[Poem] A HATE POEM (Written About oneself)

NaPoWriMo 30 GloPoWriMo 30

A HATE POEM (Written About oneself) 

 

Hey there! Walking with your head in the air

Looking down on us mere mortals with disdain

Do you really think you have the best brain? 

You swaggering, pompous know all

I’m forever plotting your downfall.

 

You nod at our jokes sagely

Then posit a theory airily

You were cottons and talk of abstinence

Shaming our silk ‘n’ gold with a cold countenance.

 

You jump up and take the mike

Whenever opportunity strikes

Then you sing, speak, put on an act

Don’t you have any tact?

Fooling others with your humble act -

But you don’t fool me 

 

I see through your ruses ‘n’ your subterfuges

You large weasel strutting about like a gazelle

Do you delude yourself that you’re fit for da Vinci’s easel?

Why do you dress up even to throw out the garbage

Like a film star at an inauguration, you cabbage?

You top heavy, arrogant, megalomaniac

I’m waiting to down you with a killer wisecrack.

[Poem] An AndAdi

NaPoWriMo28 GloPoWriMo28 

 

AndAdi –(Hindi -Anth + Adi) where a form / variation/ root of the ending word of the first line becomes the first word of the next line. This form has been long in use in Tamizh literature since the Sangam period.

AndAdi can be written composed either as couplets quatrains or longer pieces.  


 

Her heart grows restless

 Rest is a word from the past

Passing from childhood has made her truant

Truancy a badge youth prides

Pridefully she wore her beauty and youth

Youthful longings and pleasures she sought

Seekers easily find recalcitrant love

Love that thrives on the blood of innocence

Innocence, the sacrificial lamb of maturity

Mature though she grew yet she pines for the ravager

Ravaging lips that plundered her body endlessly

Endless tugs at her earlobes, restless the serpent explored

Exploring, his voice grew hoarse, “I love you!” he said

Sayings have a way of winning tremulous hearts over

Overhead an angel shed tears as he envisioned her pain

Painful was the moment when he left without a word

Wordlessly she watched his indifferent retreat

Retreating into a shell the girl is now a shadow of herself

Self-destruction who do the youth seek it out eagerly?

Eager as moths that rush towards flames hastening their deaths?

[Poem] Comance (Romance) in Rorona (Corona) mites(times)

  NaPoWriMo24    GloPoWriMo24

It was quite a tall task to write a poem using pun, malapropisms and spoonerisms.

 

 

Comance (Romance) in Rorona (Corona) mites(Times)

The poached cotato that hibernates in the sofa rises

Examines its surroundings in profusion (confusion)

Proceeds to the kitchen eager for a solution

That morning delusion - the pancake(panacea) for all ills-

Ambles in without a preamble.

Non greeting, non hugging, grunting, tapping

The shemale inversed (immersed) in music and

Demands accusingly “Where’s my coffee?”

“It will come!” she thunders from a music infused ear

Though she often thunders from empty headphones.

They are magnates (magnets) in north pole.

He lingers.

 

Looking askance at his countenance she misreads the presence.

She does a break dance-

Jiggles, wiggles, tickles his knuckles - he stumbles, fumbles.

Grabs her waist - mid stance.

She regards the eye of her guy

Eagerly. The beaver plonks her down - the killer joy.(Kill joy)

 

“Break fast!” He mouths pronouncedly.

“Compost ...err... bread toast!” she shouts.

There escapes a snort from a seething snout. The hulk ambles off in a huff.

There goes my russet potato manacle clad ( A spinoff of Shakespeare’s famous line Look the morn in russet mantle clad) she muses, sighs and retreats.

Dead meat trapped in lives dead beat.

[Ekphrastic Poem] Bruno Catelano's Sculpture

TSL NaPoWriMo 22 GloPoWriMo 22

PROMPT

Art cannot be divided into sections and often one flows into the other. Painters may use a great work of literature as their theme while poets can be inspired by paintings and sculptures.

This is a sculpture by a

  modern sculptor, Bruno Catalano. Bruno Catalano (born :-1960 - ), is a French sculptor, most renowned for creating sculptures of figures with substantial sections missing.

He has created life -size bronze sculptures, called, ' Les Voyageurs'. The one here is called, 'Fragments' and is located in Venice, Italy.

 

 

THE REFUGEE

He takes the plunge

Into impossible waters

Hounded by a greater fear

Carrying nothing but a few belongings in a blue bag

A truckload of memories

A tome of suffering, of loved ones

Left behind or are long gone. 

 

Caught between the devil

And the deep sea

He finds solace in its embrace

He is the fleeing refugee

Having nothing more to lose

Death in a choppy sea is solace

It will permanently erase all memory

But fate always has a different plan.

 

Casting him ashore in an alien land

It even saves his blue bag

Will he survive?

Will life be any different?

Will be questions that rise and fall

Like sea waves

A shadow of his former self emerges

Grows in stature as hope rises

It grows, it glows -

A faith reinforcing conflagration.

[Poem] Some Thoughts on Forgiveness

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If you haven’t sinned at all

But you're told “I forgive you”

Would it offend?

I suppose it would.

Not only that -

It would incite indignation

And open the doors to be forgiven in turn.

