Category Archives: Poetry

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

Lock-down Blues

What a strange time it is right now don’t you agree
I think the word they use is unprecedented I believe
I’ve got somethings in my head I put them in a song
To make you smile and think I promise it won’t be long

Folks riding bikes that they forget they bought 3 years ago
Cupboard running shoes unworn but now they’re looking old
I can’t tell if our pets are thankful for the walks
Or if 20miles a day is too much I’m sorry sausage dog

We, we can see this will pass us by eventually
We, we can choose to be generous in our lockdown blues

I’d like to personally thank Joe Wicks for all he’s done
I didn’t know I was so unfit till this begun
How does he keep his living room so nice and clean?
Instead of exercise show us your hoovering routine

Haircuts from horror films have started to become the norm
You know what I mean get the scissors out when you are bored
Maybe it’s the year my mate Steve will be on trend
Just remember being bald is beautiful my friend

I’ve exhausted Netflix, amazon they were a must
What good timing that was I think Disney plus
5pm BBC. Nations new favourite show
Nodding like I understand, my wife will never know

On a real note Id like to say NHS…
Thank you so much for helping us with this mess
So many lives affected I’m sure we’ll never know
I feel so helpless, but I can clap at 8 and stay at home

For all the people who have lost someone at this time
I pray God’s peace upon you every night
Together if we stand up we will see this through
Just remember that we are here for you.

Void

On a day of

no particular significance,

where nothing especially

happened,

no report was made

no notes were taken,

nor behaviour observed;

the absence of animation

accumulated

throughout the day,

leaving public spaces uninhabited

the flora and fauna

undisturbed and unmolested;

Absence this your sting,

Emptiness this is your victory.

Premonition

Hotfoot
I boarded; a night long
Silent train
That I could lay on at that instant
To possibly reach my house,
Where
Some days ago
Hustle – bustle reigned the surroundings
Even mud walls would fret music
Playing the supple hands of children;
Grandparents were as happy as three legged toddlers
Walking their sticks, toothless;
Sparrow would come by their beaks
Hopping and popping their grains;
Fields were as green as planktons deep sea by the bed

Nobody lives here, now

I am myself
a driver and passenger, both
Journeying back on
Two parallel lines
Meeting nowhere, but
At some point in oblivion

What is this pandemic!

The Long walk Home

 The homeless, the impoverished, all forlorn,
were plodding on towards home,
 rendered distraught by a mere virus,
and even the dawn was dark; the dam had burst.

“There is some food back home in our village,
 the company people asked to vacate,
there was no option, and we had to leave.”
Said one with a funereal air.
Onwards trooped the hapless group,
towels wrapped around their heads,
as protection against the sun, praying for that hopeful morn.
But even the dawn was dark; the dam had burst.

Carrying emaciated mothers in their arms, young kids on shoulders,
onward marched the laborers vaulting over roadblocks and boulders.

Armed with water bottles, packets of biscuits
and a handful of grit, onwards trooped they,
trying to find their way on the meandering paths of a dark dawn.


On one young man’s shoulders sat a tiny girl, lisping away,
 excited at the prospect of once again going back
 to her dadi in that remote village,
 listening to stories and thrilling folk lore , once again ,
unbeknownst  , that  their journey was the stuff
of which folklore was made.
  
Another tiny tot in frayed shorts
trotted beside his bedraggled dad,
“How far? I am tired dad”, he said.

“Papa, it is morning, look the sun is shining”, muttered the girl
But the father knew

 that even the dawn was dark; the dam had burst.


The silence screamed, the emptiness howled,
overhead the sinister clouds growled,
the little one burst into an agony of childish grief,
and no leaf stirred, no bird trilled,
as the afternoon sun blazed on.
 And the dawn was dark; the dam had burst.

Irani Cafe

Tables quietly huddled
along the inside wall
the shutters were half down
and boys on a crawl ,
thin legs sticking out
in sets of four
with chairs upside down
clear off the floor ,
a small boy half clad
clambering under ,
his back taking the curves
implausible , I wonder !
of the legs carved beautiful
brown and shiny
heavy on top
but pointed and tiny ,
European bentwood
hitting the chequered floor
reflection in the mirrored wall
of the old Zoroastrian at the door ,
watching the scrawny little boy
mopping with his might
stretching his arms long
winding around tight ,
the tables with marble top
and the small butter blob
which the small boy and his dad
had dropped down plop ,
aroma of crusty bruns
brown and buttered
thick milky tea and white cups
through the day clattered ,
feet shuffling by
from sunrise to sundown
the Parsi old man watched
under his round cap crown ,
with the last set of tea cups
plopping in to the sink
and the young boy scampering
almost at the brink. …..
© Dr Swati A Gadgil , All Rights Reserved .

