Tag Archives: Poetry

Punctuation

I penned all that flowed in a hurry
A painful production, artlessly logged
Purposeless and plain…
What are words without psyche and soul?
Asked my curious mind…
Wandering aimlessly for a few seconds…
I erased the ellipses
Warding off the fragmentary thoughts

A chain of familiar symbols stretched wide
Gaiting on the ramp with poise
Commas remained grounded,
Pausing for a little breath
But when inverted, hung like a ‘dangling’
Exclaiming elite attention!
Colon clearing its throat announced:
“I’d introduce my buddies and their roles”
Braces embraced each one (detailing their
names, definitions, pronunciation and etymology)
“Left-brained analysts with a long list!”
“I got to pause; this is never-ending”
Remarked semi colon, impatiently

Elated, I looked at my words, lines –
adorned with pretty brooches
With distinctive rhythm and life
Newfangled characters told my story
the way it should be
Full point rushed to mark a dot.
It knew; this was the end.
--------------------------------

Hangman

As the invisible COVID swallows up the world

We see death in disguise, looming

Is our ephemeral character called back?

When the End casts its darkest shadow

we dramatically see Life’s light

We struggle to break despair’s shackles

that deadbolt our lives down

We are playing hangman and guessing a word

From an unwritten chapter of life

Remember, every crucial move delays the noose.

Heimat

Something about this air makes me poignant
Or perhaps too familiar to be endured…
Those decades-old hollow eyes still stare at me
Elapsed past that smell of stingy rags,
Blood stains and cold logs of human bodies
Reflecting chilling horrors of the holocaust.

Something about this air smells like my home
I may be a gypsy, Jew, gay or communist
I hear marching steps pounding, looming
Mounting tension, loud weak heart throbs
Ghastly commands in the greyish-blue vicinity
And black clouds ready to bomb.

Something about this air creates the autumn of 1943
Leaves fall yellow, brown, dreary and dry
The cries of the camp prisoners go silent
My parched pink lips unable to pray
Wonder where the God fled, allowing
To wipe a nation’s history, hearts and hope.

Something about this air near the ashen memorial
Cries out loud the unheard stories of the souls of sorrow
Of my wounded homeland and shattered dreams.
As I let myself blend with the background
The church bells ring in melancholic unison
Orchestrating the slides of a miserable memoir.
Setting: An autumn of 1943, during holocaust in Germany.

I Never Look Back

The waves are black
The night flies
Far away
From the city lights.

Memories
Wait for me.
The crash of waves
Is in my ears.

The sand is dark
Beneath my feet.
This was the day
I took my life.

This is my ghost
Wandering the beach.

Those shells were once
Perhaps, my eyes.
The stars were once,
Perhaps, your lies.

Black is the sky.
Those dots of light
Litter them
Without a plan

Like your love for me
That too had none.

Wet is my cheek.
I never look back
To glimpse you

Over my shoulder,

Lonesome, waiting
On that inky boulder.

You are real.
I am a shade.
No longer worlds
Together. Twain.

The Reverse Has Flown Down To The Seas


Down the hills on the river that flows, a poem lies there, and whatever
That soul of mine reminds me of the lost wanderer
of my thoughts, of the grand memories of my time
with the night-wind, the trees and their lonely presence;
where the sun would rise to the sky now and then.
For the wise said the soul of men will never fall asleep.
And I believe it even now that they fly to the skies often
To meet the Divine and the dearie’s,
And more than the dense forests the secrets they hold may be greater;
And they feed on food from the Heavens.
In my own heart and all my day awake
I see you, as a man born in a fantasy world
Where stones flew; the spirits in a never ending smile
In trees and seas you live, and white clouds..
There the master of many floats.

Your thoughts, cometh through the clouds into the street and beyond,
and I read it as it sets sail
and with a belief that it will never be wrong.
So addictive, the shapes thee maketh for me,
But at weird hours I hear the strange sound of thy hands,
Keep the pace, shall say that little spirit of mine for the fire keeps glowing
And I keep believing.

