Glopowrimo #30

Glopowrimo #30

Minimalist poem, influenced by gesture drawings

Unknown to her, where'er (s)he is
Her picture hangs upon the wall
Her eyes follow him, up and down
She couldn't care less, where (s)he is.

Glopowrimo 29-2

Meditation 2

To myself I asked today the question long unasked
Why do we write, and read poetry?
As if I had forgotten my own face, or become blind
How it looked now, and needed a mirror or someone else to describe
My face, to myself, again to see.

Years fell away, and I became young again
Reading Coventry Patmore's "The Toys"
Whoso readeth this touches not just its words
Or a poem, but a man, a father, God and life
And children and their kinship to parents, mortal and immortal!

Years later, I still read and write
Poetry with a hunger that's insatiable
For the same reason, to connect thus, totally, with others
And hope they feel as connected to my words

It's expressing and communicating
Our deepest selves to each other
For in life, we see through the glass, darkly
But in poetry we sometimes see as we are seen
Know as we are known

As: at the Second Coming, when we see Him as He is
Our transformation's evident, to what degree we attained
And no secret is hid, and everything is revealed

Glopowrimo #29

Meditation

A small child once wanted to know
Why the lake was so blue
It's reflecting the sky, you know
As someone had once told you

One day, the lake was green
The child then wondered why
Under the deep blue sky
Why it was so, had changed

Under the lake, foliage had grown
When he looked in he saw it wave
Lush green weeds, long-leaved like snakes
Sprung from cement-silt and debris

The lake's surface still rippled,
And glittered when ruffled
Reflecting the sun
And his wavy face

The sky was still blue with white, white clouds
Edged with silver or black
But on the face of the lake, the blue took a hue
Yellow or golden, now weeds had a say

He watched the weeds choke the lake
The water change colour to a faecal brown
Slowly the fishes turned upside down, dead
The sky alone still remained blue

Sickened by all that had been
And had come to pass, he did dream
Of leaning over a lake in the night
With the moon and the stars come out, bright
The water was black and cold as ice
Nothing stirred on its back
He missed the ripples and waves
He could dream it all back again
There was a breeze in his dream
Light as a feather's touch
The fishes swam inside the lake
Lit up by phosphorescence
And he knew that the water was sweet
That if he leaned down and drank from it
It would be to thirst, its lack.
He dreamed it would come, not to pass.

A red ombrelle

From archives :) Feel like rewriting it, so doing so.

Love is ageing
Its hair; grey and falling

A dry awakening
after getting wet
in a thunderstorm's show'rs.

But still, sometimes
when no one is looking
love is a red umbrella
behind which your pink lips…!

Sunita Singh's new translation of the above :
प्यार अब बूढ़ा हो रहा है
उसके बाल, सफेद और झड़ रहे हैं

एक शुष्क जागृति
तूफानी बारिश की बौछारों में भीगने के बाद

लेकिन फिर, कभी कभी
जब आस पास कोई देख नहीं रहा होता है
तब प्यार एक लाल छतरी होता है
और उसके पीछे ‌
तुम्हारे गुलाबी होंठ...

New transcreation of older version by Satbir Chadha

प्रेम की तो उम्र हो चली

उस आँधी ओ बौछार में
तर बतर हो कर

भीगी सी नीँद के बाद के
कोहरे, और धवले केसु

जैसे पतझड़ के रहते
ख़ुश्क सवेरे का एहसास

फिर भी अकेले में कभी कभी
पनाह लेता हूँ
तेरे गुलाबी अधरों के
शोख़ साये में

Ampat Koshy

April 29, 2018

A poem of mine translated into Hindi by Sunita Singh

Third one by her. It had appeared in English in Learning & Creativity-Silhouette Literature & Cinema

Honoured :)

Love is aging
Its hair is grey and falling
Love is a dry awakening
after getting wet
in the showers of a thunderstorm
but still, sometimes
when no one is looking
love is a red umbrella
behind which your pink lips meet…

प्यार अब बूढ़ा हो रहा है
उसके बाल कम हो रहे हैं और सफेद भी!
तूफानी बारिश में भीगने के बाद
प्यार अब एक शुष्क आभास है!
लेकिन
कभी -कभी जब कोई नहीं होता है
तब प्यार एक लाल छतरी बन जाता है
जिसके पीछे तुम्हारे गुलाबी लब मिलते हैं!

If they were ever there

The light of every star
reaches me
faster
than the light
of your eyes
gone away, my love
into the past, now
if they were ever there

The cry of every curlew
circles
the lorn beach
far more times
in echoes
than your moving lips
loth, anymore, to say
the words
I long to hear

This must be the night
where there, it is still
bright
but its silver
shine
in the ripples
of my lake
is as if just to say
things are not what they seem
as reflections and shadows
are like kisses in my dreams
and memories are only
your whispers
drowned
in screams.

