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,

Day 18 NAPOWRIMO Prompt April 18 Blue Butterfly Day

Blue Morpho

Blue lightning

edged with black thunder

in "spring"

you fly

free

always drinking

from the "flower"

of your choice

You crossed my path

the other day

I'm going through changes

so is the world

your wings fluttering

made this change we see today

no one saw the connection

except the ones

who know

"wheels" exist

within

wheels, without wheels

in life's sway

I've seen your armies

when you were only plant-chomping caterpillars

in the "mire" or on some trees

I've seen your swarms

My kaleidoscope

was no match for yours, in plural

You are angels

sent 'gold-tinted' 'sky-flakes'

of my loved ones

who went up

the stairway to heaven

rare and common

symbol of resurrection

and make chaste sex and love

with the man in the woman

and the woman keeping him in

in the blood of Eden

in the gardens of Eden

I see you always

light-hearted

care-free

happy

flitting

fluttering

soaring

symbol of soul and immortality

linked to the sun and hope

and spiritual ascent

linked to the light

as you are seen in the day-time

alone or in kaleidoscopes

You are me

I am you

And together

we always

overcome

death's dew

though it besmirches

the flowers

we try to drink from

we purify

the nectar

and live

ever young

fresh

and new.

TSL NAPOWRIMO Prompt 18 given by Gauri Dixit



It is April, the blue butterfly is here. So is the spring. What more do we need in order to celebrate the blue butterfly day? Love this poem by Robert Frost

Blue-Butterfly Day
by Robert Frost

It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.

But these are flowers that fly and all but sing:
And now from having ridden out desire
They lie closed over in the wind and cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.

The prompt today is to write a poem about the blue butterfly in the picture and include at least 5 elements/objects /words from Frost's poem ( spring, mire, flurry, flower, wheels, wind, sky-flakes, wing ). And if you can write a lyrical poem, nothing like it.

Photograph taken by Gauri Dixit and prompt also by her.

TSL PROMPT Day 17 NAPOWRIMO Forgiveness

Forgiveness

I left her
though she loved me
I wonder should I call?

She hurt me
though I loved her
So love became our downfall

Love is for to give it your all
Love is not for to get it all
Who said all this, after all?
Forgive, forget, but never make that call.

Forgiveness - 2

The love of God forgives
but not the love of man.

The love of God forgets
but not the love of woman.

Every man harsh as sandpaper
Every woman the memory of the elephant

Forgiving and forgetting?
Only children can,

though it doesn't mean they always must.

NAPOWRIMO 16, THE WEDDING ANNIVERSARY TSL PROMPT based on the Track List of Sufjan Stevens latest album "Aporia"

A LOVE SONG

1. Aporia

What is this strange hiatus
this unexpected aporia
that has come upon us;
me here, you there
with no clarity
about when we shall meet again
a smaller story
in the bigger one
across the globe
of people together
or separated
dying alone
or living
whatever their age
or colour
creed, gender, caste, religion, politics?
It could presage a fresh start
unheeded
but we can heed it

2. Ousia

Yes, we are now one essence
one substance
as the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit
though sundered by time and space;
this cannot dissipate

3. What it takes

is
eros
philia
storge
agape

What it takes
is faith
hope
caritas

What it takes is love
compassion
mercy forgiveness

What it takes is ousia
born of two becoming one

4. Agathon

I am the one
whose poems
on Revolution, Sakhi, and many other sequences
are not remembered
but my name is
and you are the one
who inspired me
so my name lives,
if not my poems

5. Raymond Scott

Another obscure artist
How we artists struggled
and if not for our women
who hurt us or loved us
into creating
would we have existed?
Would we not have merely exited?

6. Glorious you

Glorious you
unclothed
lily of the field
my rose of Sharon
when the light caught your hair
and your laugh pealed
or your eyes smiled
when your breasts were revealed
when you and I were shy
and even now in the middle of our sojourn
glorious soul
glorious you
No one to compare with you
Anna, no one nigh.

7. Lydian ring

The ring tested me
and it tested you
I failed
You won
The crown belongs to you.
Let me now creep in
to heaven under your wing
Be my St Lucy
my Beatrice anew
and make me hope for Home

8. Climb the mountain

We have not come to Sinai
but to a better mountain
on the  top of which dwells
on the top of which dwells
on the top of which dwells...

