Category Archives: Poetry

The place for all your poetry to be shared with the world

I am the Female

I am a female.
I am the world
and the universe .
God created me
to procreate ,
the coming generations.
And to continue
the race of man kind.
But the man forgot ,
the essence of my being.
I became just an object
of desire and recreation.
You stamped me
as your property,
You forced me with
your lust and ruled.
You forgot the power
of divine goddesses.
You enslaved me
to the entire core.
I cooked,I reared
I smiled with
my tear stained face.
You ogle at me,
you pass dirty remarks.
You put the limits
to my freedom.
I can not go
out after dark.
My chastity is at risk
still ,whether it is
daytime or night.
You overpower me,
just because physically
I may not equally fight.
You forgot the divine soul
that resides in me.
Enough is enough..
I will bear no more.
Whether it is acid attack
or acrid words from you
I will hear no more.
I raise my voice now
I put my feet down.
I refuse to obey any more,
You sick pervert clown.
I have got my self respect,
I have got my dignity to save.
I bore all burdens for ages
Now I will be fearless and brave.
I will win back my freedom
I refuse to be your slave.
It has been ages now
now give me my due.
And you will get all
the respect and love
that you deserve
in exchange and in lieu.

Philosopher Trees

Philosopher Trees

Trees are the living-ones, they have
Their hearts and souls, the souls
Which reverberate love in the hearts
Of philocalists, the philocalist owls.

They see, they sing, the hear, they taste,
And they sense our senses in true sense,
They are makers; they make poets,
Obliqueness is their beauty, and fragrance.

Winds are their messengers, their lovers
Are flutterbies, bees and we, the poets,
Every leaf that falls down reverberates her
Sonnet, ballad of life, and odes.

The last leaf tells her story and
Acompanies her friends- in the stack,
They tell their ballads to wandering winds
And winds sing it to buds and bees.

The ballads must be set in autumn archive,
O, poet jagdish, the philosophy must be alive.

Scent of spring in snow: Travelling with Dr. Zhivago

I

 Train journeys are philosophical.

They are magical and transformative!

The black horse drawing the coupés diligently over terrain rough

The fearsome mouth belching fire that shines in the dim night

The burning coals being spread over the receding land

Embers few flying down in the outstretched hands of kids/adults alike

Train journeys—a visual delight, inspiring a canvas or a song

People getting up/down

Embraces loving and farewells warm—and teary for a mother waving only son to the battleground!

Locomotives weave their own tapestries across time-n-space

Puffing up, red-eyed, these horse-machines arrive at the termini

After a long travel across the denuded hills, vales and dusty plains;

Friendships get promptly forged, new perspectives formed over life;

From a window open or barred, the passengers watch

The rolling countryside or bustling cities and towns;

Platforms big or small have got their pull on a fevered mind

The retreating cabins; the red signal down; the sharp whistle sound

And the beckoning mountain ranges or looming forests talk to you

In that fleeting instant!

Dawns/dusks never look the same

Solitude and pure heavens paint them so different!

You see universe travelling with you on such wonderful nights!

Life is motion; not stasis—it is called evolution.

II

Mental journeys can be equally illuminating—if done with your favorite fictional characters!

You learn a lot about histories, heroic struggles and human condition in lands and time distant.

The very act of reading can resurrect such epic journeys done on trains for a promise or Promised Land.

Chapter 7 of  Dr. Zhivago details one such spectacular journey that intersects the grey realms of fiction and fact, and, a past that is present.

Travelling across the vast plains of Russia in an overcrowded train

With the Zhivagos for a distant Varykino can be an unsettling experience in 2015:

Conscripts; the displaced, the exiled, peasants, the landed gentry—all disparate Elements flung together in their compartment by the force of circumstance

Everybody fleeing from something/somebody in a nation convulsing;

The long train hurtling down through a Red Revolution not properly understood; Bewildered, anxious; a part of the stratified humanity melted as a single unit in the crammed space.

