Sundry poems and other jottings good, bad and indifferent

Glopowrimo #2 - from FB memories April 2 2017

("Prompt: transform the natural world into an unsettled dream-place. One way to do it is by asking questions – literally.")

The wall melts suddenly
Then I find it's under me
The devil is after me
Money takes to wings and flies away
My health is a pool at my feet that I try
To make freeze into a piece of ice and put back inside
My body. Someone has knifed my throat.
I lie on my bed stiff as a board
If I move I will be engraved
Too young for that, I do not stir
No dreams interrupt my ragged fight for breath
I'll get up and go for a syringe
A change of medicine will be, right now, just like a refreshing change of scene
It's death I am fighting but I am not afraid
We fought many times before and each time we failed
To bring it to any definite conclusion
It can still go this way or that like the walk of a drunken inebriate
As for God, God is silent as usual
I put a coin in the slot of the jukebox
And hear relaxing music, deep-sleep refreshing music
Sounds of Nature, something something Hertz (582?), but I forget just how much it was
For six hours or eight hours
Or non-stop Christian hymns
Or worship music that gentles
Or old Malayalam film songs
Or what my Dad used to play
Country-classic gospel songs starting with Jim Reeves
All listened to for healing when I am in my sleep
I put a coin into the cup of God as if I am begging him to bless me
I put a coin into the cup of the watchman, the one who stands at the gate, and the doorkeeper
Then I run out of coins so it cannot become thirty
Three is the number of the ones in 'Tolstoy's story'
I once loved a woman who probably loved me
Now she always and only lies to me
Whenever I tried to make the coin clink back in those days then it worked
But my fever I could not pass on when she twerked
Soon she was a tree and someone an axe
Who brought between her and me a tax
Of separation, a divide of contortion
A contraption of four legs that had no name but crawled
It crept into my blood like black ink in a cauldron
And as for all the others they were axed into perdition
By me, I who could not stand for an instant any key
That could set me up or put me down to be
To end a long story is to let it grow a tail
Am I sheep, pig, horse or donkey? I am unable to make avail
Of butterflies, sisters and three or four women in jail
I don't say it but I am pretty sure God is punishing me for my sins
I wish to stand up but when I sit down I'm on the windowsill
I look down, and the distance is too short to jump and kill
Myself. And there are no faces down there wanting me not to for me to get a thrill
And feel wanted. Just empty street. No kissing or whispering lovers, or songbirds trilling even, still.
My head was spinning and I was falling before reaching the end of the till
They may call it a suicide, but as for me it was just a home-run of the ill
A commonplace thing, when the pupa or cocoon

breaks, becomes a wet butterfly and takes to crooked wing.

Like Tinkerbell
Whom Peter Pan
Took and shook
For fairy dust
To fall on Wendy
So she could fly
Some giant Baskerville hound
With red fire spewing from its eyes
Took the world one day
And shook it
To free it of its lice

The stationary traveler
whose shadow was his friend
saw the cities whizz past him
while he remained still

All the places
he has never been to
London, Paris, Brussels, Antwerp...
all that jazz
all the times
he could not go to
all of them now went by
like scenes from the window of a train
- as a child, it had seemed to him
the train stood still, the places passed by
but the places were not moving
and it was the train that did -
while he wondered, stationary
travelling
why this plight had come to him.

In the past twelve years or less or more since I came to FB I have easily written at least ten thousand poems or more - lost count of them, actually. They are mostly lost to me but not gone as they are all there somewhere on FB. I don't know anyone who wrote as much as I did but I came across several people who are more famous and considered better poets than me in India and the only reason is better interpersonal and networking skills and better life skills and class, religion and caste in the Indian context. Now I have a choice which is to throw in the towel to admit defeat to parochialism, internationalism, regionalism, racism, linguistic chauvinism, and cliques local, state, national or virtual or keep going on and I choose to go on for the simple reason that I started writing out of a burning desire and love to write and out of a passion and inner drive and certainty that I am good at it and that remains and as long as it does I will continue, irrespective of everything and everyone else.

