Mohabbat se pucho ki “tum kaun ho”, Hum pahchan apni btayenge. Masnad par tumhe bithayenge, Khud zameen pe hum baith jayenge. Tabiyat se tohfey bhijwayenge, Tumhari diwali par mithaee bhi khayenge. Har eid par gale se lagayenge, Tumhe sewaiyaan bhi khilayenge.
Upar wale ka naam to hum bhi lete hain Tum use ishwar kahte ho to hum khuda kah lete hain. Mohabbat se dekho ki “wo kaun hai”, Dono ek hi nazar aayenge. Dua tum masjid me mango, Hum mandir me prarthana karne aayenge. Par ye nafrat mitaane, Na to mere khuda, na tumhare ishwar utar kar aayenge.
Aao zara mil kar puche “yeh kaun hain”, Kya ye apni pahchan bata payenge? Beshaql hain ye, anjaan hum, Benaam hain ye, Iqabal hum, Behosh hain ye, Tagore hum. Jo hum gale se mil jayenge, Yeh dhool ban udd jayenge.
Disclaimer: The poem is written to spread hope. So read it with a positive mind. It’s just a poem, so calm yourself whenever a sense of discontent pops out while reading it.
Once the skirt came back home, Crying, torn, bloody, fighting alone. When asked about the matter, She shouted the name with a “bhaiya” in the end. But hell, her eyes wanted nothing but revenge. She fell unconscious, murmuring for justice, Wanting to fight against the culprit. The skirt stopped playing on the streets, School, studies, career, all disappeared from her dreams.
The saree often thinks of her playing, Getting hurt while running. But this time when she came The blood was flowing from the inside. She rushed to door, closing it with an attempt to hide. Skirt spent a month in hospital, Surgery after surgery and the ongoing battle.
She turned back normal, But the scar didn’t. Still the mirror reminds her Of the dark day, When her innocence blurred her way. But the sari took over the task To fight for the little skirt Ignoring her own fate.
Once the skirt was sleeping When the saree entered weeping. She was also torn, Scars on her body and a face, full of scorn. The skirt connected all the points, The Saree’s screams and all those similar nights. When asked about the matter, Saree couldn’t take any name. Full of dread, her eyes filled with shame. Saree and skirt slept together that night, Holding hands, avoiding each other’s sight. One was torn by the hands of a chocolate giver And the other, by the hands of a bread winner.
So the skirt decided to fight, And the saree went back the other night To be torn, hurt, abused, raped And left to awake, completely reshaped.
Changing colors of the sky, Falling wings which once used to fly, Asked her eyes to shut for a while But they flowed and flowed like the Nile.
When the sky became dim And the stars begun to glim, She waited for the droplets of dread To dry over her cheeks without getting spread.
But then she met a night When those droplets of dread begun to fight With her eyes, refusing to fall, And her ears could hear the whispering wall. It mocked at her misfortune, Calling her by different names, by changing the tune.
But a day came when she gave up the battle, Nothing could be heard but a rattle, Which pierced her soul within And didn’t let those droplets win.
Now she sits away from the sky and wings, Never waits for what the new color brings. But she still can’t shut her eyes, And has turned herself into a never melting ice.
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6’O clock I and me, crossing the Ganges on a freight train, see the horizon enveloped in life. Indian women with their own elegance borrow water from the goddess. Men, after the holy dip, join their hands before the sun.
Heart of India Lies in this stream, which spread and Sanctify their souls.
I can see life and death at the same time. Bodies which no longer breathe, are being drown in it. Also, the bodies which breathe are drawing water to drink. But it’s difficult to find which body is alive and which one’s dead.
Plastics, garbage, dance on surface, to enter bodies, Whether breathe or not.
And now the river’s crossed. I look inside. The bodies beside mine have closed their eyes. Some are open, but are of no use. Their mouths are whispering to each other in their own fashion. Some talk of politics, some about the mythology. Oh! They also know the stories about the purity of Ganges. But…
None of these stories Can sanctify the drops which Purify these mouths.
