Sitting in the darkness

Peering through the light

I look around the room

Straining my mind

I see the smoke rising

Nauseating my head

I feel myself losing

Swaying away

The freedom I want

I do not get

With what I have I waste myself.

Charulata Somal

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Even though the winds start receding,
The streams stop flowing,
The rituals faint,
The customs stain,
The habits trail,
The temperaments quail.
Even though the power change hands
And even though the regime ‘brutally’ stands
Till the “mighty pen” is breathing…
I’ll not let “U” die….

((This poem is an effort to boost up the journalism by revealing its power to itself once again…

“Mighty pen” is referred to as power of journalism…

And “U” is referred to as our “democracy”…

Journalism in this poem speaks of saving n preserving the originality of our democracy, its identity….irrespective of the changes occurring to demolish it…))

Malvika Sharma

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Among those giants with their noses held high,

Among all those who were staring haughtily into the sky,

There stood a shy and timid Banyan tree-

Its roots spread around it like a cage.

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You truly are the epitome of bona fide abhorrence;

A rotting legend in itself your stream flows,

carrying the detritus of the world with eternal patience,

Does not the smell of your load reach your nose?

While your sister has an idyllic effect on plains and ranges,

and thus revered with the names of gods and goddesses-

be it the Indus, the Nile or the Ganges

and is chased by a string of verses, rhymes and venerable odes.

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Reaching for the sky

Its confines so high

A mere speck on earth

Of dissolving in water

Yet retaining the taste

Of flames and burns

Of loves grown old

Of growing love

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For what loss does the rain bleat

in painful sinuous tones?

With sudden shudders it sighs

and glinting eyes growls?

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Our lives are one,

Our dreams might be different,

But they flow together.

Our love might just be different, but,

Our depth is the same,

Infinite… as we go deeper.

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On

the skin under your eyes -

paper thin;

darkened and saggened

by endless sunrises

that dawned through

a coffee-browned haze,

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Long months of summer

And sitting idle and tied

No hope for movement

Ennui at my bedside.

Paralyzed limbs, yes

But not paralyzed thought

Some freedom of observation

This immobility has begot.

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Imperfection,

That yawns through

The dawning wrinkles

While the pines drip

Of quiet morning reluctance

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The sun, once strong; now shines just to prove

all good things must cease to exist.

Breathing for survival; alive, but not living.

Teeth tatter- is it the cold? Or is it rage - because you are cold?

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Tired, dusty, silent, furor,

Sagging load carried forever,

Like rotting thoughts

That seem so clever.

Denial, logic, cracking voice,

Faltering air of assumed poise,

Accumulated mass of nothingness,

Trash, if not anything less.

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“Pat and kiss those flabby thumbs

Just as your told!” Said my angry mum.

“We’ll have no tickles or bearded men glee,

So off with the gloves, and kiss like me.”

Chubby boys like the attention a lot

Brothers will toy with their wee tater tots.

“Not gingerly enough–you’ll upset his gullet!”

Said mum as dandruff snowed from her mullet.

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The distant star gleams,

On a blushing pink sky;

The world seems drowned,

In the lark’s melodious cry.

The trees are ablossom,

With dimpled dainty flowers.

The Dreamy Dryad dreams,

With her eyes gazing afar.

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He goes at the dawn

he comes back at the last hint of dusk

He fights to save you

he fights to save me

Brave at heart, raring to go

He is the son of the motherland,

Who puts his nation first

And himself second.

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Looking down at the river’s crystal surface,

No sign we see of its flow

A drop of a pebble, the echoing swallow of its dip,

Reminds us, it breathes too, and lives.

Its a night quieter than any, for we breath within ourselves

An unspoken silence reigns unanimously

In front of us, before our eyes, and not above

Hangs dully a pale silver orb, passing reflected glory

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A fleeting truce it was to be

To honour the brother that died

For twelve long days and nights

Not a teardrop fallen dried

Sacrifices too small for the great

To our patron Loxias were made

For what purpose, I dare to ask

His most loved had been slayed

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A Tale of the origins of the Cold War and the Atomic Bomb

I

There are many ways to fight a war -

‘Cross seas and hills, and vales afar,

For gold or love, for land, for power;

With sticks or stones, to leave scars.

But there once was fought, a war distinct

For, defying all natural war-like instinct –

Not with fire or on battlefields, but then

It was fought, tragically – in the minds of men.