9. The Red Desert

That is me
I am in it
I weep, holding you
but you are not here
I am not weeping for us
You know it
I am weeping for India
I am weeping as I don't have a gun
I am weeping for Anand
I am weeping, missing your bosom
& that I do not have an army
I would kill all these bastards
Bury their bloody, fucking, bodies in this red desert

10. Matronymic

You are my replacement
for my mother
my Rebecca
but see, my love,
the world has crumbled
into dead bodies;
the sand
of disease
piles them up around us
and now neither any Matronymic
or Patronymic
holds anyone up
except us
as we are made of steel
We are lovers and lovers
are survivors

11 Disinheritance

This is our land
We have only a disinheritance
We are Christians
We are not considered
first-class citizens
in recent times
yet we are happy
as we come to save and not to be saved


12. Palinode

I could unsay that
about the dead bodies
and say we are a great nation
but we are not
We have to look after ourselves, now
not care for this nation gone to the dogs
and it is a matter to be bemoaned

13. Determined outcome/ Misology

Love
let us take wings
and not let fate
or the concept of the nation
or fascism
or casteism
or Hindutva
or class
or gender
or virus or pandemic
or poverty
or hunger
or famine
or death
or MISOLOGY
in things like Islamophobia
defeat us
We will reach
the determined outcome

We will reach Ataraxia!
We will reach Eudaimonia!
We will reach the unlimited!

Our children will be warriors
defeat the runaround
bring about the afterworld alliance of conciliation
Every one of them will be a backhanded cloud
Captain Praxis, man or woman or having autism
We are the army, the fire grows in our eyes
You and me and our children, love
"We're gonna raze, raze the prisons to the ground!"

Napowrimo 13 Elizabeth and Darcy (the untold story of how she stole his heart)

Elizabeth and Darcy (the untold story of how she stole his heart)

Now that I am old I can tell you the true story
Like Kate Winslett did in that movie
That came later, much after my time
On how her ship was sunk
And all she was left with was a stone
When Wickham was talking I was looking at his ruffles
They were more in number than Mr. Bingley's
I don't like men whose names end in hams or start with Binges
By the way, do you?
It's so much more romantic if they end with sea
As in you know who's does.
My smile grew wider though he was such a proud oaf
Seeing how his wristwatch perfectly mantled o'er his wrist
And his pocket-handkerchief peek(p)ed out of his pocket
So white, so delicious, like a little white mouse-head
His breeches were like the arches of some churches
So stylish, I mean; don't get me wrong, he wasn't bow-legged
And his shirt, coat, and weskit were all impeccable
Like the sun and the rain on a picnic hospitable
In a cummerbund or bow-tie, he'd still be resplendent
His biceps would win any battle of the bulge
And his grounds and mansion were ideally large
Fully to my taste
How could I get off the barge?
Barge, what barge, you may be thinking?
Has she had one too many of the large?
No, I am just being metaphoric
Didn't Raleigh and another Elizabeth sail in a barge?
Suffice it to say, soon I found him unbend
In my mind's eye, all prejudice spent
One day - not written off in the book-
When no one was looking I kissed his pride
and whispered in his ear
Darcy, my dear
Tell no one, but your name ending with 'sea'
has quite clinched it for me
Poor Lydia and Jane can have their hams and binges
I choose you, if you'll have me, I'm thine
Taken aback by my passionate kiss
He quickly rallied
and - not written in the book -
put his hand
(this I blushingly confess)
in my bosom
This did my prejudice entire
take away, if any was left.
He knew how to steal my
shame-faced mien away
to a bolder glance, to his unquestioned sway
while I stole his millions and his nights
(This will, I thought, thrilled, also put paid to Mr. Collins)
that day, happy, as I wanted badly
to know where his hand would go next if left to stray!

Not-a-triolet - a savage deconstruction

A crazy form called triolet -

Its name sounds a lot like toilet -

is a cheat. You write five lines

and three of them you cut and paste

to say you wrote an eight-line poem!

Then you pat yourself on the back

as if you did something great

after filling in the rhyme with words like marmoset

or worse still, ones like flibbertigibbet! 

Theft in the Time of Corona

Theft in the Time of Corona - with Aakriti Kuntal (thanks)

Helpless in the tide from
the oceans of my mind
where the homeless trudge
back to nowhere, trepanned
the blood roaring in my ears

The waves wash up the bodies of the children, tattooed
By death

I steal
away from the images
crowding
inside
to resemble
the living dead

The river, at another bend
grows drinkable
and swallows swoop
on the red sunset
to peck out its heart
as if echoing the dreams
and cries of the mute
who will never know, now
crisis again
resting in the arms of the ones
who went on ahead
have permanently slept
free of the scouring dis-ease
of life.

My mind
of jungled Apolemia too
longs, not for peace but rest.

My Poem Black Dove translated into Italian by Santa Vetturi

‎Santa Vetturi‎ द्वारा Let's Hug The World With Poetry

21 मार्च को 1:04 अपराह्न बजे

Ricevo questa prosa poetica dal dottor Ampat Koshy, che lavora presso l'Università di Jazan, in Arabia Saudita, mentre la sua famiglia è rimasta nella città d'origine, Bangalore, in India.