What of the juvenile

Who was absolved of a brutal rape/murder?

Who walks free today?

Condoned on account of his age

Does the condonation suggest

That he hasn’t done any wrong at all?

Will the mother ever forgive or forget?

Forgiveness is a myth

As long memory exists

Despite all the coaxing to move on

It lies somewhere

An inert dog in the sun

Who suddenly wakes and bark.

[Poem] Prayer

NaPoWriMo-21 GloPoWriMo- 21

The dyadic connection begins each morning—

“Don’t open your eyes upon waking.

Rub your palms together.

Hold them over your eyes.

Open them to the world with prayers,”

Mother would warn each morning.

“Don’t simply step upon Mother Earth 

As you rise from your bed.

Apologize. Give your thanks

To the sun and moon and earth’s kindness.”

 

Thus prayer lay entwined with the acts of the day:

The after-shower prostration, the whispered incantations

The evening bhajan, the prayer before sleep,

The countless observations and rituals of nearly every day—

those were the ordinary days of my childhood.

 

As I grew, it became a constant colloquy,

This quiet parley with divinity

Over all things grand and petty:

The hovering eagle with sacred wings

A cloak, a tether, a wisp of fragrance, 

A rope tied to a clanging bell.

It is a force that gathers strength

Through constant use.

It is the source of all compassion

The heart of incredible peace-

The profound core

 That feeds and swells with oblation, salutation, supplication.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The dyadic connection begins each morning -

'Don’t open your eyes upon waking

Rubs together your palms  

Hold them over your eyes

Open them to the world with prayers'

Mother would warn every morning.

'Don’t just step on mother earth

As you jump out of bed

Apologize, say your thanks

To the sun and moon and earth’s kindness.'

Thus, prayer lay entwined with the acts of the day.

The after shower prostration. The incantations.

The evening bhajan and the prayer before bed.

The countless observations and rituals of almost all days-

Those were the typical days of my childhood.

As I grew it became a constant colloquy

This parley with divinity

For all things grand and petty.

The hovering eagle with sacred wings.

It is a cloak, a tether, a wisp of fragrance,

A rope to a clanging bell.

It’s a force that gathers strength

From constant use

It is the source of all compassion

It is the heart of incredible peace-

The profound core

That feeds and swells with constant oblation, salutation, supplication.

[Poem] 3 Concrete Poems

Day 9
NaPoWriMo
GloPoWriMo

[Poem] Ekphraistic Poem

Day 6

An Ekphrastic Poem based on Jheronimus Bosch’s Painting The Garden of Earthly Delights

 

I am a child clement

I have no need for raiment

I am the child of god, the father of man

Before Noah’s arc

Before the flood

And the fear it instilled

Before Satan talked or walked

Before Eve’s flagrancy

Before One became Three?

Heaven, Earth, Hell

After the first man fell.

If it were a fall why then a ball?

Why the wild party, the orgy?

Why the vagrant Profligacy?

Every man, animal, being

Indulging in amorous coupling?

What if I drew a wrong analogy?

A gross misreading of a great allegory?

Perhaps the painting is from right to left?

What if I am the consciousness that sleeps as you dream up galaxies?

Or what if I am extra-terrestrial

Armed with machines industrial

In a world where men and women are equal

I gave light, music, I built transport buildings, museums.

But perhaps man fell 

As he is wont to fall

Every mortal greed stems from the flesh

The centre couldn’t hold?

In a blood thirsty virus’ strangle hold

The World burned whole

                   And

Manu or Noah was United

With the Pluralistic One?

[Poem] Dreamscapes

Trudging the yellow sand

While the sea stands -

A massive wall of undulating alum

I gather pearls from open clam

Shells, that lie scattered in the fog

Like cranberries in a bog

I am a boat unfettered, free

Floating upon a dancing sea

With senses lulled by the tender breeze

I join dolphins in unihemispheric sleep

I wake to the sound of thunder and lightning

In a boat that resembles a drum with no holding

I career this way and that upon a violent sea

While rain falls in torrents around me

My scream is an echo that floats in from afar

Through squinched eyes I spy a boatman with an oar

My spirits rise, perhaps he would steer me to the shore?

He gives out a blood curdling howl, I tumble and fall to the ocean floor.

[Book Review] Nithya Rajagopal's Than-Thana-Thom

 
Than-Thana-Thom, a book of four short stories by Nithya Rajagopal is an amazing little book on Amazon Kindle.
The highlight of the book is how Nithya has created characters that stand out and stay with you long after you have finished reading the book. The second highlight is her felicity with enunciating the local flavour of Tamil Nadu through her language and through her focus on customs and traditions that are typical to the state.
The stories are peopled with interesting main and supporting characters and Nithya has carefully chosen appropriate settings to showcase them.
Each of these stories holds a secret which leaves the reader in a 'feel good' factor state after the unraveling. To say anything more would be a spoiler and therefore I would stop with one line descriptions of each of the stories.
The Idiot of Arayapatti is a story of promise and discovery.
The Pious Priest is a tongue in cheek title and is my favourite.
A Wedding in Kovilpatti unfolds a surprise wedding.
Flower Factory is an endearing tale.
I wish Nithya the best in her writing journey and eagerly look forward to more of her writing.