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 !
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. :)
I held the 2 by 2 inch cloth in front of me, Just like David stood triumphant over Goliath, It blocked the glaring Sun, teasing my eyes,
We may be in harrowing times so often in life,
The hunch of fear on our back,
Pulling us down on the knees,
We hope for a saviour in hapless surroundings,
And forget there is a David in all of us,
Holding the 2 by 2 inch cloth,
To block the Sun and fight the belligerent Goliath.
As I watch the world,
From my room today,
I see a tiny shoe under ashes,
A blackboard dripping blood,
I hear cries, loud and deafening,
Pristine souls preyed upon,
What I see the most is?
Morality, stripped naked,
While cowardice smirks us all,
This day is evidence of,
When “Shame” as an epitaph
is written on humanity’s tomb.
Every day there is;
A coffin buried,
A pyre on fire,
But if this is an offering to pseudo faith,
Then the coffin is heavier,
And the fire rages higher,
Now cruelty musters up,
Hope stands helpless,
We, the common, need to hold together,
Beyond numerous barriers,
To protect the lives of many
and memories of the dead.
I speak of my miseries,
Like it is difficult to bear.
I share my sorrows,
Like that is all is left.
I cry out my failures,
Like success had me “spare”.
I expose my wounds,
Like healing will never be there.
And then –
The homeless man smiles and says,
“Hold my hand”;
Ushers me to his land of nothingness,
where every moment he struggles;
The bone freezing breeze,
The gut wrenching hunger,
The diseased pathway bed,
The rotten smelling dress,
The happy families passing by,
The stories of love,
The success of aspirations,
The everlasting feeling of being unwanted.
As I stand there with my numb soul,
I think to myself,
“Why do I complain?”
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