HOPE

Someone working abroad worried about his wife and children waiting for him.
Back home in another country finds hope coming in through the window
Smiling as a gentle breeze and forgets temporarily himself and his sorrows.
Outside, but, Covid-19 hunts and hope as a black dove flies about in the sky.

SPERANZA

Qualcuno che lavora all'estero è in ansia per la moglie e i figli che lo aspettano.
Con il pensiero a casa, in un altro paese sente la speranza entrare attraverso la finestra
sorridendo come una leggera brezza e dimentica temporaneamente se stesso e i suoi dolori. Fuori, però,
il Covid 19 va a caccia e la speranza come una colomba nera
vola nel cielo.

Napowrimo 13 April 13 The day I stole Santosh Bakaya away ( "Unbeknownst to her she was stolen, and how")

I have met them at the close of day
coming home from their work
looking tired, and wanted to say
Hey, lovelies, look at me

and put a smile on your face
You look enchanting e'en more
When tired at the end of the day
or sprouting at the gates

like forlorn, desolate lilies
waiting for the husband, daughter or son
to come back to make life less dull
and bring in some end-of-day cheer

I had stolen many of their hearts
I had stolen a Malayalam textbook
I had stolen my father's stamp album once
I am quite an accomplished thief

But all agree on such a dismal, dark day
I stole Santosh Bakaya away
to the Lidder to live in two small white cottages or tents
for we had two novels to write and then read

out to each other
on the banks of the river Lidder
I stole her off all the way to Kashmir
Where Father Time, fairyland-like, stands still

I stole her - unbeknownst to her - quite away
I stole her clean away
I stole her clear away
I stole her, soft and quick, away

The temperature might have dropped in the mouth
of the instrument that measured it that day
But not a care had I in the world
as I had stolen Santosh away

All the way to the Lidder
to read her novel, and write
mine and read it to her
in wit, humour and dazzling wordplay

It was winter when we got there
spring went by and summer
and then came autumn
and we were still

scribbling madly away
For when two mad people start writing
they never stop for a day
and the pages keep up piling

and the novels getting longer
day by night by day
night by day by night
day by night by day

We may never finish these novels
but we read it out each day
at the end of it to each other
on the banks of the Lidder, I say!

I have hardly seen her since here
except when we emerge
each evening to read them out
our novels and then retreat

I have met them at the close of day
My characters and her characters
Willy-nilly, mixing and talking
at the end of each such day!

By the side of the river
with the backdrop of lush green mountains
under clear blue skies
with the sounds of the rushing foaming swirling white waters

In a place called Pahalgam
in Jammu and Kashmir
where the peace is unbroken
in a 'novel' lockdown.

They come out from two small white cottages or tents
and dance in the pale moonlight
with the devil or without him;
her characters and mine.

Napowrimo 12 April 12 (Off the Prompt) Jesus

As triolets don't interest me let me write on Jesus, it being Easter.

Some say he didn't exist
Some say he was just a man
Some say his grave is found in Kashmir
Some say, in Jerusalem

To the Jews he was the false Messiah/the false Christ
To the Christians he is Lord
To the Muslims he is a prophet
To the Hindus one more God

Some say he was in India
Where he learned to walk on water
From the art of hatha yoga
And how to resurrect the dead

Some say he was in England
Some say that he was gay
Some say he was a woman
Some say that he took 'shrooms

But the Jesus that I met and know
Is none of all these things
He is both much simpler and deeper
And not deciphered by false runes

Some say he is resurrected
And ascended to the skies,
Will come back to judge the quick and the dead
With his saints and rapture his Bride

Then there will come the final reign
Of His, and peace on earth
and in heaven, both made new
With every tear wiped

And that's who I believe he is
As that's what gives me hope
To strive down here, below, now
To make things better for this world.

Inspired by Larry Norman for the form.

Jesus and Mary Magdalene whom he revealed himself to first after the resurrection

Napowrimo 11 April 11 The Language of Flowers

Part 1

The Flowers of Childhood

The red rose bush
The white jasmines
Mulla pookkal and kudamulla pookkal
And the roadside flowers
Touch-me-nots and forget-me-nots
The smaller, the better
Whites and yellows, reds and blue
The clusters the hummingbirds came to drink honey from
With their standing-stillness-whirring wings
With my sister trying to explain to me
The names I never remembered
My mother put the love of flowers in me
Even now they remind me
Of Gray and Wordsworth simultaneously
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen"
In forest or glade and valley and by tower
"And waste its sweetness on the desert air"
But "oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
And then my heart," again, "with pleasure
Fills and dances with the flowers
Of my childhood and gives me peace"

Part 2 The Flowers of Ideology

My mother read me Toru Dutt
but was wiser than the poet
for she told me to love the rose,
the lily, and the lotus - all,
not to make a fight of it,
For in the world they all three live
thrive
spread their grace
and do not care that men have made
them symbols to fight with
I follow my mother and
so equality always praise.