I am rewriting Marillion's song You're Gone's lyrics to encourage myself against all who took me for a ride to show I am not defeated but have risen up again and always will and to declare I owe no man anything except to love them and am in debt only to God:

I'm Gone

I'm gone as suddenly as I came to you
Like nightfall followed dawn without a day between
I'm gone and suddenly you can't see
You're in the shadow of me (2)
You can see me in your mind's rose-tinted eye
Somewhere I'm drifting by
My heels rolling sparks on the lucky street
While here are you left behind
Stunned and blind
But you can see me from there
You can see me so clear
I am the light
I am the light
I have the day
You have the night
But we had the early hours together
I'm gone, and heaven cries
A thunderstorm breaks from the northern sky
Chasing me back to the daily grind
I'm gone and where are you?
A haunted life
The ghost of my laughter
The half-empty glass
The half-empty glass
And you wait
Till midnight tolls
Two souls almost touching in the dark
You'll be alright
I am the light (2)
I have the day, you can have the night
But we had the early hours
We had the early hours
We had the early hours together
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Ian Francesko Mosley / Mark Colbert Kelly / Peter John Trewavas / Steve Hogarth / Steven Thomas Rothery
You're Gone lyrics © BMG Rights Management US, LLC

I need to judge yesterday's poems. But how can I judge poetry? Lord, I am not worthy. Take this cup away from me. Never the less not my will, but Thine be done.

I have lost track of the poems that came in on my humble prompt showing that it was, despite Santosh and Amitaji poking fun at it delightedly, following Sudeshna ji's superb poem, accepted wholeheartedly by you all as a community and worked upon diligently making it as much of a success as the prompt to write an epilogue given the day before by Mallika Bhaumik.

I read three kinds of poems here till now.

Ones on the prompt

Ones off prompt

Ones on napowrimo prompt

I also read three other kinds of poems here

Hurriedly written ones to finish (off?) The prompt

Ones written, to include some of the tracks

Ones written, to include all the tracks.

I read three kinds of poems, to talk about it in a different way:

Humorous poems

Reflective poems

Narrative poems

I missed some people's poems - and have messaged them as to why they did not give theirs.

I can judge poems in terms of popularity meaning numbers of likes.

In this case, anyone having more than twenty likes - let me tell you are on the top.

One of my personal favorites is Lucette Bailliet

Best inspirational poet remains Nidhi Popli

Vandita Dharni is probably right on top!

As is, probably, Santosh Bakaya - much to my dismay and chagrin! Hahaha. But what a poem! Great!

Popularity is not to be condemned. I have seen that while people usually laugh at FB, the likes and comments here, especially in a group like ours, is a sure sign of excellence and not just friendship.

Ambika Talwar's was a lovely nonsense poem.

Adi Adnan gets top marks for speed.

Rituparna Khan's was a very nice one on the sorrows and joys of being a woman.

Although in a different prompt, I loved Titiksha Singhal's teddy bear poem!

Amitaji wrote three poems at least and I enjoyed all of them, starting from the first classic one to the sarky one to the one imitating Sudeshnaji's style. Top marks for being prolific without losing out on quality.

Sudeshna wrote and rewrote her poem to telling effect almost killing me with her humor. I am afraid I will die of a broken blood vessel one of these days reading her poems and laughing.

Udita Garg wrote two lovely poems and the second one was word perfect.

So did Ritamvara and her second one was better.

Imran Yousuf always delights us with his ghazals and he also delights Olivia Hiddlebaugh Cool whose comments make me go back to his poem :)

Khurshed is a very valuable new addition to our group and a seasoned veteran it is clear as the two poems I read of his are lovely.

Mushtaque Barq sir is already acknowledged as a great writer in Kashmir and does not need my praise.

Jayachandran Ramachandran wrote a very strange but excellent poem in which he 'modifies' a fascist into the new author poet of the Mahabharatha.

I have been reading many of Mahua's poems and what she wrote yesterday was one of her best.