Some random thoughts on this poem En Route To Bangladesh etc

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56919/en-route-to-bangladesh-another-crisis-of-faith?fbclid=IwAR1UUvMwMVXnjd141TvIDaKmSa1JAHZxXqWeRu_eqGl8wY0mUEzOm5KB4JA

Ampat Koshy I can link it with Dickinson and Henry James but the most interesting word here for me is star, suggesting that the crisis is this strange feeling that she has become a kind of a 'Jew,' as well as more fortunate, and going back is almost like going to a concentration camp, and the star also refers to the American flag, hence the title. The blood makes it feminine and the muscle is the background which is where there is a gender contrast. There is an identity crisis as well as faith crisis in the poem.


As regards gender her views are well put but typical. She is stared at and not surprised when she stares back to find the men do not drop their eyes but continue to stare back. She sees men as a dark, damp horde - meaning a threatening presence. This refers to them as predatory.

As regards race, she is caught in the presence of knowing she is taught to privilege the whites, blonde hair, but fighting against it, yet, finding herself unable any longer to be just body like others in the queue

Regarding identity she is torn apart between the ancient that has now become cliched of the Arabic past, the golden leaves, the blue perfume bottle etc., and also the American which is the Coke and the Lays. This is very Jamesian as Henry James compares the decadence of Europe against the innocence and naivete/foolishness of America as in the lady Isabel Archer in Portrait of a Lady and Chad in Ambassadors. But here it is more ambiguous. Also the refrain of because and the hyphens remind me, rightly or wrongly, of Dickinson's famous poem Because I could not stop for death, making the transit point like a carriage and Death being also like Tagore's Homecoming, a bit, a mystery in that it may be life in death, to put it in Coleridgean and Yeatsian terms.


Regarding faith, she is in a crisis and I already dealt with it. America has tried to deracinate her but affected her most in this matter of faith which is why this poem verges more on rebellious and blasphemous according to me than the faithful.

But the most interesting parts of the poem for me are not the questions of gender, identity, race, class and faith but of her ambivalent relationship to her own femininity or sexuality - shown by wanting a hair of the blonde woman, and the licking off of the fat and salt from her lips of chips, the cup near the seat, where thighs have sat, hers and hers and hers and body that is not like her body but unashamedly body - these and her ability to describe so beautifully make her poem a feat to admire than to analyze.




https://www.poesi.as/cv18020501.htm?fbclid=IwAR1chjwoWGG6TVqcOR23VXSeVIfHhOFdM4F7GsJVvjJIpQ2ATe6Z-Ltj5UA

Glopowrimo 28

Glopowrimo #28 "The words of my roaring"

Here,
I said
I set up these lamps on the floor
diyas
with oil in them
and wicks
I light this imaginary candle
I set up candles
50 or more
290 or more
I will light them all
I myself will play the violins in the background
Let my tears faIl
I will put the flowers on the photos of the children
When they were killed was it not I who was killed?
I will make the memorial cards and keep them on the wall
I will hold the
night vigil alone
I will make the march
multiplying my heart, my grief, into a thousand shadow-people
I will people the streets of this city, this whole world, alone, with shades of the dead and the living dead
I will grieve alone
the glory of the vanquished reign

I will make poetry out of these imaginary things
the diyas, the candles, the flowers, the cards
the vigils, the prayers, the mourning, the marches, the candle lit processions
the shadows
all - that did not take place
I will announce the unspoken message to the world
not to fear the tangled skein of history
not to fear the new protectors
who cannot differentiate
between the terrorist and the innocent
who practise eye for eye
touch one of us
and we will ten of you
blood for blood
real blood
and the whole world blind
I will make my poem about a poem that is not a poem
made of things that do not exist except in words
will bleed silently unreal blood in pols with red sweat and tears
I will again ascend the cross
I will be killed
Was it not Easter, after all?
I will not ask why
I will not even answer back to the sky
(We can do greater things than these)
asking why have you forsaken us?
I will only allow my breath to run out
and this poem to bleed silently
I will become a Muslim
A Hindu
A Jew
A Buddhist
A Jain
A Sikh
An anything
to stop the killing
and the pain
while always remaining a Christian
and a poet
I will let my poem bleed silently
I will call it a house of cards
To stop the carnage
I will hold it up
fragile, and also build a sand-castle of a poem
I will call it a paper plane
I will call it a paper boat
I will call it an origami crane
But I will make the poem
fly and float
I will set up a white flag on the sand-castle
and protect it from the waves of the oceans
I will make the house of cards stand
I have poetry, that sleight of hand

Where are the dead?
Where were the mourners?
Where are the living?
Will we not all go into the same house in the end?
The house of death?
Why do some kill each other
and disturb the peace of the ones like me
who only want to write poetry
and ebb away like an outgoing tide
quietly
leave no mark behind?
Why do you make me roar like a tsunami
when all I want to do is drop like the breeze
a benison on your head?
Come out of the shadows, my faceless enemy
You, even you, I will still embrace
even though you do not understand me
and you will be turned into me or ashes
Are you not only the other side of me
and does not the same blood run in our veins?
Do we all not have mothers, fathers, brothers,
sisters, wives, children and memories of joy and sorrow that match?

