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Mohabbat

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.

Copyright reserved to mistella

Religious violence in India (source: wikipedia)

Droplets of Dread

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.

Droplets of dread
droplets of dread

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Love,

Mistella

Ganges at six in the morning (A Haibun)

(Photo by NurPhoto/NurPhoto via Getty Images)

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.

Image credit- Getty Images [Link]

Love,

Mistella ❤️

A Voice is heard (A Poem)

A voice of lion and that if a man are on a continuous war
The tumult

A voice is heard often
Like a lion roaring in a den.
He wants to come out,
Roar once again, slake his drought.

But another voice is heard again,
It rebukes the lion and closes the den.
This voice sounds like that of a man
Who wants to do all, but has no plan.

The day isn’t too far
When the tumult will turn into a war.
Face of lion with a body of man, I see,
None is ready to set the other free.

This war of the voices begins with the sunrise,
And ends at the moment I close my eyes.
This is the way where monsters tread,
Head’s alive, while the heart’s dead.

Written in response to November writing prompt.

Love,

Mistella ❤️

Yours and Mine (A Poem)

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.

Yours and mine dream

The poem “Yours and Mine” is a part of November writing prompt. Hope you like this poem.

To know more about the prompt visit the link.

Also, if you want to read my upcoming posts, Subscribe to the blog. For instance, if you’re interested in writing poetry or prose, your works are invited.

Further, if you wish to read my latest posts, go and read it now. Let me know your feedback in the comments.

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.

Love,

Mistella❤️

Love (An Etheree)

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.

Love!!

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.

We hope you enjoy this piece and request you to show your love and support to the blog. Share the blog with your friends. And, please let us know in the comments if you have any suggestions regarding our content.

By the way, two new categories have been added to our list. The Book Review every week and the episodic story. Latest is the episode 1 of The Coffee House, go read it if you still haven’t. We will be back with Episode 2 very soon, till then stay tuned.

Finally, if you want to know more about Colleen’s poetry challenge, go check out the link.

Colleen’s Poetry challange.

Love,

Mistella❤️

Search yourself (Not a Poem)

My pen and hands were quite,
Searching for something to write.
Suddenly I heard a voice,
Sounding immature, but wise.
To find yourself,
is like searching for clothes in a bookshelf.

I couldn’t stop myself of taking a glimpse of the person on the street,
I quickly went to remove the curtain of the window,
which opens at the street.
I peeped out of the window,
but the moment I heard the voice,
was fleet.

I saw two children sitting on the mound of sand kept in a corner,
competing to search for the stone inside the sand.
On seeing the eagerness and speed of their hands,
I tried to convince myself,
that the voice was not their’s.

I just wished to match the voice which I heard,
with that of the one of them.
But no one can be as cunning as the god,
they didn’t utter even a word after that.
And again I kept on searching myself!!

Keep searching yourself, never settle!

It may not be called a poetry. But it’s something which came out of my head on its own. So I thought to share it, still don’t know what is it!

Hope you like it and find yourself. Keep searching and don’t settle.

Subscribe to the blog if you enjoy reading its content.

Also Amazon great indian sale is back, so try finding yourself in books. If you enjoy reading books, you can buy them from our link. We may get a very small commission from your purchase😊

Love,
Mistella ❤️

Two Blackish Fellows (A Poem)

Two blackish fellows on the canvas
Rest like a tiger–
You may have met them–
remember their fire?

They turn the canvas into rock–
A stairway spotted often–
And never shifts to shock
It’s respondent, until a knock–

They like to play
On the canvas of their host–
Yet when a teenager, on my way–
I painted my canvas each day,
Ignoring the presence of these blackish fellows–
But now when they blink, my heart swallows
The wind they exhaust.

The baptism they do
With their washing hands–
My heart,
Covering its head–
Feels the God’s face.

Several of such fellows
I know, black, brown–
All of them renown.
But none of their host
Can make me lift my hands–
And none can transport
My ecstasy, which expands–
With the white canvas,
every day, I see.

About the Poem ” Two Blackish Fellows”

Well you may find it a bit difficult to be understood. So I will try to make it little easier.

Let’s forget who the speaker is, a male or a female. All you need to do is know the meaning of the symbols that I have used in today’s poem.

So, “blackish fellows” are two eyes on the “canvas“. This canvas is of course a face because they are resting on it like a “tiger”.

There are some symbols whose inferences are from the Bible. That’s why it’s my duty to make them clear. But while doing this, I again won’t explain the whole poem! This is because I want you to interpret it your self. You should relate it your life.

Okay, I will go stanza by stanza:

Stanza 1
Fire – a pure spirit.

Stanza 2
Rock – symbolizes stability.
Stairway – symbolizes a path to reach god.

Stanza 3
Wind – again symbolizes a pure spirit like fire.

Stanza 4
Baptism – symbol of salvation.
Washing hands – symbolizes innocence.
Covering head – symbolizes submission or compelling to obey.
God’s face – a symbol of the presence of divine powers.

Stanza 5
Lift hands – a state of doing prayer or a “namaskar” position out of respect (in this context).

Image credit- Pixabay
Two blackish fellows on the canvas
Rest like a tiger–

Search for the romance

These were the biblical symbols which I have used today. I know this poem is not written in simple language. But if poems were simple, anybody can take a pen and make a rhyme. Because of this reason, I wanted to test whether I can go beyond the rhymes.

That’s why I thought to do something different with my poem today. Hope you find a meaning which is relatable to you. It’s because you can find a new aspect of my work.

