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Posts Tagged ‘Poem’

I jumped off a cliff and survived.

I stepped into the fire and came out alive.

 

No matter how hard I tried,

Fate held the strings of my life

Knotted around their needles so tight,

And the bladders of my life’s oxygen didn’t seem to die.

 

It later dawned on me that it’s the

Handwriting on my walls that will decide,

For if it’s not yet time for the ferryman

To row me off from the living world,

Across the rivers Styx and Acheron,

Then I still have a purpose

And I still have shed loads of time

To stay alive and shine

And understand there’s no need for suicide.

Vaishnavi Sathish is yet to finish her schooling but has a flair for literature and fine arts. She lives in Pondicherry, India, and has recently published a maiden collection of 39 of her poems under the title Sunflowers of the Dark.

(Related Posts:

https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2019/12/16/the-live-rag-doll-a-poem-by-vaishnavi-sathish

https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2019/12/12/true-love-lost-a-poem-by-vaishnavi-sathish

https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2019/12/26/paradise-lost-a-poem-by-vaishnavi-sathish)

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The world has eyes of misconception,

The kind of eyes that will perceive

The brightest light, a shadow!

 

The world has a nose clogged with

The filth we dump,

For it is numb enough to be unable

To smell the most fragrant tuberose.

 

It has a mouth that will call

An honest man, a liar,

And hands that will title

The abused, an abuser.

 

A heart that has been frozen

Since the birth of time,

And a mind that will aid

In every single crime.

 

Nothing will ever be fair or just

Because the home we live in

Is cursed.

 

It is the ‘Field of Punishments’,

For the alive and the undead,

making us pay for what

Adam did standing underneath a tree

In the Garden of Eden.

 

 

Vaishnavi Sathish is yet to finish her schooling but has a flair for literature and fine arts. She lives in Pondicherry and has recently published a maiden collection of 39 of her poems under the title Sunflowers of the Dark.

(Related Posts:

https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2019/12/16/the-live-rag-doll-a-poem-by-vaishnavi-sathish

https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2019/12/12/true-love-lost-a-poem-by-vaishnavi-sathish)

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In the night, they didn’t care about

All her dresses they tore.

In the morning, they call her names:

Slut, bitch and whore.

 

She was an object

Of concupiscence and pleasure.

If not for her curves and bust,

Would she be treasured?

She was alive,

Yet dead.

 

Unlike the men in her army

Who as soon as captured

Were beheaded,

She was locked up in a golden cage,

Touched by all,

Wore long gowns of silk

But was a mere rag doll.

 

Vaishnavi Sathish is yet to finish her schooling but has a flair for literature and fine arts. She lives in Pondicherry and has recently published a maiden collection of 39 of her poems under the title Sunflowers of the Dark.

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The wind blew her hair

As she stood still in front of

His tombstone in utter despair,

Letting the rough weather beat her skin hard.

 

She would have walked away

From the harsh winter breath

If it were any other day,

But not today, just not today.

 

His arms tried to comfort her

But they weren’t enough.

Instead, she craved for the ones of the man

Whose remains lay deep under the ground.

 

She recollected the times when

Her tiny self lay in the dim light,

Giggling to the stories he said

At half-past eight every night.

 

She reminisced the stories in which

The men in the village walked upside down

To cross the bridge with the Basilisk

To get to the ogres who planted roses of brown.

 

Her memories wandered to the times

When she didn’t have enough height

To reach the cookie jar kept high above,

The arms of her father would take flight

To scoop her up from down.

 

Finally, there was a time when

The cameras didn’t show her tiny silhouette anymore

Because she was as old as the Belle

From his stories now.

 

As she grew old,

It was not just his stories

She ignored

But also the old man

Of whom she got bored.

 

Now standing in front of his tombstone,

She let every single tear

Seep down the grass and into his bones,

So that she could give him a part of her

That she ought to have given him

During the last of his years.

 

 

Vaishnavi Sathish is yet to finish her schooling but has a flair for literature and fine arts. She lives in Pondicherry and has recently published a maiden collection of 39 of her poems under the title Sunflowers of the Dark.

 

 

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In the horizon dark clouds of anxiety, problems and doubt gather,
My brow is furrowed and I don’t feel cheery when in the morning I lather;

Shaved and clean I put on my old and worn kurta and slip into my favourite chappals,
Solace I try to get by ringing some of my favourite Facebook penpals;

Unfortunately peace and calm eludes my worrying brain,
It causes me so much of worry and I can feel the pain;

Before I know it wearily I pick up Summer Lightning and sit on my armchair,
Very soon I come to the spot where Galahad clarifies on a part of his memoir;

I now realise anxiety and worry has been replaced by good cheer,
Energy fills my body as if I have drunk from a Mulliner elixir and have been blessed by a holy seer;

Next I am into where Ronald pinches the Emsworth prize pig,
Suddenly all my problems and worries don’t seem to be so big;

Very soon all is well with Ronnie and Sue,
The dark clouds have vanished and are replaced with a rosy hue;

As I near the end where Ronnie has given the Pilbeam a black eye,
I think Plum gives as much comfort as a malt with rye;

Before I know it lunch has been served with a tasty dessert,
No problem is so big that a reading of Jeeves, Psmith, or Blandings cannot make one’s feeling inert.

 

(Pradeep Swaminathan needs no introduction to fans of P G Wodehouse, upon whom he had recently unleashed a whodunit called ‘Enter Mrs Bertie‘. His consent to publish the above composition here is gratefully acknowledged.)