Come with me again to the fields of our childhood and its beaches
Somehow may my poem reach you
and let us fly kites
not waste our lives
play marbles, collect shells
tag, you're it, hide and seek, doctor doctor, catch me if you can, hopscotch
children again
and not deal in grown-up lies
No angel exists
if not to help Life
No book is sacred
if not the Book of Life
Only Life is God
which is It as it is
Come, see my tears
and make each drop a pearl
Come, read this poem
made only of words.
I stand defenceless before you
a man of peace
Can you hear me call
across time and space
asking you to give up your anger, hatred, violence, weapons, groups,
twisted hermeneutics, cruel plans and ways
and embrace
the coming future
of Peace?

A meta-poem of an elegy for those who died in NZ, in the Easter bombings etc.

Glopowrimo 27 - based on Shakespeare's sonnets.

Shall I compare you to a summer's day

Though your eyes are nothing like the sun?

Let not the marriage of poetic devices play

To make this, my Shakespearean jaunt, anything but fun

Your hair reminded him of wires?

Tut, tut, that was a cruel simile.

Almost like throwing at you silver spears.

Later he makes it up, in a jiffy!

Poetry is not poetry, if no one reads it

Anymore than love is love, if it bends.

With the remover to remove - unfit!

Poetry, and love, should for the world's wounds make amends

Shake a scene or leg; be great, or wrap your player's heart in a tiger's hide.

Write poetry, love a woman or man, but make sure your verse and love doth abide!

Koshyshpere

Ampat Koshy: If you know of the seven types of ambiguity approaching the poem may become easier. The first note of ambiguity for me is what Arun Kolatkar means in the second line by saying that her insomnia may seep through the great walls of history. Does he mean women down the ages have insomnia? I think so. The use of "may" throws things a bit into confusion. Is she to be taken seriously or not? Now we come to the crux of the poem which is somewhat but not entirely patriarchal. She is lonely, as she has no one to spend time with her. Then we come to the key line about the spiked man who can be spiked as in a drink is spiked meaning drunken on alcohol or her and impaling suggests an act of force, but we are unable to decide if he is husband or lover or a random person, and it could even be rape. What the recipe signifies is anyone's guess coming immediately after. Her whimper being null and void suggests her insignificance and the insignificance of all women in a city and patriarchal set up. Further on 'darkling' refers to the nightingale in Keats, perhaps, and is child of dark suggesting perhaps her skin tone as well as how a woman perhaps made pregnant out of wedlock or by rape is seen by the doctors, maybe in India. Shoot up connects with spiked and impale with explode - are the doctors too not adding to the crime if she is being aborted? She 'may' still only damn man. She curses humanity by poisoning 23 cockroaches - is there a pun on cock and roach? - but at the same time maybe it suggests that she prefers humanity still despite everything, mistakenly, or not, due to being brainwashed or not, and not cockroaches that may survive a nuclear holocaust. To sum up, there may still be an undertow of disturbing patriarchy in the poem but it succeeds due to the use of ambiguity and 'undecidability' and indeterminacy in it (Marjorie Perloff's terms) that makes it cut both ways or many ways in terms of meanings it can generate in the minds of different readers. "Seven types of Ambiguity
1.The first type of ambiguity is the metaphor, that is, when two things are said to be alike which have different properties. This concept is similar to that of metaphysical conceit.
2.Two or more meanings are resolved into one. Empson characterizes this as using two different metaphors at once.
3.Two ideas that are connected through context can be given in one word simultaneously.
4.Two or more meanings that do not agree but combine to make clear a complicated state of mind in the author.
5.When the author discovers his idea in the act of writing. Empson describes a simile that lies halfway between two statements made by the author.
6.When a statement says nothing and the readers are forced to invent a statement of their own, most likely in conflict with that of the author.
7.Two words that within context are opposites that expose a fundamental division in the author's mind." I find most of these types of ambiguity at work here - should explicate more on that later

