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 !
This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 56; the fifty-sixth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write.
Like any other mundane Monday morning,
Boredom heavy on my shoulders,
Legs resisting the walk till the bus stop,
I board the everyday crowded bus.
Taking the window seat as usual,
I sip in, a little of the fresh breeze.
She comes and sits beside me in an ironed sari,
Unknown and beautiful,
We exchange courtesy smiles,
How I notice that bruise in her smile;
Leaking drops of blood,
She quickly wipes and casually says,
“I accidentally hit the wall”,
That is all and we part ways.
Next day still mundane,
The same routine walk and the bus,
A certain coincidence,
She sits beside me again.
Only today her sari has few creases,
And her hand burning in scratches,
“My cat did this in love”,
She says, answering my concern,
That is all and we turn our ways.
Third day, I wait,
Wait to meet her before the bus,
The bus leaves and another arrives,
Yet my eyes could not have her sight.
Then, fourth is the day when she comes,
I reserve her seat beside me,
To see if she is fine,
Avoiding everyone in the line,
No scratches, No bruises;
But a plastered arm;
And a packed journey bag,
Her first day smile was the last,
I sense an ache in my heart,
Finally she shares her secret,
Before the bus could start,
“No cat, no hit from the wall,
I have a partner who is brutally cruel.”
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 02.
October is also #DomesticViolenceAwarnessMonth
Anybody could be a victim to this menace, men, women or otherwise. However, the stories of close companions that I have heard have been mostly women. Hence, the protagonist of my poem is a female.
This is the moment,
I wish to tear myself
Let that knotted blob of emotions
Ooze out of me.
This is the moment,
I lacerate skin deep
To eradicate from within
Every ounce of that pain.
This is the moment,
I scream, shout loud
To vacate a space in my brain
For calmness to rent.
This is the moment,
I am awake, alert
Of myself,
And my being.
This is the moment,
When my failures inspire
No dreams should I desert
To latch on strong and believe.
What do I do ?
In a world full of you,
who disagrees to agree,
with every thought that is free.
Free like the ;
freedom to say what I say,
to care or not to care,
to own that space in the world,
where I can write my name in bold,
to break a frame of me,
to be and just let be,
to ride on the smoke of a bike,
then fly hinged to a kite,
to type, retype and erase,
that which I dislike in a phase,
or nothing at all yet in a zest,
I could eat the air over The Everest.
There's a mountain somewhere that waits for a path,
There's a river that urges to clean her dirt,
There's a land, parched long to crop,
There are hands stretched forward in hope,
There's a border always on fire,
There are riots within that never retire,
There's a town congested in her smoke,
There's a cyclone awaiting to choke,
There's a stampede of billion desires,
So many superstitions yet to expire,
But this day,
A reminiscent of her freedom stories,
Inordinately hopeful;
Mother India smiles, free from all worries.
[Just like we have a lot of worries in our lives, so does our nation, India. There is this one day, our birthday, when we forget all the worries and smile in joy. So does our nation, India.]