3 poems that really stood out were Nandini Mehra's and Anju Kishore's and Feby Joseph's. Along with Jagari Mukherjee's they gave me the most reading pleasure.

Geethanjali's poem stood out for its typical excellence in mixing Hinduism with poetry of a very high standard.

Pankajam Kottarath is a gem in our midst as she proves time and again by her poems, this one being no exception.

Bhuvaneshwari and Vineetha and Gauri and Sunita and Deepika are all excellent poets, the last three proving it by getting many likes and the first two by their high quality poems.

Elvira Fernandez is a delightful writer and always makes me read her for sheer whimsy.

What about Kashiana - she is the touchstone of quality.

Satbir wrote a very enjoyable tale.

Time would fail me to speak of all the poets in TSL like Snighdha Choudhury, Lily Swarn, Payal Agarwal, Nisha George, Smitha Vishwanath, Vandana Bhasin, Brindha Vinodh, Vidya Shankar, Suchismita Ghosal, Pragyan Mishra, Akash Sagar, Sarala Ram Kamal, Kalpana Shah, Vinita Narula, Geeta Varma, Lisha, Sunanda Bhattacharya, Deyasini Roy, Rohini John, Nikhat Mahmood, Sarmita Dey, Geetha Bharath and anyone else I have not mentioned due to only being a human being and becoming tired.

Last but not least Samrudhi Dash - what a poet she is! Along with Agnivesh Mahapatra, Sukanta Mahapatra, Sangeetha Mishra, Sujatha Mishra, Pragyan Mishra, Pratyush Mishra and Dev Mishra she makes Odiya poetry in English proud.

And Kerala? Zeenath, who else - what a delicately fine voice and sensibility! Sound! Only one poem but like an arrow hitting the target. I must not forget Akhila Rajesh here who writes powerful poetry.

I missed Nikita, Firdaus, Radhakrishnan sir, Sangeetha, and Rukhaya yesterday. Hope they did not post when I was sleeping. Just read Radhakrishnan sir's, clear in mind and thought and sober as usual.

Poetry cannot be judged, it can only be read, appreciated, critiqued, improved, made love to. Thanks for the love you bear for it.

A thousand apologies to anyone I left out - to err is human, to forgive divine.

Archana Zutshi - wow, all the tracks' names in order!

Antara Banerjee and Kabir Deb (epilogue) - brother and sister in arms I left you for last as I love you the most.

And I can never forget Sunil Kaushal's poems.

Never forget to read Precious Chilongozi and Debraj Moulick or Dominic Francis. Or Donnis Mathai.

And our new finds are Bilquis as well as Lubna and Aasia.

I hope you all liked my wedding anniversary poem too.

How can I forget Manisha Manhas and Sufia Khatoon - both superb poets.

I also like reading Er Shine. And Mehak Varun Grover who is very much a part of our community.

I will still read the ones coming in. Panjami Anand, for instance.

Last of all to be mentioned is Sabah Ahmed who always loves me.

Koshy av

TSL Prompt Day 19 - A light hearted poem

Prompt 19 - First poem on it

Three hoodlums were seen one day

On the streets of Hamelin*

Don't ask me why in thick, don't ask me why in thin

These three hoodlums were seen there one day

One was a Raven, black as soot

One, a pesky rat who cared two hoots

One was a Cheshire cat-in-boots!

In the background, someone played a pipe!

The tune was rather familiar

All of you must have heard it, dears

It was Dylan's, venting his fears

Singing in his manner, cavalier

"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind"

The pipe kept playing, getting on my nerves

Harrowing, as the questions had changed

As, what the ****, we lived now in a land of new pervs

First, there was the pandemic

Corona virus, not one, but two strains

Second, the lockdown, strategic

"Twas enough to make you dash out your brains

"I wish I'd gone with the Piper", the pesky rat sqeaked

The Chehsire cat only smiled and vanished

The smile remained but the cat disappeared

"Nevermore" quoth the Raven, as of old

The cat reappeared, and the rat's smile vanished

"This is our chance, mates," the pesky rat intoned

"The whole town is ours, a giant playground"

"Nevermore" was all the raven replied!