I don't think we read how-to-write-poetry books on its art and craft to learn how to DIY but to appreciate the writers of those books if they are able to make their books interesting. In the course of it we may or may not pick up some helpful tips on how to write poetry, but the aim of those writers is not exactly, I would think, to help us hone poetry writing skills but to show us how intention may be allied to performance and whether it can be said to have succeeded in terms of effect or affect on the reader, this leading more to questions of criticism and appreciation than of teaching how to write poetry. Learning of alliteration, assonance and consonance, for instance, and then reading of lines supposedly about the cooing of doves and the immemorial murmur of bees in elms, the aim is to make the reader ask is the alliteration done on purpose to imitate the sound of the thing mentioned and is it effective in how the reader perceives it being coincidental with the writer's intention, in which case the writer is said to have succeeded etc. This is of course a very new critical close reading approach and example I have given, but I was addressing a concern raised by Vivek that the writing of poetry is best learned by those reading lots of it, good examples, and not books on the art and craft of poetry. Neat divisions don't exist, so to end with, it is possible to learn by reading poems of masters and books on writing poetry just as it is possible to not learn how to write 'good' poetry, whatever that means to each individual, either way. I was reading the list of books presented, they all come from the West. Except for the one posted later by Vivek by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra. Having both written poetry and written a small pamphlet on how to write poetry found here "https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/222992", and read enough of poetry and of these books my own personal contribution is more than these books I have been helped largely by manifestos in trying to figure out a modus operandi to how to write poetry, or a strategy or an overall game plan, or even a specific way of approach or philosophy as to why one writes poetry and what or how so am putting some links here based on things I read that influenced me in my younger days.

https://nasa2000.livejournal.com/55628.html

https://www.societyforasianart.org/…/manifesto_futurista.pdf

http://georgemaciunas.com/about/cv/manifesto-i/

https://www.tcf.ua.edu/…/SurManif…/ManifestoOfSurrealism.htm

http://writing.upenn.edu/libr…/Tzara_Dada-Manifesto_1918.pdf

http://writing.upenn.edu/libra…/Blast/Blast1-1_Manifesto.pdf - brilliant! :)

http://www.languageisavirus.com/…/william-s-burroughs-cut-u…
(this last link is exquisite also for the generators making poetry redundant, despite the seriousness noticed in its practitioners these days.)

I am unable to include Ungaretti and Mandelstam as the pdfs are not on the net.
My list has the same problem which is it is also Eurocentric or American, except for link to my book and the rasa theory one but all the same I think going through these things has helped me a lot in framing welcome diversionary apperçus into poetry and out of it so I share it believing it may help others on the site too

Off prompt

I see the moon
in the pond's black night
I croon my poem
to its twin

I write these words
to no one
Only God reads
and the universe
I am content
The world deserves them not

Like red rose-petals that sway
blushing, at its touch
e'en in the lightest breeze
are my poems
I imagine
meeting
someone that sensitive

We will know from just looking
at each other
what kaajal lines our eyes
this night;
whether that of love, truth
tears or lies

The voices of
the speechless ones
will hold no secrets
for both of us

And when we hold hands
the silence of our laughter
will shake life's very
foundations.

Off prompt

fingers
always accusing
trying to subtly
point out faults
bring you down

when faced with them
turn on
tune in
drop out
so it is like
water off a duck's back

Glopowrimo #26 - 2

GLOPOWRIMO #26- 2
suddenly
one may think of me
that one
or that other one
one of those ones
who used to
visit me daily
spend so much time with me
but now
prefers not to
as there is nothing
anymore to be got from
it
suddenly
while dusting a table
with today's newspaper
or perhaps
at some sight
of someone
who looks a bit like me
suddenly
in some angle
of the light
or at some strain of music
a snatch of it
heard
through some open window
while passing by in a car
or the smell of a particular dish
suddenly
or the taste of some drink
or while pushing back a lock of her hair
and suddenly
I too may remember
and wonder
about someone else
I did that to, too
forgot
went away from
wanting to give nothing more
tired of giving
or having nothing more to give
or about the one that went away
the one who flew away
the one that got away
one went astray
one who flew east
or one who flew west
or one who flew over the cuckoo's nest
one went south
one went north
or why this circumlocution
of one not at rest
friend become stranger
or lover become ex
whether she thinks of me or not at all
suddenly, one moment
one fine sudden day

Glopwrimo 26

Glopowrimo #26

"There is none righteous, no, not one, all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God."

Thou shalt not kill
Wrote God with his finger
On a clay tablet
And gave it to Moses
who came down
got angry, and immediately
made some of their own
kill others of their own
The sons of Levi
killed the other Israelites
for the sin of idolatry
while Moses broke the clay tablets

Thou shalt not kill
God wrote again
and gave it, this time
to Moses, in stone
engraved, so that
it could not be broken
and then they killed
and killed and killed
to capture what
Abraham had called
the Promised Land

Thou shalt not kill
said Jesus, to all
but after some years
of getting killed
Christianity
became the state religion of Rome
From being martyrs, they changed it
to being a religion of international killers, galore.

Thou shalt not kill
said Jesus to all
so they burned the witches
held the Crusades
massacred the Saracens and Turks
who killed back
over the Holy Land
hung the heretics
Catholics killed Protestants
Protestants killed Catholics and each other
All in the name of
Thou shalt not kill

Thou shalt not kill
even an ant
said Vardhamana Mahaveera
and Gautama Buddha, later
but Chandragupta Maurya
the Jain chakravarti
and emperor Ashoka
at Kalinga,
both gave the story
quite another twist
as does the fact
 that there are samurais who are senseis
in China, and in Japan
who are Buddhist monks.
Yes. Thou shalt not kill.