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Multi-coloured signs on shops
grudgingly hum in neon pitches.
The empty streets of ghost town
reluctantly wash the fog away
like a windscreen wiper,
sweeping foot by foot
as a spattering of stars walk the earth.

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The stars seem to conspire

The hopeful fires burn far away

I can hear the laughing voices

There’s music, food and love

The night under my skin

Smug in its protection

In all this enchantment

I miss you more than ever

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That morning when the earth clicked into motion

Magic dust escaped from the protons and neutrons of matter

Falling over, everyone with a writing instrument in hand

Became a poet, and Lord, how things changed…

For them everything around was tinged with mushroom irony

They camped outside libraries and had love affairs between book covers

They swung off trees, sprouting couplets, limericks, parodies and sonnets

In camouflage jackets they danced - the twist, the royal waltz, the fox trot

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From the shackles I was born into

I dream of a breath free

The cord of old notions, surround me

With the tightening of the grip

They hold me back

Though much I tug-writhe and turn

The pressure is immense

And my body’s attempts are spurned

Confining won’t be ‘right’

But millions before me do it

With a heart clear of plight

I do identify

The destination as paradise

But the path to it is littered

With shards of glass

To walk on it

You must lose some blood

But courage it seems

Seeps faster away

The journey is interrupted

And revolution failed

Oh liberty! I see your possibility flying away.

Saumia Takru

(4 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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O mother, your children are equal

Do not, O mother,

Do not orphan them!

Our past,

Interlinked, all of us!

And the future,

The bright-separated,

Separated from the dim,

The divide too deep,

Too wide!

O mother, do not…

Do not turn a blind eye

We are all in it together,

So why the line?

The red line?

Can’t you see mother?

Or has thick mist blinded you?

Beyond this river,

The blood tinged sky,

So, seeing a sun set!

The laughter is audible,

But pin your ears mother..

Can’t you hear the wail?

Can’t you see..?

See that child in rags?

It is one of yours too,

One left behind!

O mother, I plead you!

Take them along…

Take them along…

Purav Goswami

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Funny.

Are the ways, thoughts sit, talk, walk and caper through the nooks of Her mind.

How they flutter like a butterfly.
Sing, like a broken violin.
Swell like a rain-drunk August tarn.
And brew thunderstorms. Like coffee.

Outlandish, is how they hurtle from one to the other,
Sway from one face to another, and form patchworks:

Like a 4-year-old’s doodle-
Orange with mauve; green with baby pink!

They have always known the chinks to slink in and have followed Her
religiously,

Like a lizard inching towards its prey.

They have haunted Her throughout History like Her own screams in
lonely dark alleys at Night, yet,

They can be beautiful.
Despite all their cruel conspiracies
Of shifting the ground
Of tilting the Universe.

She masquerades under different skins throughout the pages of
History,
Yet such feelings, those thoughts pulsate, uniting Her with the
Rest,
With their incomprehensible, rhythm-less rhythm,
Like music from a broken violin.

And it becomes difficult to understand Her,
To comprehend
Her mood shifts, or,

Why She enjoys weaving Her labyrinths of chaos,
Why She enjoys melancholy evenings,
Why a bouquet of red roses are enough for infinite joy-
Why that glint of joy in Her child’s eyes can compensate for all Her
mistakes.
Why She forgives what is Unforgivable!
Why She forgets what is Unforgettable!
Why She sacrifices the Impossible!

Even She wonders,

Throughout History.
And that smile plays around Mona Lisa’s lips for eternity.

She could have been anybody:
Joan of Arc, Antigone, Clytaemnestra,

She could have been a faceless Afghani
behind Her burkha,
Or Paulo Coelho’s Veronica who decided to die.

Funny are how
Her thoughts can hurtle from one to the other, sway from one
face to another and form patchworks:
Like a 4-year-old’s doodle-
Orange with mauve; green with baby pink.

Outlandish, is how they can trespass in No-Man’s Territory
Unafraid of prosecution.

How they insanely, ardently break all rules!
How they swerve unpredictably like the footsteps of a drunkard and
vanish-

Yes, they can hate like a Hitler.
Love, like a Juliet.
Dream, like a Cinderella

They can play more than God and help create.

They can be beautiful, despite all their cruel conspiracies
Of shifting the ground
Of tilting the Universe.

Rajyashree Sen

(1 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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Because of the hurt they caused

 there is a lot of pain inside,

 pain which blinds and tricks into hallucinations,

 pain which does not let the fear subside.

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