Lace and Mango Pickle

I walk about
With my vulnerability
Barely covered in tentative dresses
The tremble of thick and soft but firm pink lips
Inviting remark upon its contrast
With the somewhat exaggerated horn rims
Of my all but cosmetic glasses

Perhaps you would hand me a glass of still water
At room temperature , and a cherry or a plum
I have reluctantly said no to lavender
But a pale , very pale , saffron may just about disturb the universe
To the very tiny extent that I want it to shift
To make room for my voice of sweet reasonableness
And endearing whimsy
Before it gets comfortable again
Pleased with me for making it ever so comfortably uncomfortable
That it will invite me again and again
To beautiful silky places
With delicately delicious food
And scented listeners
I must to Bruges next
For the lace
Where I shall ever so outrageously
Mention Mango pickle
In turmeric and mustard oil
Redolent of asofeotida

( Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia )

The Shadows of the Mind

1
in the dark black hole within that cloaked a shadow
beneath every conceiving thoughts a burdened hollow
have imprisoned the heart behind the bars of sorrow
that defies to kindle a lasting light to last a long tomorrow
2
the glitch of joy that once belongs in the essence of living
exist in places unseen, unheard where the shadow is hiding
silenced the soul within, locked the body in all its longing
underneath in single thoughts, a tear fell from an angel crying
3
the mystery in life’s journey in the pathway of a jigsaw puzzle
hovered with dark clouds as heavenly tears came to drizzle
reminiscing the past when life was once, only a simple dazzle
rekindling moments in the shadows of the mind in a fizzle
4
languor in the passing of time in cycles on sights bewildered
never-ending thoughts rewinding the longings and wandered
into the vastness of nowhere in silence, no words uttered
ceaseless mourning of the angel’s heart, heavenly favored
5
the cloudy sky remains above the misty road far ahead
to where the destined soul trails away as to heydays forbid
letting go the glories anchored for the longest time, now to bid
waved the last goodbye from all whisperings of ‘hellos” said
6
the wailing of the hearts that feeds the darkness to behold
as the unspoken whispers remain to be a mystery untold
silently on the gusty whirlwind of the mind was sadness unfold
embracing the breeze of the worldly passion freezing and cold
7
without refrain, molding the uncertainties into figures unknown
in visions and imaginations comes and goes swiftly as blown
away from the shadow that grips on tightly as fears grown
but tears wash away the miseries in rushing ripples flown
8
only the remnants of the old memories treasured through time
each day glows with the sun and listens to the pitch of chime
as mind is tingling with wonders on thoughts of love sublime
unveiling the truth behind the cloaked shadows for a lifetime
9
let the moon and the stars shine in the darkness of the sky
to brighten faith and hope in every corner of the angels’ sigh
a shadows reborn in spirit to dwell once more in heavens high
keep the smile on thy lips that whispers a promise never cry

IN ACRYLIC PAINTING BY SUZETTE PORTES SAN JOSE

Image may contain: outdoor

My Pliable Clay

A harmony of hues I see from my tent
in the far off land having infinite sphere;
There sparked the azure sky a thunderbolt
I hailed the holy attic from my mortal vault.

Ambient cosmic glaze has tinted everything
my humble abode and my mean belongings;
This place I call it – a home, it’s my nook
here peace is treasured as an heirloom.

From this toned canvas house of mine
I see ahead myriad mysteries of life;
It’s an institution of learning, a place to ponder
where one can disjoin creation and creator.

A balm to the soul is my canopy’s springtime
where I discern an ornate mode from a hermit’s life,
where spring flows through fields and caverns,
And fair sunshine falls on garnets and gravels.

My pliable heart is the king of this wilderness.
The undisputed king of this land, here it rules!
I swear, it’s a wicker work of my pliable clay
who alongwith simple joys has played its medley.

Copyright © DrNikhat Bano May 2020 All rights reserved

Devakula

My hands tremble
My brush wobble

Make my painting acceptable
In your acceptance, O Mother

‘am not able to carve
in dreams too
The essence of your untainted love

I knew about your “soul” whereabout
Only when I saw
Your freshly carved portrait, flashing
On the walls of “Devakula”

But you are eternal; deathless
O my Mother

How could I paint you
With my broken stroke

My hands tremble
My brush wobble

O my lovely Mother!

……..

Devakula = A temple; cf. ācāryakula, a gallery of portrait statues of deified or semi- deified ancestors.