By the way, let me tell you what if you can relate it. You’re gonna get a quite romantic imagery of a person. For instance, if you have a loved one, then you can also imagine the face of that person.

Alright readers, as I have tried my best to explain the symbols, so rest is up to you!

Thanks for reading. Subscribe for more poems in future. Comment to let me know how was my new attempt, because your opinion means a lot:)

Love,
Mistella ❤️

Life of a Modern Man (A Poetry)

Sunrise through the curtain,
The world, yawning to a life.
Though the day is uncertain,
Its night will cut like a knife.

This pencil which draws mansions,
Went to sleep at five.
Now it’s seven and no pretensions
Will help until it stays alive.

These papers were hurt badly
Till the sharpness turned blunt,
And now the wounds are staring sadly,
For today, the rest parts will be hunt.

These walls have forgotten my face,
They ran to bite me last night.
But I don’t dare to give up this race,
Though my home is loosing my sight.

Some close ones are far
Waiting for my welcome.
But my life is a fading star,
Oh! The sun is about to come.

Image credit- Pixabay
My life is like a fading star,
Oh! The sun is about to come.

About the Poem “Life of a Modern Man”

The poem is a satire on modern life. We work till morning, stay awake at night. Modern men has forgotten to live, we just exist.

I have started the poem with a man who is about to welcome a new day. But like most of us, he also hates mornings. He gives examples of the hardships of pencil and paper. But actually, he indirectly expresses his own problems.

I’ve ended the poem with a stanza where the man is expressing himself. The man says that his loved ones are very far. He can’t go back to his home because he lacks the courage. Modern men dare not give up the race.

I think I am explaining too much. It will make you loose interest in the lines. But I must explain the closing line.

This man was expressing his grief. But suddenly, he remembers that it’s late again and the morning is about to come.

Being modern men, we all live like this. We neither dare to take risk, nor can we enjoy the hardships. Don’t you think so?

Hope you enjoyed these lines. For more poems, subscribe to the blog. And let me know through the comments what do you think about the modern world.

Love,
Mistella ❤️

Taking part in d’verse open link night💐

If I will Ever Have A Son (A Poetry)

Mother and son

Getty_images

If I’ll ever have a son,
I’ll teach him how to look… How to look at a girl of his class, how to talk to her…
I’ll teach him how to listen… How to listen to her when she lashes out on being hurt, how to protect her even though she’s no one to him..

But I’ll teach him the meaning of “Feminism”, its overuse and misuse.. Which can trap him from all around without any fault. He’ll defend and justify himself for sure, I believe. But I want him to teach, that girl, that lady, the true sentiment of “Feminism”.

Yes, I won’t trust him blindly. But I’ll tell him to search for his mom, whenever he finds himself, trapped in an unworthy shackle of compromises. “My little worrior”, I’ll tell him, “you’re taught and backed by two real fighters, who’ve defeated the fake world of lies…” So he doesn’t need to accept someone, who doesn’t value his sacrifices. He’ll always find a door, opening to the lap of his mom and arms of his dad, sitting on the same old chair, to hug him and make him sleep, no matter how far his under-valued sacrifices have taken him.

I’ll let him know, the struggle of his life will go on forever. But he, like his father, has been gifted with that extra-zeal, which he, unlike his father, needs to showcase, everytime his knees touch the ground of failure.

And over all these, I won’t stop him, if he starts trusting a woman other than his mom. I won’t stop him.. if he starts loving her more than his mom. I believe, he’ll glorify his mom and her teachings in the heart of his lady love. And I believe, a day will come when that pretty girl will cry more than my ‘young worrior’, when her husband’s mom will die..

I won’t stop him from smoking.  But I will tell him that “the smoke you inhale is far more killing to me than that you exhale”.. I will tell him that his mom’s eyes have turned watery and he would believe it to be due to the smoke.  So neither would he ever be able to inhale nor exhale the smoke. Now how would he learn to smoke? No, his father is naive here!!

And yes, I am going to make it clear to him that “your fighter mom and dad won’t come to fight for you”, when the fault is from his side.

The other meaning he will be taught is of “Trust”.. I will teach him not to trust so easily.. “but when a girl trusts you my son”, he is supposed to give it all back to her, with an icing of a layer of extra love and care, as she might have also been taught the same..

I will let him know how it feels when your trust is broken, how it burns you from inside.. So I won’t allow him to carry any lighter inside his pocket. But “my boy”.. I will tell him,”.. you are supposed to make that mutual trust, a ladder to success.” I will teach him to make it happen for his lady, make it happen for his old girlfriend, his mom.. “My young  Warrior, you are entrusted with expectations of the three most beautiful shackles of your life, you are the Rising Sun for them.. Your father, the old ‘you’.. your mom, your old-girlfriend who will always love you.. and your lady love, your to be wife.. are awaiting you at every step you take towards your goal.”

So if I will ever have a son I will dance with him, till I could stand on my feet.. and after that I will watch him dancing with his lady love, sitting and smiling, holding the hands of his father, right there, on the chair, which he will gift us at our silver jubilee..

And at last.. I will tell him a secret… “My boy”, I’ll let him know “When you ever go out of words, try to make rhymes.. And after three stanzas, you’ll find all those lost words on the paper, arranged beautifully… And the world will call it a “Poetry”.. but only you’ll know that it’s a game of hide and seek with the words you never spoke…”

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Love,
Mistella.

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