Now I need to be ready, for my stoppage is arriving. I dare not call it my destination as it’s already decided. The sacred Ganges that I crossed is the ultimate end of this body. Like all of them, I also have to die before death. [“I’m a critic of left wing ideology.” “You’re right. They don’t respect the indian culture.” “By the way who will win the election this time. What do you think?”] And here comes my stoppage. Let’s meet new bodies, new eyes and new mouths.
About the Ganges at Six
The Ganges is considered as the most sacred river of India. The natives purify themselves by the holy dips. But the catastrophe that the river is facing is being ignored. That’s what I chose as the theme of my poem.
This prose enveloped haibun has been written in response to Colleen’s Poetry Challange. Thanks to her for giving such beautiful words every week. This time the words were Grace and style and my synonyms are Elegance and fashion. Hope you enjoyed it.
I saw a dream of a floating corpse, Sleeping in peace, with no warps. I wonder what it would be dreaming, No commands, no regrets, but eyes still not gleaming.
Will it ever get tired of this night, And wish for a morning beam to enter its sight? Or is it better to lie in dark, Where birds never chirp, dogs never bark?
What if Endymion suddenly opens his eyes, Finds no beauty, no color and nobody wise. Will he choose to sleep again in dark, Or wander to see the change, what would be his remark?
If a body is sleeping with its eyes closed, The dream can break without being disclosed. While a dead’s dream is shrouded in mystery, No demands, no expectations, still a long hidden history.
Let’s turn this body into a couple of corpses, Riding smoothly over the water, no need to feed the horses. Let’s twinkle like stars without owning its light, Glaring far enough with proud, no quarrel, no fight.
No light, but a colorful night is waiting, Let’s fall asleep, without contemplating. Yours and mine dream shall be woven Together in the sky and beneath the ocean.
The poem “Yours and Mine” is a part of November writing prompt. Hope you like this poem.
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Introducing a new perspective
I am updating this post with a little change in perspective. Previously when I wrote this poem, I had a different thought behind the theme. But this time, I would like to confess that the perspective is completely new.
I have changed some form and meter, but not much. As I believe that every time you read a poem, you can read it with a new perspective. So I didn’t bother myself to bring much changes in it.
This has been done in response to d’verse MTB. Our host Björn wanted us to bring a new perspective by coming out our comfort zones. Well I would like to thank him for such a creative challenge.
Dead, dark street, haunted By a shadow. Alone, she walked, Unearthed the mound, sat At the edge, meowed and jumped, And the shadow left the street.
About “The Shadow”
This tanka is for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday. This time the two prompt words are Dig and Grave. Since using the prompts is not allowed, I am using their synonyms.
My synonyms are mound and unearth.
Because a tanka poem displays a mood or a state of mind, this poem is doing the same. It presents the state of the speaker’s mind.
The person’s mind has been compared to a dark and dead street. There is a shadow which I have compared to a cat.
Since cats are considered to be a bad sign, I have used her shadow. This shadow haunts the street. But later, it is seen that it jumps into the tomb itself and leaves the street.
By this poem, I wanted to present the idea that all of us create our fear. And only we can overcome it. We take ourselves to a bad situation and only we can make it better.
Well this was my perspective. You should find a meaning to this poem yourself. Every poem has the capacity to be interpreted in infinite ways. So do your own interpretation. I have just given my perspective and I eagerly wait to know what’s yours!
To know more about Colleen’s Poetry Challange, visit the link given at the end.
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Love Wonders Who’s serving This charm to it. Glowy mornings stir Bubbling desires to stay As a shade of its spectrum, Spreading all the colours it has, While the sunbeams falling on its face With an elegance never seen before.
This is a part of Colleen’s poetry challenge. Prompts for this Tuesday’s poetry challenge are Spell and Treat. As theme is Synomyms only, we chose the words Charm and Serve.
Also, the challenge was to write a poetry in the specified forms only. So we thought to write an Etheree. Before you think what’s Etheree now, let us help you.
Etheree is a poetic form with 10 lines and it’s syllable count increases by one with each proceeding line.
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Finally, if you want to know more about Colleen’s poetry challenge, go check out the link.
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