greek gods, wine lords, Dionysus and Bacchus, like us, trapped in this hypnotic trance.

Sipping flirtatious innuendos, drowning inebriated crescendos,

Golden sun trapped inside this wine glass where luminescence and splendor conspire,

Literature and wine make great bed side companions one sets the other on fire,

Drunken stupor? Far from it, its creative moksha; brilliant and grandiose.

Classical or contemporary; art is art,

Writ by hands of time, evoking emotions cut out of bleeding heart,

Art is the aphrodisiac of life; resplendent, sacred and sublime,

Just as this dazzling drink of the Gods enthralls; the soul, imagination and mind.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/02/14/photo-challenge-treasure/

Just Float

ImageHeavy is the rock that sinks to the bottom of the sea,

Empty is the heart that will never trust, nor believe,

Doomed is the soul that will never whistle a tune or dance in glee.

Dark is the cave where the rays of sun will never shine,

Sad is the nightingale that for her lover shall always pine.

It’s never easy to always hang on by the edge,

To have a thousand dreams and not one fulfilled,

To see the scrapbook of one’s life sitting empty by the ledge,

The person who lives the fullest, does not live in a cement moat,

For walking the safe path offers no reason to gloat,

I rather be the boy who threw off his galoshes and jumped in the sea,

He may not know have known how to swim, but he sure as hell did float.

 

Inspired by Weekly writing challenge