I will not be lessened amidst the tall and glittering worldly things.
And you all see in me the dying days, the youthful yesterday – the reverse.
She was a menace, you say-
When I walked the thorns, I entered a light, a lovely place to fly and rejoice.


A whiff of the past…

Some aromas give you
A whiff of the past;
And you breathe in,
A part of your own yesterdays,
Like forgotten melodies rippling away
To faded pages
Of a yellowed diary.

Last day, the scent of turmeric
Took me with absolute ease-
To a pampered childhood-
Of healed bruises-
It showed me a serene face
With a sparkling nosepin
And a purple kumkum
And wrinkled palms with rough fingers-
Adept at hardwork-
Tending to my wounds.

I reminded myself that the earth, in fact, had gulped down her soul-
And I wondered if she had left parts of herself here with me-
Probably her best ones.

The Paradox of Nobility

One morning in my portico,
as I sat on my swing,
enjoying the breeze,
hearing the birds sing.

Up on a wall crevice I found,
a spider had cast its web.
An ant struggled to escape from it;
of urgent succour, it was in need.

As the wily spider crept to its prey,
the ant struggled harder, seeing its end.
A bout of nobility struck my head;
I broke the web and saved the ant.

The free ant scampered away.
I went back happily to my swing.
The starving spider, too old
to re-spin, ended up dying.

The ‘web’ of nature is so intricate,
here one’s death is other’s life.
My smug nobility lay rebuffed;
in saving the ant, I took spider’s life.

I always carry a first aid kit
to help anyone in need.
Keen to salve others’ injury:
a small bruise or a mild bleed.

One day in a bus
a man got injured.
Out came my kit to soothe;
he was relieved and I pleased.

But a shocking epiphany
came to me like a flash of light.
Should I be credited for helping
or be blamed for his plight?

The seed of desire carries with it
the hidden tree of its fulfillment.
That man’s injury was just a symptom,
my desire for nobility caused his predicament.

In our current reality,
a doctor is a noble man.
But in a healthy society,
he is a nonentity.

The nobility of curing is
but a consequence of disorder.
It would meet its obsolescence
in neverland and its innate order.

Nobility is extinct in utopia.
It’s born with utopia’s death.
It needs suffering to survive,
and ironically, calamities to thrive.

My Love

When I’m with you,
I’m totally with you.
Nobody else seems to exist but you.
The world looks like a distant maze.
People appear like unclear haze.
Voices other than yours
feel as if coming from the horizon.
You capture my thought
and seize every moment.
You subordinate everything else.
You become my sole existence.

I know I’m ruined
because the attention
I shower on you
makes even God jealous,
and he will have his vengeance
on me.
But it’s all worth it for you,
my love.

My dear, my dearest
mobile phone.

Life is Transient

Life is a transient mirror
Reflecting in it
The eternal presence of Being;
All the troubles are
Just shadows…

The shadows are a mirage
Tempting one to cover
Some miles of days
Or leave behind some dark nights
In the oblivious past
And all its vicious circles
Of vices and vile…

Life is a walk
A perennial walk into the shade
Of continuum beliefs,
A long experiential journey
From self to soul
Through a testing trajectory
Where one has to prove
The worth of one’s soul
In the ethereal light
Of quietude and equanimity…

Living experience always unfolds
The absolute truth
And the ultimate realization:
Everything exists
Yet exits as nothing ever exists.

– Bhaskaranand Jha Bhaskar

Welcome Home

There is fire of gold
in the sunflower, hidden
in its veins.
It stands
turning towards the sun
all the time
in greed to suck
more gold.

I thought the sun
begets a million suns
inside its veins
and I tried to find
a way to open
the veins in vain,
to scoop a few
to put in my veins.

It is good that I
couldn’t do it,
for, after a while
the flames of the fire
soar high and high
and burn the whole gold
to brown earth
in its petals, and
then the petals bend
downward
towards the earth.

The earth smiles
through many tiny
flowers in her lap and waves
its green hands of grass
saying “Welcome Home”