PadmaShree, Sri Jayanta Mahapatra once said,"There is something in me that refuses to die. It’s there, somewhere deep inside me perhaps. And this is poetry."
The genesis of POETICbug was thus an act of unleashing the curbed thoughts in the form of poems. POETICbug,says, "I praise; I dare; I invoke care; You write, recite my glory; I am, Poetry."
-Taking forward the spirit of poetry !
The sun was lazy today,
Yawning to the cool morning breeze,
Cuddled up in the lap of the pregnant clouds,
Still trying to shine bright.
As the water broke,
The clouds came rushing down,
Bringing with them the hue of spring,
Leaving behind the pleasant petrichor.
Sitting in the moving bus,
With empty seats as co-passengers,
Nostalgia just hugged me tight,
Kissing me with memories old.
In such a far away land,
The rain drops still sound the same,
Melilfluous wherever they fall,
But the essence of being your own,
is always at your home.
It was Christmas and news from the hospital so rapidly appeared,
Grandpa was better and his bed was being prepared.
Our happy faces waited for his return, but~
He came wrapped in a white cloth, carried by his sons.
In a moment the house broke down, his glass of ‘Horlicks’ spilled on the floor.
Someone held Grandma tight while I stood near the pillar overseeing all.
It seemed like a design of the nature where each played their specific role.
The women mourned loud, men sobbed sober and little ones did not bother.
They exposed Grandpa in presence of all yet he did not shout a “NO”.
They bathed and dressed him fine, but why at all, when he is already gone.
Too many flowers and incense sticks choked his deflated lungs.
As if that was not all, they had to choreograph with Grandma too.
Broke her bangles, hurt her ruffled skin and each bruise left her a clot within.
When she appeared from that vicious circle of women,
She was not the Grandma I had known all along.
They held him high on their shoulders, calling the Lord,
Headed to where the corpse belong.
All followed suit yet no wife, no grand (daughter), no sister was allowed.
If he never loved me less, why could I not follow him until his ashes?
How was my little brother braver to see ~
The pyre; melting skin; popping skull; charred bones;
Of the man who gave us candies, told us stories, saved us from all thrashings,
Heard the commentary for every wicket, sharing his love for cricket.
Those were just rituals strong enough that held me back from going along,
I thought I would never do that again but the same script followed when Grandma left.
Today -
What do I eat?
In such sorry state of defeat,
When that which cooks in my kitchen,
Not just feeds,
But draws the crowd, indeed,
Shrouded by a herd believe,
No reason, No discussion,
Who promote,
It’s fine to take an eye for an eye,
And preach that is divine.
Today -
How do I walk?
With a regressive thought
In a progressive mind,
And go digital, worldwide,
While by-lanes of reality
Portray barbarism, a difficult sight.
Today -
What should I speak?
When a word to express,
Could be the reason to decease,
With intolerance raging wild
Freedom sits uptight.
Today -
I am the silent, confused spectator
Tomorrow -
I could be the mourning victim.
This poem is published in Contemporary Vibes - Jan - Mar Issue 2016.
Poses, pouts and random looks,
Lighting, shades and a million hues,
Modes, effects; all settings on,
I am ready for the click,
Go selfie, go on.
So engrossed already in self,
Like brimming with obsessiveness,
Add to that a selfie dear,
I am all too virtual,
My poses check list is clear.
“Could you click a photo please?”
“Oh! Sure, why not! Say cheese.”
These smiling small talks,
Sound so rare to the ears,
Like one of the many endangered words.
Perfection, satisfaction is a selfie,
Interaction, humane is that ~
What is not called a selfie !
Please Note - The irony is even I take selfies. :)
