Category Archives: Poetry

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Who’s a Friend, Who’s a Foe, Don’t Know!

In the dust he was lying, unarmed, unescorted,
upon his head my gun was pointed;
I was eager to register my name among patriots,
his body throbbed seeing me in a fight mode.

In an utter agony he made his head rise,
his mystic glance pierced through my eyes;
Those feeble hands made gestures to pause,
finally, my demur stopped my zeal’s flows.

Eager to know what he had to say
in his last lag; What did he wish to convey?
His frail figure and blood smeared face,
were ready to deface my myth and to efface.

The half dead entity was kicked by my boot,
hatred had blackened my heart by soot;
What’s that that he wishes to say at this stage,
seeing his end, I thanked god I wasn’t in his place.

My curiosity for him, made me bend a little,
to hear his crumbling bones unduly brittle;
“What will I lose if I listen to him once” I retorted.
“It’s him, who’s in a sinking boat, not I.” Again, I retorted.

With pain he said, “Why do you wish to kill me, Pal?”
“Ask yourself, putting your hands on your heart;
Do you really know the reason behind your action?”
“Brother, surely you don’t know any sane reason.”

“In your war room if I’m marked as an antagonist,
in my war room, even you’re not a protagonist.”
“I don’t know why I’m being killed.” He chuckled.
On his blood smeared face his pearly teeth sparkled.

Just then a gun shot was heard, echoed in the air,
a soul was seen drifting off leaving earthen sphere;
In that bleak battlefield a deafening silence prevailed then,
a clay toy was seen getting mixed with the soil, lying all broken.

Turning my back, I tried to walk on my staggering feet,
carrying along a question – how to define a victory and a defeat?
A puzzle posed by a dead soldier will always haunt me,
and ask me why I’m into this war, why on a killing spree?

Is this rationale enough that he belonged to an enemy camp?
But I have heard we’re a supreme creation, not a tramp.
In this war torn era, neither the killer knows, why’s he killing,
nor the dying knows why is he being killed?

Copyright © April 2019 DrNikhat Bano All rights reserved

Tongue of The Wisp

Swiftly like a tongue of the wisp
it rose from the upper land
crooning into my soft ears
Wisdom of the yore –
Not all that comes passing by
attend to your life
All that lay hidden from your empty tomb
Resurrect a claim
Treasure into thy golden land

Saying so
It sublimated into the air
The tellings of His being
Trailing a leftover –
The carcass and my bones

Cogitare

If you think, Slavery,

Think of life on Earth,

Human life, more specifically!

If you think, Freedom,

Think of spirituality

Which gives you cues, hints, guides

And even gives you space to allow your soul

To be itself,

As long as your heart would be full of love!

If you think Love,

Think of the warmth of hands, as they tenderly

Grab yours,

Or think of rugged cheeks

As they brush against yours

While you allow your eyes to seem like

A tranquil river flow,

A tranquil flow hiding behind its fluidity

A pulsating ready to birth volcano,

A powerful one, mighty enough to shatter the

Glass mirrors of this false world!

If you think Desire,

Think of the glow of the full moon

As it shines proudly in the night sky

While secret lovers, with aching hearts

And with awakened senses,

Torture themselves in their beds,

Lamenting at their fates

For, they remain unable to voice out of their passion!

If you think Happiness,

Think of God’s words, those same,

Specifying that this world remains a punishment

That here, none is to experience the state of ecstasy,

At least, not in its genuine and its pure form!

If you think, Life,

Why, think of it as void, without the acceptation of the skies’ will

Without the surrendering to their guidance

Without the allegiance that should be there for them

Deep in the very root of your heart!

And if you think of Us,

Love, think beyond human terms,

Think of Eternity, of ruling Death,

Of establishing Holy rules, of setting fate lines

And of Creation being, for you, a child’s play!

Letter to Love

Life, as we know it here on Earth,

Is not that which was meant for us!

Life, rather,

Should have been that which we lived there,

In that world, which you have most probably

Forgotten,

Overpowered by the powers of Maya!

Life, though,

However painful and dark,

Feels so soothing with the hope of your love

As it lingers on me,

Imbibing me with the pleasures

Nymphs feel as they cajole

In shallow river waters on nights when

The moon can only dare to peep at them!