Various sights, sounds, smells and colours are seen across the Old Russia in upheaval and bloody change—now forgotten except this literary document of a crucial age.

Another crucible of our times!

Frightening for some!

Comforting for others!

Journeys same; yet so different.

III

Chapter 22.

And then Dr Zhivago, fleeing from past, remembers the spring, looking out of the window of the compartment, in the midst of a gloomy place!

Spring resplendent!

With its hint of change.

Spring in the air.

And you too recall a spring now forever lost in an urban sprawl and smog

A spring remembered looks more romantic than a real one.

Dr. Zhivago is trying to flee from the logic of history like others

A futile effort!

One can never flee from one’s destiny.

Some people get caught up in the cauldron of history and   cannot escape the effects incendiary

A family displaced, running to their old family home, stuck at many stations

Witnessing violence and change in an old system on the brink;

And then doctor-poet remembering the spring in the expansive white of the snow

Two seasons collide in a single moment!

Spring indeed had arrived in his exploited land!

On a personal level, doing this long trans-country train journey with Dr.  Zhivago,

The reader is subtly reminded that we carry our own springs within.

Some train journeys— forever remembered/ inscribed!

They are wonderful expeditions of discovery and self-discovery

On the tracks

Magical in effect—Alice-like

And deeply transforming!

(Credit: —https://www.amazon.com/Trainstorm-Edited-Amitabh-Mitra/dp/0620718307)

I Think of You

i think of you …
… like a lone flower white and pure
……braced by the light rays so secure
………adoring only on my sight, to allure

i think of you…
… clinging to a branch of joy in miracles of hope
……upon the space of time, as we stood and grope
……..holding you tight though i’m a breaking rope

i think of you…
… as the pure divine soul over my head
…….listening to every hearts word that i have said
……….over the pages of my life as you have read

i think of you…
…over and over, time and again as always
……in my thought each day on my own precious ways
………be loving you with one pure love all my days

IN ACRYLIC PAINTING BY SUZETTE PORTES SAN JOSE

No photo description available.

Who mangled the lines ?

Who mangled the lines ?

Why does my heart feel shrivelled ?
Bedevilled by a thousand and one woes ?
Who are the foes stalking me at every juncture ,
puncturing my zest , my lust for life ?
The Konstantin Yuon painting on the wall fronting me ,
looks on accusingly .
The Cornflowers in a ray of Sunshine ,
no longer shine as I pine for the pristine purity of that past of mine ,
when elephantine hatred had not crept into our entrails ,
when the serene , soothing breeze
cruising merrily in the verdant trees
had not morphed into a grotesque gale ,
when the pallid lines fringing the clouds still had a silver hue .
Who mangled the lines ?
Who forgot the cue – of love ?
Who strangled the dove ?
What grotesquery killed that happy song , which had a cadence so fine ?

My Valentine

SOMETHING I LOOK AT-59
BY-SMRUTI RANJAN MOHANTY

My valentine
always with me
standing like rock, calm and serene
enduring moments of sorrow and agony
my changing moods, conflicting demands
whims and caprices with a lovely smile

She never lived her life
her life is a poetry of dedication
where in she imprinted my name
in her sweat and blood
an open book she is
a perennial stream of love and dedication
every moment of life she lived for other
forgetting she has a life of her own

The ebb and flow tide of life
hardly perturbed her, its vagaries
failed to snatch away that beautiful
smile from her lips
the stay of my life all along

I can not imagine a life without her
every moment of which is filled
with her grace and grandeur
non like her, non can be
the only reality in my world of
fading dreams and changing priorities

In her arms my heaven
in her smile my whole world
in her eyes all my dreams
in her touch colours of rainbow
in her love the meaning of
life, its fulfilment and beauty

My valentine
the only oasis in a dry desert
my paradise on earth and gateway to heaven
without her life is no life
a rudderless ship
in the boisterous sea

copyright@smrutiranjan 6.2.2018