Vision

not buzzing, not much intonation,

I consider the hive perched on the tree,

and conjecture if I could extract some honey,

to bestow the day with a sweetness,

I can not savor, but discern and concede,

by heeding the clear golden flush,

and the strands as I finger it and above,

those rupturing lines, swirls of purity,

the measures of which I can not fathom,

but I can strive to discern, concede

the marvels of that edifice,

where it is concocted, prepared into

the divine reward of nature, the scents

of which, I gulp in, even if they’re not there,

but I could acquire the traces of familiarity,

which I thought, I had never had,

ah! I sigh… and I depart from the moment,

when I gave a glance, and disregarded,

the vision now glorified into a serene scene,

through the electrons, I am entitled to,

which have altered what took place,

into something, I could only fancy, had

.

This is tagged as the poem for 28 November for NaBloPoMo.

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We wait…

7/12/71 it is heard, the siren of the night

.

we rush back into our burrows,

hollow compartments dug into the streets,

and sometimes an unclassified basement

made, in the otherwise grounded houses,

a little light lamp is all we have as

we wait, waiting to know what

is conspiring, pondering over

the question, whether there is

going to be a war in our region,

I have clenched my mother’s saree,

it is plain cotton, no embroidery,

as she has her eyes shut, and her hands folded,

invoking the blessings of gods to keep them safe,

and to hurry the sun-lord to rise,

and make it seem right in the brightness of day,

the men gossip their trades, still important

to be discussed, and sometimes I could catch

their hesitation, of talking about

the war, spreading through every border,

marked by silence, more shrill than

the temple bell… kids cry, as the illumination

of the lamp dims, due to lack of kerosene,

and we wait… we wait in our bunker,

shadowed by our unaware selves

 .

we are waiting in quarters in candle lights,

waiting for the order from high command,

pondering whether we would also face the war,

a new package has arrived of artilleries, there

is a rumour, that the enemy would try to seize

the territory nearby soon, but we have to wait

and think, muse within our minds, I wonder

what my new born is doing back at home,

she would be nursing him… may be and

that brings a smile across my eyes,

I should, I must write a letter but what

would I write, my mind is frozen,

it is getting cold and colder, December

winds are piercing… ruddy thorns into

the skin and, that has made me thinking

of those hiding in the city, below the ground,

unknowing, blind to the action-less night,

may be there would occur nothing, and may be

things will be normal soon, I can hear my

comrades scratching their unshaven face,

and that gives me an itch in my coarse beard,

and I wait as others are waiting, the siren has

ceased its solemn tune, and someone switches

on the light… flickers and then is switched on,

.

and we wait…

 .

years have passed, calendars have changed,

there was that war of 65 and 71 and also of 99,

and I wonder how many more wars would be waged,

there has been trouble at the borders this year,

the cease fire was compromised and I wait… wait,

with a hope that it would not happen again,

and just think of the stories told to me… and

in this black room, at this moment, I reflect

her expression as she had shared her tale, while

chewing over her tongue, the bell for the period had rung

.

A little explanation required for the ending… the tale of girl told from the beginning is inspired from the experiences shared by one of my teachers about 8 years back. She had told of her war story, of the underground compartments and that has paved the way for the poem… so the end marks the time when she had narrated it to her students. The wars are real but the narration is fictional… rather I would consider it imaginary because I have imagined the setting during the war of 1971 because of course, I was not even born then. If you are confused about something or if you have any questions, please do ask.

I was thinking of writing something about it but then, I was also inspired by dVerse Poetics prompt of Calendars today. I haven’t used the theme explicitly but of course, the time and calendar has a lot to do with it.

This is tagged as the post for 24 November for NaBloPoMo.

And before I forget, I wrote a guest post for Yeah Write, dated 23 November, which you can read here.

*The date in the first line is written in the format of dd/mm/yyyy.

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Where no one sleeps

a land where no one sleeps,

no one ever wakes,

inundated in the petals of reverie,

encrusted with the hues of red,

each soul is profoundly embalmed

in the hymns, of requiem,

rendered by the wailing winds,

there is something about this place,

but there is nothing extraordinaire,

save, for what is felt and seen

.

This is tagged as the poem for 23 November for NaBloPoMo. I am linking it up with:

1. Transforming Friday with Nature’s Wonders Prompt

2. Friday Flash 55

Her thirst

her grapnels incise my flesh

the grume squirts out,

my grin evaporates,

I bear the sting of her,

ripping myself for her,

she gradually stoops down to look,

at the affected area, and suck through,

while I squirm in bouts of pleasure and

pain, desire and disdain, to stop her,

to her thirst, I abstain

.

For G-Man’s Friday Flash 55.

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I am tagging it as the post for 16 November for NaBloPoMo. Please do share you feedback.

All these ordinary days

rummaging, through the stacks in my mind,

teeming with the paperwork of all the days,

I have survived, and some that, I have lived

so far, in this inconsequential life, of strife,

I am looking for a routine, usual day, when

I exercised my muscles, to actually smile-

.

that one afternoon, when I toasted my bread,

inundating it with clarified butter, browning it

like my arms, underneath the winter sun,

and those hot turmeric potatoes, wedged

between two such breads, and how I salivated,

smiling, I chucked, into the apexes of appetite;

.

those ungodly hours, of the nightingale night,

my whole being vibrating, with the music

bursting into the hollow of my ears, my eyes

streaked with tears, reflecting the words,

sung by Marx, Dion and Adams, when I was

still unfamiliar of Bowie, Lennon and Mercury;

.

and how to forget, the excursion to the city fair,

my reluctance, to climb onto the Ferris wheel,

all of those who accompanied me went, while

I waved to them, some had closed their eyes,

panicked, but still going on for the ride, and

the way I shivered in my bones and smiled-

.

I am pondering, over such moments of delight,

to be nostalgic, in these dark hours, and beam

and laugh and snigger, and tap my forehead, to

feel my presence in me, and consider these days

I have lived… I live through these ordinary days,

till when it comes, to screen the vision, of my eyes

.

Something light for today. This is tagged as the poem for 14 November for NaBloPoMo. I am also linking it up with Poets United Verse First, where the prompt is to talk about ordinary things.

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