They ransacked the shops,

They pillaged the homes

They looted the houses

They feasted on scones

The men whom they had all once feared

Cowered at the sight of the strange trio

The pesky rat told the cat the raven's name was Rio

The Cheshire cat or his smile grinned or alternately wavered

"When will we three meet again", the rat was found to ask

"If this pandemic blows over?"

Putting his paw over Raven's beak to cover -

To not make him say "nevermore" was such a bloody task

The Cheshire cat froze, for behind them was seen a hideous, horrific, horrendous figure

That of a woman they called the Mad Hatter

His smile vanished, brain in a scatter

"Nevermore" quoth the raven, its black feathers all a quiver!

The Mad Hatter, that fearsome figure

Had summoned them/conjured them up for a day from her lockdown tomes

To haunt the streets of Hamelyn and its homes

And listen to a pipe playing the same song, with an insane rigour!

I leave you here, my dear readers

To guess who this troublesome Mad Hatter is

Who is torturing us, and these three poor souls

The answer, my friend, still blowin' in the wind is.... 

19th April

The prompt for today is an imaginary conversation among the Cheshire Cat of Lewis Carroll, The Raven of Edgar Allen Poe and one of the pesky rats, of The Pied Piper of Hamelin, which refuses to be lured away by the Piper. The terrific threesome meet in the corona virus times and get talking.
The conversation is to be embellished by the refrain of The answer is blowin’ in the wind.

Prompt given by Santosh Bakaya

Two blue butterflies - a short story

Two blue butterflies - a short story. (Adults only.) -3rd one on this prompt.

They had never met but there was a kind of electricity between the two of them that left him frothing at the mouth, metaphorically speaking, and her weak at the knees. The power of Second Life can only be known by those who have experienced it. Whenever they met their avatars immediately reached out for each other and could not stop making love frantically to each other whether in the galaxies or on earth or on a beach or in the safety of one of their houses. It was strange, it was uncanny and it was unbelievable.

Though on Second Life she was so bold with him in life she was rather innocent. He led her further and further into the knowledge of and exploration of her own sexuality. It exhilarated her as for the first time as a woman she was becoming fully aware of herself and her body. It gave her newfound confidence that showed in her face and walk, in the sway of her hips, when she went for work. One day he taught her how to locate her clitoris and she was astounded as for so many years she had heard of its existence but had not connected it with reality. She was shy, bashful, and even silent but at the same time, her interest peaked. She called him Osho in her mind and her tantric sex-and-love guru, smiling secretly to herself.

Then came the pandemic. And the tragedy. He fell sick. She felt frantic but could not go to him as he was quarantined. She finally got the shocking news one day that he had died. She logged into Second Life and sent him a hi but there was no reply, naturally. She wept and wept.

That night she had a strange dream. She was in Second Life, nude, and in a forest calling out his name. She called again and again, desperate to locate him. They had loved each other deeply, she knew now, it had not just been sex.

She was about to give up and tired she lay down on the soft green grass, in a clearing in the forest in one of their settings. She slept. When she woke it was afternoon and the glade was full of flowers and butterflies. A blue one came and sat on her thigh. She wondered why. To her surprise, it crawled to the labia of her genitalia and suddenly with a short flight alighted on them. The butterfly's proboscis was searching, she understood, for her clitoris.

In her state of semi-sleep and semi-wakefulness, in the forest, in the glade, she opened her legs and thighs fully wide welcomingly and let it drink of the nectar of the black rose between her legs, till she was filled with a strange nameless ecstasy.

"Osho, is that you?", she heard herself mutter.

There was no answer. Butterflies don't reply in human language, after all.

She woke up with a very high fever. She did not have to check to know that she had got it too. The damned illness, Soon she would also die and join him in that glade in the forest at noon and proboscis to proboscis they would drink nectar from each other and the many different kinds of flowers there around them, again, but this time as two blue butterflies,