Thou shalt not harm
or hurt anyone
or anything
the ancient rishis
taught
in Mahabharath.
Thou shalt not kill

Thou shalt kill
said the Aryans
Kill the asuras
Kill the suryavanshis
So Rama killed
Ravana
Krishna helped Arjuna
to kill
Karna
Thou shalt not kill
Thou shalt not kill

Thou shalt not kill
an innocent soul
said the prophet Mohammed
Peace be on him
but the Mughals came
and killed the ones
who live in what is now
North India
Just or All the same
Thou shalt not kill

Time would end
if I kept on listing
Buddhists in Myanmar killing the Rohingyas
Jews in Germany killed in the Holocaust by Nazis
and in Russia killed in the pogroms by Orthodox Christians
Palestinians in Israel killed by the Jews
Hindus in Pakistan and Bangladesh who got killed
Muslims in India now getting lynched
Christians in Sri Lanka who just got bombed
Partition killings on both sides of the border
The British who killed Indians
The whites who killed the blacks and the aboriginals
who had earlier killed each other as tribals
Godse who killed Gandhi
Sikhs who killed Hindus and Muslims
Hindus and Muslims who killed Sikhs
Those gruesome riots
When Indira was killed
where Sikhs were killed
Communists who kill everyone else
Those everyone else who kill communists
Hindutva fanatics who killed Gauri, Passare and Dabolkar
Atheists who were killed
Atheists who kill others
China that kills

Thou shalt not kill

Animals killed
Birds killed
Trees and plants killed
Insects killed
Water, air, earth, fire, ether all killed, murdered and so the earth killed
Husbands who kill wives
Wives who kill men
Men who kill women
Children who kill parents
Parents who kill children
Families, tribes and clans
who kill each other
and others' families, tribes and clans
Rich who kill the poor
Poor who kill the rich
Caste-based killings
Honour killings
Serial killers
Random loss of temper or self-control killings
Revenge killings
Money-based killings
Suicides
Fratricides, matricides
patricides, pesticides
genocides, homicides
every other fucking -cides
Pakistanis who kill
Indians who kill
Armenian genocide
Serbian genocide
Syrian genocide
Bosnian, Herzegovnian and Latvian genocides
The Sri Lankan genocide
Governments that kill
Armies that kill
Nations that kill
Laws that kill
Law keepers who kill
The lawless who kill
The law breakers who kill
The outlaws who kill
The in-laws who kill
Everybody takes a side
Nuclear deaths
Hiroshima Nagasaki
World War I
World War II
Bhopal deaths
Chernobyl and Fukushima deaths
Thou shalt not kill
Everyone's a killer
Everyone kills

Thou shalt not kill
Thou shalt not kill
Thou shalt not kill
Thou shalt not kill

Thou shalt not kill
Thou shalt not kill
Thou shalt not kill
Thou shalt not kill

Glopowrimo 25

Glopowrimo #25

That icy heart
those icy hearts
skin sandalwood brown
that would
if knifed
bleed ashen drops
yet still fragrant
those faces malevolent that made me drown

The skeletal veins
of crushed, cold, leaves
slush-white-wet
that carpet the ground
under yon black-branched sky-leaning trees

The bitter-gourd tasting nipples
of the she-wolves
in this untimely rain's torrential sleet
stinging their skin like needles of guilt
at being unable to reach their wolf-cubs, to feed

The black horse galloping through
the snow-covered sunflower fields
on which sits a ghostly damask-red clad woman
a black rose pinned to her bared leprous-white breast's crevice

Pierced by the dagger of her ice
My heart feels heavy, sinking; this dark, gloomy night
Whilst the season whispers "everything dies"
Does this last season want to take my life?

All about imagery

A simple note I just wrote that someone in here may find useful based on today's Glopowrimo prompt.

For those who don't know the kinds of imagery there are and that you can use:
Based on Keats' To Autumn'
They are:
1. Visual imagery - for seeing. "the vines that around the thatch-eves run"
2. Auditory imagery - for hearing. "in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn.. lambs BLEAT...crickets sing...the red breast WHISTLES"
3. Tactile imagery - describing the sensation of touch. "barred clouds..."Touch the Stubble"-plains with rosy hue"
4. Gustatory imagery - sense of taste. "to...plump the hazel shells with a 'Sweet' kernel"
5. Olfactory imagery - sense of smell "drowsed with the 'Fume' of poppies"
6. Kinetic imagery - sense of movement "thy 'hair soft-lifted' by the 'Winnowing' wind."
7. Organic imagery - describing a thing without naming it in such a way the reader correctly guesses it name, i.e; accurately. If the great ode or poem "To Autumn" did not have a name, it would be a perfect example of this.
9. Related to this is onomatopoeia where through sound you capture the sound of the thing being described - "And gathering swallows TWITTER in the skies"
10. And last of all synesthesia - "Synesthesia is a condition in which one sense (for example, hearing) is simultaneously perceived as if by one or more additional senses such as sight. Another form of synesthesia joins objects such as letters, shapes, numbers or people's names with a sensory perception such as smell, color or flavor."