Part 3 The Flowers of Art

The flowers of art
like the love of God
are wider, deeper, longer, broader
higher than any man can grasp
Here there's a place for all the flowers
Ophelia's sad ones and also plastic, or cloth ones
Alice's talking and acting/dancing flowers
Flowers in vases and Venus fly-traps
I want to write the Revenge of the Flowers
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
"The flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryears"
Singing ones, to put it briefly
Here flowers come into their own
Here they have their own language
Here they have not only a glossary
They have their own litany and epiphany

Painting: Vincent Van Gogh, 3 Sunflowers, Still life.

Quotes from Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray and I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud by Wordsworth, sometimes popularly referred to as Daffodils.

A Translation of my Poem into Bengali by Lopa Banerjee from USA

"Honored and more than that touched and moved beyond words by Lopa Banerjee who is a great writer now in her own right translating my intensely personal poem into Bengali <3 font=""> Will never forget this gesture of love, dear Lopa."

Lopa  Banerjee  is with, Santosh Bakaya and Ampat Koshy.

March 27 at 9:53 AM

During grim times as these, hopeful that at least we are privileged with a roof over our heads, food on our plates and the succor of books, literature, creativity which is not only our food for thought but also the inspiration and the stimulus to carry on with our everyday lives, despite the grueling reminder of death and devastation ...

My humble Bengali translation of the English poem 'It Hurts Me', by Dr. Ampat Koshy , a prolific poet and scholar of contemporary Indian English literature. He has been my creative writing mentor since 2014 and I can't describe how happy I am to share this little gift with him.

4

আমি আহত হই
ঠিক যখন আমি ভাবি
কিভাবে তুমি বন্দী একটি দেহের বেড়াজালে, শব্দহীন.
হয়তো আমি আহত হই তোমার অপেক্ষা আরো বেশি.
অশ্রুর দুচোখে ধারাস্নান
ভাবি, যখন আমি যাই দূরে সরে, কিভাবে
তুমি বোঝাতে পারো না বোবা যন্ত্রণা
আমি জানতে পারি না, না জানবো কখনো
তোমার কাতর অনুভূতি Kkk
আর তার পর, সেই দিনটির কথা মনে আসে
যখন প্রিয়তমের প্রস্থান হয় চিরস্থায়ী,
বক্ষ সংকুচিত হয় ভাষাহীন আর্তনাদে
অশ্রু ঝরে যায় তীরবেগে,
তখন-ও, যখন আমি প্রার্থনা করি, আমি যেন প্রথম না হই,
বা তুমি, বা সে, বা
তার তাা সার

যদিও জানি, সে প্রার্থনা মন্জুর হবার নয়.
তাই আশায় আশায় থাকি, হয়তো কোনোদিন এমন আসবে—
তুমি যাবে প্রথম, তারপর সে, তারপর আমি.
কিন্তু প্রকৃতির এই হয়তো খেয়াল,
জানি তার অমোঘ বিধান.
প্রথম প্রস্থান আমার, তারপর তার, তারপর তোমার.

একথা ভেবে ভেবে আমি কুঁকরে যাই
দু চোখের অশ্রু মুছে যাই নিরুপায়,
এই বহমান স্রোতে, মনে হয়
আমাদের ছিল আরো, আরো উপায় ...
কিন্তু সত্যিই, ছিল না.

Original poem in English: It hurts me

It hurts me
only when I think of you
trapped in a body
wordless

Maybe it hurts me more than it does you?

The tears fall from my eyes
like torrential rain
thinking of how
when I go away
you cannot express -
I cannot ever know -
what you feel, then
and when I return
you cannot express -
I cannot ever know -
what you feel, again
and then , thinking of that one day
when one goes away to stay
my chest constricts more
my tears fall faster
even as I pray
that I will not be the one to, first
or you
or she or them
but it may all happen together
though I know such prayers are not answered
so I hope again, that it may happen the other way
you first, then she and then I
but if it goes the way of nature
then I know it will go thus
I first, then she, then you

Thinking of that
I get upset
but do not know what to do
except to wipe my eyes
go on
as if
there is a choice
when there never was one.

Poem source:

https://koshyav.blogspot.com/2015/

Photograph of Lopa Banerjee who is a creative writing teacher in the USA as well as a writer of fiction and non-fiction and of poetry and a translator of repute.