 

(Related Post: https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2015/11/27/why-do-we-turn-to-plum-when-the-mood-is-glum)

 

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Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free; 

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments;

By narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way

Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; 

Where the mind is led forward by thee 

Into ever-widening thought and action 

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

 

(1913, Rabindranath Tagore, Nobel Laureate)

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Creative persons often respond to crises in their lives with a renewed enthusiasm and vigour for their art and craft. Creative juices help them to not only retain a state of mental equipoise but also pour out some strikingly positive thoughts. The shadow of a deep sorrow within eventually decides to part company and move on to some other soul which happens to be more vulnerable. A pale parabola of joy becomes visible on the horizon, leading the tormented soul from an abyss of darkness to a brighter and cheerier environment. Goddess Saraswati provides a healing touch.

Late Shri Harivansh Rai Bachchan lost his first wife at a young age. One of the poems he penned at the time is a great composition which could enthuse anyone who is grappling with the sudden loss of a loved one.

Translation skills of yours truly are indeed debatable. However, the essence of the poem entitled, say, ‘What has happened has happened‘, is pregnant with some relevant lessons from one’s environment. But before we come to that, let us savour the original first.

जो बीत गई सो बात गई

जीवन में एक सितारा था
माना वह बेहद प्यारा था
वह डूब गया तो डूब गया
अम्बर के आनन को देखो
कितने इसके तारे टूटे
कितने इसके प्यारे छूटे
जो छूट गए फिर कहाँ मिले
पर बोलो टूटे तारों पर
कब अम्बर शोक मनाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई

जीवन में वह था एक कुसुम
थे उसपर नित्य निछावर तुम
वह सूख गया तो सूख गया
मधुवन की छाती को देखो
सूखी कितनी इसकी कलियाँ
मुर्झाई कितनी वल्लरियाँ
जो मुर्झाई फिर कहाँ खिली
पर बोलो सूखे फूलों पर
कब मधुवन शोर मचाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई

जीवन में मधु का प्याला था
तुमने तन मन दे डाला था
वह टूट गया तो टूट गया
मदिरालय का आँगन देखो
कितने प्याले हिल जाते हैं
गिर मिट्टी में मिल जाते हैं
जो गिरते हैं कब उठतें हैं
पर बोलो टूटे प्यालों पर
कब मदिरालय पछताता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई

मृदु मिटटी के हैं बने हुए
मधु घट फूटा ही करते हैं
लघु जीवन लेकर आए हैं
प्याले टूटा ही करते हैं
फिर भी मदिरालय के अन्दर
मधु के घट हैं मधु प्याले हैं
जो मादकता के मारे हैं
वे मधु लूटा ही करते हैं
वह कच्चा पीने वाला है
जिसकी ममता घट प्यालों पर
जो सच्चे मधु से जला हुआ
कब रोता है चिल्लाता है

जो बीत गई सो बात गई

(Courtesy: http://kavitakosh.org)

If you had a star in your life which was bright and beautiful, the day it fell from the sky, it just fell. The sky does not grieve over it. When fragrant flowers fall, the forest of honey does not wallow in sorrow. The vessels of mud, containing tissue restoratives, fall and break. But those in a merry making mood move on with their celebration of life. There is not much point in mourning over the loved ones who have parted company for ever.

Life goes on. Look forward to tomorrow with some uplifting thoughts and ideas. Do not grieve over a lost opportunity.

A profound message, indeed.

(PS: If you liked this post, and happen to be a fan of P G Wodehouse, you may like to check this out as well: 

https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2018/02/14/the-death-of-death-at-the-hands-of-p-g-wodehouse)

 

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Ode to Old Age

Here is an interesting composition on old age from Mr Subbarayan Subbaraman, who has kindly agreed for it to be posted here.

Just a line to say I’m living

That I’m not among the dead

Though I’m getting more forgetul

And all mixed up in my head.

I got used to my arthritis

To my dentures I’m resigned

I can manage my bifocals

But, dear God, I miss my mind!

 

For sometimes I can’t remember

When I stand at the foot of the stairs

If I must go up for something

Or have I just come down from there?

And before the fridge so often

My poor mind is filled with doubt

Have I put some food away

Or have I come to take something out?

 

And there’s a time, when it is dark

I stop and hold my head

I don’t know if I’m retiring

Or am I getting out of bed?

So, if it is my turn to write to you

There’s no need of getting sore,

I may think that I have written

And don’t want to be a bore,

So, remember that I love you

and wish that you were near

But now it’s nearly mail time

So must say ‘goodbye, dear’.

 

Here I stand before the mail box

With a face so very red

Instead of mailing you my letter

I went and opened it, instead!

{This poem has been quoted by Mr. M.V. Kamath in his book , ‘A reporter at large’ (pages 753-54)}

(Related Post: https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2015/02/01/when-age-is-only-a-number)

 

 

 

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On the occasion of World Diabetes Day…….

ashokbhatia

My dear, never did I dream of being with you,

With silent feet you waltzed into my life, it is true.

 

You came in and took control of all aspects of my life,

All kinds of sweets and savouries are now denied by my loving wife. 

 

When others feast on dishes and foods exotic,

You make me learn the art of detachment and turn me into an ascetic.

 

To remain aloof from all kinds of cuisines and tastes,

You exhort me to walk, exercise and not let my life go waste.

 

I abide by all your wishes and try my best to keep you in good cheer,

I live like a recluse, satisfying all your demands, dear.  

 

When it comes to taking good care of me, my wife is near perfect,

But all my vital organs you alone appear determined to effect.

 

O dear…

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