Example:
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
"And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees..."

The last four lines are an example of synesthesia where Keats connects the sun and autumn to being conspiratorial innoculators, female and male, lovers, mischievous just past youth friends with benefits ("close-bosom friend of the maturing sun"), mother and father, making babies, having children, bringing them up, growing them- sexually, sensuously - making the shells plump, and the gourds swell - the inversion of verbs is really effective - and the flowers bud or of making them in other words pregnant, mixing sight and feel/touch in those images and making us see the process from outside/inside - a curious ability only the best or most deranged poets have!

Sermon not on the mount

Easter week thoughts or musings

Good morning, everyone.

Sentences that matter in the Bible are "do not be afraid" and "be of good cheer." It is true that the devil walks around as a roaring lion looking whom he might devour but faith is to see that we have already won the victory, by believing in the example of Christ. What does this mean, practically? It means that each morning you get up and are thankful to God for all his loving kindnesses and tender mercies. Yes, someone may be planning death and destruction to you, unknown to yourself, but your job is to leave his downfall to the law, the government, the army, the police etc., not to mention the ten universal commandments or his conscience by which he will be judged. But honestly, as the times are tough we have something more that has to be revived, and that is the need for prayer and faith in the word of God. And the golden rule. Jesus protected himself and others through prayer and faith in and obedience to and love of God's word as he knew that beyond a point even the authorities put in place to help us go about living peaceful lives, we who are ordinary citizens, would be ineffective as we are not facing powers that are human but constellated into groups as spiritual wickedness, satanic forces, evil spirits, and such can only by countered by prayer, alone and in groups, and love of God and obedience to his word after faith in it. These lesser powers from down below can only be defeated by the greater power of God and his allies from up above. Thus, just like black holes eat up all in its path, we become suns that give light to all in our paths to grow and flourish in green earths and this destroys the darkness and spreads light to bring about God's kingdom on earth. All the best, have a lovely day :) Pray without ceasing in your hearts for this is the will of God in Christ concerning us but with faith that he hears and has already heard and answers speedily when our prayers are aligned with His will. Most of all don't fear death as whatever comes after this can't be all that much worse for ordinary people and may be better and if it is nothing then that is fine too and don't worry about those left behind as it is not your job to bother about them, those left living will do that job. If no one does it also, God will, so do not worry or be anxious or think too much, in short, but trust God and live happily. So be it.

Glopowrimo #24

Glopowrimo #24 Illustrated dictionaries and illustrating dictionaries

Dictionary illustrations - for Dorling Kindersley version 2.0

What if
there was a dictionary
that read your mind
and when you turned to,
say,
for instance,
a word like
breasts
showed you not just any
generic pair
but the breasts of the one
you were thinking of?
Wouldn't that be
curious
& peculiar?
Curiouser and peculiarer
would be
one in which when you look at a picture
it shows you the word
you call that in
your mind,
like, say,
for instance,
for example,
suppose you called her breasts
judies,
in case her name was Judy,
and
turning to the picture of those mammary glands
the page says
instead of the usually used word
this one.
Judies!
Would such dictionaries -
Illustrated dictionaries and illustrating dictionaries -
that read you
and your mind -
not like the ones
that you and your mind read -
be welcome
or hated,
dreams
or nightmares?!

Glopowrimo #23

Glopowrimo #23 Ettadimoorkhan**

What one loves
is the unpredictability
of being coiled up inside
in the empty water pot
left in the bathroom
by them in monsoon
and out the next
and their fear
They did not know I am my own master
though by themselves they cannot make out
mostly
whether master or mistress of my fate I be
Then I slither out and they freeze
not knowing
on many nights
I have played with their child
swaying to my hood, tongue and eyes
herself asleep
They freeze and then they brandish sticks
I slip, slide, laugh and I hiss
as long as that hole is not found and blocked
I know that this game is merely hit and miss
I love the green fields
There I am free
Even the mongoose is afraid of me
Sometimes in the water I see me
All length and scales and darting tongue and shades
of black and gold that women love
As for red, that's only if I bite
which I seldom do except for prey
All gleaming I come and all gleaming I go
I am the architect of my own fate!
*Eda murkha, they call the ones they consider a villain
Not knowing I like my fun, jokes and games
as much as they -
the only pestilential race!

** 8 foot cobra

* you cobra

A poem
A day
Keeps
The Blues
Away.