Yes, Life,

Is all about you,

Is all because of you

Is all meant for you!

I have been made and shaped,

To hold your heart in my palms,

As you would walk around in the skies,

Ruling and making sure the cosmos swivels!

I have been made and shaped,

For you

To be the flower that you would water everyday

To be the bird that you would listen to everyday

To be the poetess that you would read everyday

Merely because I need your attention

On the meaning of my words!

Life, without you,

Becomes a void!

The skies would no more hold their powers

The entire universe would get dissolved

And I, would pretend that I know not

That I have ceased to exist!

Love,

If you feel not for me like I feel for you

I would choose to die in your arms,

Death, which would then be the Heaven

Which I have been searching for all along!

Truth, a mysterious reality

amidst the vision of thoughts conceived and concealed
skipping away the time of paranoia bewildered
merging reality from illusion and delusion
converging slopes of imagination infusion

……should the sun sets to rise again
……….save this heart to feel the pain
…………..reveal no words for a sad refrain
……………….holding only for souls enchain

from darkened moon a shadow cast, only darkness to last
where even the fiery skies feared tale of lies
in distance site sights of emptiness and loneliness
unleashed the unearthed to unveil only for the truth to prevail

Image may contain: plant

The thirst

The smell of rain from my dog’s hair
The rhythmic sound droplets make on my windows
The smell of wet cement
The pink veil magnolias are waving before my eyes
The suave flavour that envelope the streets after the rain
The gentle whisper trees pour down my ear
All that sensorial realm builds walls of nostalgia

And I wake up fully armoured against the cloud of depression

I walk straight forward shredding all my memories of the lasts springs

I am thirsty, a thirst like only an ocean can bear

The thirst for the first blossom, for the first spade of grass, for the first thrill of a bird

The thirst for the original spring

Easter

When I was just a kid

Oh, the colorful eggs we hid

We played all day

It was always a fun way

Then we would eat our lunch

Sometimes it was brunch

Then off to play some more

Until it became a bore

When the evening drew near

Story time was here

Everyone had a story to tell

And it was really swell

When the evening was almost done

I always wanted to hear a special one

I wanted to hear the greatest story ever told

About Jesus and the way he was sold

How He died on the cross

And it was a great loss

But then He came back again

And once more walked among men

How He said he would return once more

He would come to open the door

We would be swept up

There would be no mix up

Believers would go to be with Him

For those who did not it would be grim

What a day that will be

When Him we get to see.

Against Mosquito Nets

Be pragmatic!

We did.

We enmeshed daylight

Streaming through open windows

To trickle down as streaks of brightness

To dance on the floor in luminous spots.

Bulbuls chirped their clamour

The cat frowned, quivering whiskers

It purred aloud a plaintive protest

The neighbour’s dog watched demurely

Resting its forearms on the wall

Across the open gate.

Bloodsucking mosquitoes kept at bay

Buzzed in chorus its own dissent.

Scorching sun letting off steam

Scowled a ruddy complexion.

Timorous breeze slinked away.

Dreaming of further conquests,

April heat marched ahead its way

Trampling over a sweaty day.

Being a widow

Being a widow is not being a window

Through which beautiful sceneries may be admired.

Being a widow means being a door

Through which one traverses all the vicissitudes

Of life that swing widely with variations

Of expressions on the pendulum of emotions.

Suddenly, she feels she is alone,

Alone to take care of the children,

Alone to cook and clean, alone to do washing up,

Alone to chop or shop and still alone

On bed during the long Winter nights.

Tired of crying, tired of sobbing,

Tired of loneliness, tired of tiredness,

And still tired of what people say

Both behind her back and infront of her eyes,

She decides to take her fate in her hands.

She rises from the ashes, like the phoenix,

She walks, head held high, focussed

On her achievable dreams,

She feels she is not alone,

Her children are there and a good friend as well

Though others turned their backs to her.

Most importantly, she feels her husband is still there

To support her in all her endeavours.

Like the kangaroo, she protects her children,

Like the lioness, she protects her dignity

And like the tortoise, she wins the race,

Slow and steady with a willpower,

As strong as steel.

pramila khadun