Prompts day 21 TSL April 21, Prayer, Friendship (Given by Satbir Chadha)

Prayer is silence
God is Silence

*********************************************************************************

Friendship

I wandered through the desert, the hot sand burning my feet, in search of a friend.

I wandered through a garden full of the fragrance of roses and jasmine in search of a friend.

I wandered through a world of hail, snow and blinding winds in search of a friend.

The dust cut into my brown skin and red blood came out in drops in my search for a friend.

I flew far beyond the seven hills and four directions even to the skies, the yellow moon, the white sun, and the silver stars, in my search for a friend

I crossed the Himalayas and the Ganges and went far beyond all the blue oceans in my search for a friend.

I looked inside caves, I looked inside caverns, I looked into tunnels and gorges of darkness in search of a friend.
I have been to the poles and seen ice stalactites and stalagmites in my search for a friend.

I fell in love in search of a friend and fell out of love in search of a friend, thinking that friendship was the softness of touch, of taste, of fragrance, of kisses, of embracing hands.

I climbed mountains and crossed valleys, I walked plains and I went past villages, towns, and cities in my search for a genuine friend.

The ivy hung over the fence, the wisteria climbed the walls, time went by like life and death came closer while I still found no friend. I was no closer to finding a real, true friend.

Till one day I realized I would never find a friend, the only friend of the friendless is God and he teaches me to be the friend, everyone's friend, and never to look for any friend.

TSL PROMPT Day 21 April 21 Prayer (given by Satbir Chadha)

Prompt day 21 - Prayer (with Satbir Chadha)

She used to pray. She would just sit on her bed in her small bedroom and fold her hands and pray. She did not face in any direction, or faced any direction it was convenient for her to, though she said once to him that it was good to face the sun. A left-over from the Vedas. Sometimes with closed eyes and sometimes with open ones, she would pray, she would wrestle in prayer. Sometimes her lips would move and sometimes it would not. There was a lot of, a great deal of, intensity in it, a determination, will power, and sometimes a concentrated struggle, but at the end, a serenity would come all over her face, as if she had received the certainty that what she had asked for had been given, what she had to let go off had been let go off, or as if she had heard what she had been told (to do or not do) etc. Let go and let God. She looked most beautiful just after prayer. Her prayer reminded him of the ordinary picture that hung in front of his house, framed, of someone who had once asked the cup to be taken away from him but only if it was in the Will of the Divine. He felt safe at the sight, as he knew he was among those being prayed for, but he knew her prayers ranged much, much wider than that.

He, on the other hand, was someone whom he never saw pray, alone, but his life itself was a prayer, starting from when he got up in the morning, at 6 am to when he slept at 9 or 10. It was only after he died that he saw a video of him praying for all the family, a video taken for posterity's sake, praying out loud and it was touching how he remembered and mentioned each person and their needs, praying for so many people, one by one.

You don't need any building to pray in. The temple is your body. You don't need any name to pray to. You pray to the Supreme, the Absolute. You just say what you want to, ask what you want to, what comes from the Heart, from the depths of the heart, then relapse into silence, and listen, listen to the silence and sometimes, if you are lucky, it will speak to you, silently impress on your heart what to do or what not to do. what to say or what not to say, what to be or what not to be. Your prayers may or may not be answered but when you pray forgive all whom you think harmed or hurt you, whether they actually did or not, and let go off all your worries, anxieties, complaints, grievances, negative thoughts, hatred, grumbling and whining one by one to enter into peace and pray not for yourself but for all as you contain all, not differentiating between friend or foe.

You may use words sometimes or you may not but if you use words be specific. You may get what you asked for or not but persist in prayer till you reach its end.

Prayer, after all, what is it? It is a life like his, laid down or sacrificed daily, moment by moment for his loved ones, or a prayer like hers that is like a fire or a flame that burns down all negativity and gathers strength to build up after that all that is good in the world.

Prayer, after all, what is it? It is the holy land or place that waits for you to enter and remain there permanently with your shoes off in reverence, on bare feet, metaphorically speaking. Prayer? Prayer is poetry.

Napowrimo day 20 April 20 TSL Prompt "My mother, my best reader" ( A tribute to the writer Sara)

TSL PROMPT 20 (a lovely prompt by Udita Garg - thanks for this Udita, grateful!)

My Mother, my Best Reader (a tribute to the writer Sara)

I do not remember why but one day I set pen to paper

and wrote something, when six or seven

that included this line

"the moon is like a yellow plate,"

and my mom and dad took it

sent it to an international competition

Shanker's

for literature and the arts

and I won the prize

A silver cup arrived

with a book of illustrated Bible stories (so strange!)

and their annual book with my poem in it

along with art and writing from others around the world

plus a huge cheque

that was spent on going to Pai & Co

the best bookstore in Thurvananthapuram then, opposite Ayurveda college in those days, now no longer there

small but packed with the best books

with my brothers, sister, mom, and dad

buying me books that lasted a lifetime

Black Beauty, Enid Blyton, Tintin, fairy tales, folk tales from around the world and so many other books

that became my window to the world

and they put my picture in the Malayala Manorama newspaper

saying "Malayali balan sammaanaarhanayi"

I looked sweet and innocent with a smile

with my huge ears sticking out like Kafka's or Beckett's

Yes. My mom was my first and best reader

being herself a writer and poet, though she could only study till she became a matriculate which is another story

that led to me and my sister getting our Ph.Ds

She had made my two elder brothers and my sister

get the same prize too, earlier, to encourage us

start us off

in days when merit was still a term

that held meaning

for us lower-middle-class folk

and her encouragement

still holds me up

and led to us

having the writing streak even in our families

even now

so her grandchildren also write.

A reader who loves you

and wants to bring out the best in you

is that rarest gift

and makes a writer great

and we children had it in her

Such a gift happens only once

in a lifetime, perhaps

but once is enough.

It is made more poignant

by the fact that

she had no such person

in her life, to bring out the best in her

so she became that Light

to/for us.

20th April

So, for the prompt today, I hope you write an Ode to your most dedicated readers (who may be your admirers or critics, preferably from TSL family, though no limits) and also to get to know what do they exactly admire about your poetry and quote those lines from them in your poem. No, it's no mutual admiration clubs or coterie, you can also write why they hate your work and write one hateful Ode. 😁 This is no reader replacing the author as God either, just my attempt at making the reading experience here more meaningful. I hope you enjoy the conversation, thinking about your poetry and appreciating the people who read you. Gratitude! Prompt given by Udita Garg

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!