Millais

Glopwrimo #22

Note- I have purposely presented the pair as mother and child, though to Millais they were two sisters, by taking poetic licence.

She hides in the fold of her mother's head scarf
Her blue skirt tattered and threadbare, worn, torn
She looks at the double rainbows, afar
(The sky still dark, though the rain gone away)
A rare sight, first-time seen; but breathes not to her
Mother, on whose scarf a butterfly fli(r)ts
To its soft texture and rich colour, drawn
Again invisible to its neighbour
The fields are golden and green-yellow with corn
The trees thicker green, and afar are houses and cottages
An accordion in her mother's lap is
Which she plays when in town to get money for them
There are sheep and cows in the meadows and further off horses
Nearby there is grass, brambles, wild white-lilies and there's the texture of the cloth
worn by her and the girl, the brown shades and the blacks
The beauty of the scene is so wrought
That we could gaze for hours at it
Trying to decipher each note, each bird, each sun's mote
(And feel our hearts' swell and our breasts' burst
And our eyes begin to moisten, in hurt.

Millais, if ever I met you I would ask
Why did you grieve me thus with such art?
So perfect in its eye for detail
Making us cry out, why is she thus?
And her daughter, peeping out from behind
Her mother's long head-covering, no word
In her mouth, as painting speaks through
Sight to the eyes, and to the heart
Not to the touch or the taste or the smell
Her boots showing she is meant to walk miles
With her mother, so they have to be a hardy pair
Such art makes us fall down and worship, after
We shed our tears; makes less of us, and more
Realising our treasures, and wanting to help
Those who are richer in some things like music but not
As fortunate in some other, like us
And where is her husband?
Or lover, or father
Or mother?
We become all that to her
We want to fill up the need in the small girl
And rush to their aid. What a painting!
We bless God who gave such power to man
To pictorialise such a piteous scene so well
And gave us the power to complete his art
By unlearning 'seeing' and the 'art' of thinking
By re-seeing and re-thinking on its depths and improving our selves
This poem began as an ekphrastic ramble
Forgive me if it meandered into sermonising
Real tears made me wax didactic
Forgive me, take what you can, and leave the rest.

Rising star

I'll turn up, the proverbial bad penny
Just when you think you finished me off 
And I am done with and gone forever
Though you want to get rid of me
You all who think you can shake me off
Like rain after a thunderstorm
from your raincoat
or snow you can brush off your coat
in winter
Like drops of sweat you flick off
And patterns on the window pane
Just a passing phase
But I'll be there, still, among the rising stars
Always, and all ways.

Pinakini Naik's first ever review is of my book Scream and Other Urbane Legends

Sharing my review on the awesome book Scream and other Urbane Legends ! 😃

Scream and other Urbane Legends by the creative powerhouse, poet, critic, academicianDr. AV Koshy is an eclectic collection of 28 short stories and a novella. It features some hard hitting, surreal stories that invite the reader to drop linear thinking, stay alert and dive into exploring twist and turn dreamscapes of fiction and fantasy where unique plots shape shift, quicksilver-like on the story teller’s perceptive canvas.

Once I picked up the book, I couldn’t put it down and finished it in a single sitting, a thoroughly enjoyable read indeed. The stories bump and flow into each other creating an eccentric rhythm not unlike the onset of vivid rapid eye movement (REM), lucid dreams, etched and borne in the cradle of paradoxical sleep, impacting the reader’s subconscious mind in a such a way that it tends to revisit certain plot twists in the mind’s eye to gain deeper insight into the stories and comprehend what might have been missed in the first read.

Death is a recurring theme used as a common thread to interweave the stories with an existential ambience. The minimalist and non attached style of narration reveals what’s absolutely necessary and leaves the rest to imagination, open to interpretation, which works in the favor of the book. This deliberate space allows the reader to absorb, contemplate, savor what has been left unsaid.

Some stand out moments in the short stories were in ‘Aouda: The Confluence’ where the character, Asur, transitions effortlessly from driving a car on a hot desert highway to swimming underwater in the ocean to have a casual conversation with a brown seahorse; Mystical and intriguing viewpoints presented in ‘The Creation Myths on Poetry: A Trialogue’ require a reread to be fully absorbed; The understated melancholic beauty of the short but eloquent piece ‘The Last Scarecrow’ is brilliant in its craftsmanship; The sci-fi story ‘Written on the Body’ reminded me a bit of the movie ‘Cloud Atlas’ directed by the Wachowski brothers, in how beautifully the futuristic scenes flow, then culminate into the ultimate sacrifice of love and life offered by Bride Rose and Kay who save the world with a complete reboot.

The book saves the best for the last and ends with a beautifully woven, intense, self exploratory novella, Anamika. The evocative prose has an autobiographical tone,layered with subtle sensuality, erotic at times, embellished with inlaid poetic gems throughout, keeping the reader deeply involved to its poignant, unforgettable end. A beautiful one liner that stood out and is self-evident in the story, “ Poetry communicates before its understood. “

To conclude, Scream and other Urbane Legends is an introspective book with a whimsical flavor, best recommended for readers with a poetic bent of mind or an eclectic mindset or anyone who is willing to step out of the box.

Easter 2019

Glopowrimo 20 -  Easter 2019 or The Surrealism of the Apocalypse

When he told them
tears in his eyes
they did not believe in it
that he wanted to gather them under his wings
like a mother hen does its chickens
that: in those days woe unto women
especially those who give suck
The falcon can no longer hear the falconer
We met them today, early in the day
It was Easter 2019
Terrible with no beauty born
There had been a great sign in the sky
The fire with its smoke that rose to the skies
and was watched by many observant eyes
while the spire fell down
The bats flew out
The belfries and the towers hung upside down
London and France fell down along with the other burning cities
The angels were finally released
and started to swing their censers
the smoke of which drove them all out of the temple
so they could no longer stand and serve
even the ministers
till it was fulfilled, of the curses and the punishments
The seven lightnings flashed
The seven thunders roared
The seven unclean frogs came hopping out of the mouth of the beast
The sky rolled back
The stars fell down with the figs
The moon turned black
The sea became blood
The flying scorpions came out to sting
Plagues fell upon the earth
like dead meteorites and comet showers
The ice caps melted
The end times had begun
The blood rose in the streets to the windshields of the vehicles
The thick viscous blood of the red-dimmed tides
And God withdrew
In a cloak of austerity
Pale as the horse ridden by death that came last
But before that came the other four
and the one that was red
had fire, fell, in its eyes
and the sound of thunder and hail in its tread
These are the days when the dragon rears its head
for it knows that its time is short
But men bit their tongues
and would not repent
So the curses will be full-fledged
For none turn to God
or what is evident
of God made to them in the things of nature
and their own conscience
and in Jesus risen from the dead
so that even if they hear they can no more comprehend
The light is gone
for a little while
It is the time of the darkness now
But the woman with the moon
under her feet
who wears the sun in her hair
whose face shines like
the midday sun
and walks on rainbows and pauses at the turning of the stairs and gives birth to the little child
who will lead all the nations with the lion and the lamb
is waiting in the wings
to upstage
after this carnival and frenzy of death
to be unleashed upon the world for a time
to bring back the balance again
Lady of the flowers
not desert born, but brought up there
who is this that you bred?
Are these not the children of the one
who is risen from the dead
Is this not the bride he will wed?
Will time not become a scroll he rolls up
on the day he judges the quick and the dead?
Do not surprised then at how many are going to be found undead
Or if the streets run rife with blood
and children be found headless
women grieved, and torn apart
and every other horror witnessed
For it all must be
before it can be
that human-kind again is saved.
So bear with me
and my ill-tidings
and patience may gain you a berth
in the new heaven
and the new earth
when the darkness passes, and there is again no dearth.

Till then. I am loath to tell you
it's only the beginning of sorrows.

My poem published today on Poetry!

https://view.joomag.com/glomag-glomagapril2019/0385545001555810578?short

Easter thoughts

Happy Easter - Christ is risen!

In the most ancient book according to some in the Western world which is the epic of Gilgamesh Gilgamesh sets out on a journey to find eternal life after building his famous wall for which he slays the so called monster Humbabu and conquers Lebanon' forests of cedar etc. He fails to do so as though he manages to get the plant that will give men eternal life and everlasting youth on his return journey where he dreams of giving it to all his people, a snake comes and steals it away from him.

The journey of the mythic hero, Gilgamesh, culminates when he fights with Iostre, his goddess, again unwisely, and dies as a great king who could not win eternal life but is famous for his battle, friendship, victory and the wall as well as the epic itself which he claims to be written by him, that shows Babylon was great during his time.

The journey of Christ is the culmination of and the reversal of what is wrong with the epic of Gilgamesh, where Christ slays the dragon/serpent Satan, builds an eternal kingdom, the kingdom of God, and comes back form the dead to give eternal life and everlasting youth to all who believe and fittingly his resurrection day celebration came to be named, albeit paradoxically, after 'Iostre'! Christ symbolizes the downfall of the earthly, corrupt Babylon/Rome and its idea of kingship with its policies of colonialism, imperialism and expansionism and environmental degradation and the arrival of a new Jerusalem which is based on entirely spiritual principles that is therefore undying, eternal and infinite and not a political kingdom, as it is based on the principles of faith, hope, love, mercy, grace, etc., and is the fulfilment of the 'promised land' of Moses. This is actually the significance of Easter, to have peace on earth and good will to all human beings. The message of peace on earth has been extended and kept alive most in the East by Buddha, Guru Nanak, and others of that spiritual mettle.