[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

NaPoWriMo- 17 GloPoWriMo-17

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.

[Short Story] Eros

                                                           

                                                            Eros 

As he made his way over the rocks of the much-traversed path of the mountain, Madan thought over the events of the past few days.

One by one, his mind replayed the things that had gone terribly wrong in the exact sequence, increasing his frustration. He tried consciously to blot them out. He tried hard to concentrate on other happier memories. Like the time when they celebrated the positive results at the lab or the evening at the science expo where he had met Ragini for the first time. Their first kiss upon the beach in the quaint seaside town.

But try as he might, he felt the dejection, the anger, the rage, return. What hurt the most was how he had let down his loved ones. His father’s words rang in his ears. ‘Son, of what use is my money, if it doesn’t aid you now? Take everything and return it in installments so your mother and I can live independantly, as we age.’ Madan had laughed and replied, ‘Baba, this is the nonsurgical cure for arthritis that the world has been waiting for. I’ll double the sum at the very least and return it to you!’ Ragini had pawned all of her jewels, without a second thought to pay for the marketing.

But what has seemed so promising at the experimental stage had tanked at the launch. His close friend and co-founder had ignored a crucial detail which surfaced then.  The scientific community accused Madan of fabricating the results. Heroically he took the entire blame upon himself but as he went down, he lost everything – his reputation as a scientist and the company that he had labored so hard to build. Now there was no turning back.

As he climbed jaggedly across the uneven rocks, he stubbed his toe. It began to bleed. The pain was intense. He laughed hysterically which echoed all around him. What would it feel like, when he took the actual plunge over the edge, would he hear his bones break? Would his death be instantaneous, or would he writhe in pain till he passed out? But the thought of physical pain seemed less severe than a lifetime of shame and regret.

He looked around, he had reached the summit despite the bleeding toe, which had gone numb from the pain. Poised at the brink with one foot firmly planted on the ground he stared apprehensively at the deep gorge below. He saw a tangled web of vines, dry brush and bramble amid the rocks and pebbles of the hillside.

He took a deep breath and let himself fall; a shrill scream escaped his lips.  To his surprise, though, he found his bruised hands clutching at a thick vine that was embedded in the vegetation. He was surprised to find that his body was not willing to let go of life all that easily. The vine dislodged bit by bit like a buried rope preventing his fall and he found himself landing feet first, on a ledge. His heart was pounding wildly, blood oozed onto his torn clothes from the many cuts in his body.

He sat at the ledge, woefully out of breath, his hand still held onto the vine. It looked brown and lifeless. Yet, surprisingly, it had taken on his body weight and prevented his fall. He found its roots growing close to the ledge. To his utter surprise, he found sections that were turning green. Nature, it seemed, never gives up the fight. Never dies voluntarily. Dead plants spring up after the slightest rain. Dormant seeds sprout life. As he stared at the root he smiled for the first time and found the heaviness dissipate.

Fate had given him a second chance at living.  Contrary to what people said, it did take courage to take one’s life but what is even more courageous is to fight back. Death would have been a quick end to his agony, but would have caused his parents, his Ragini, a lifetime of misery.

He would live, he would fight and if he fought back hard enough, his fortune too might give him a second chance.

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Poem] Summer Sun

A burning sun
Jaunts across the earth
All day and part of the night
Leeching water from every pore
Parched throats clamour for refill
Dust storms rise
False rain mists dusty windows at night

I am a tortoise in a shell-

Through drooping lids I dream
Of a balmy breeze 
Lacing its Spring fingers through my hair
The flowers compete
Waging a war of scents 
Plaguing every sense 

Pathways glow 
With soft petals of every hue
The bees sing and dance in a ring
No fear of a sting
The leaves sport all shades of green
As they preen under a gentle sun
The rising dew sprinkles generous droplets
Over petal and leaf goblets

Children play all day
Their voices bouncing on the  green
And laughter springs from every swing 
If only 
All of earth had Spring and only Spring

[Poem] On killing a Tree

On killing a tree

So, they fell like leaves
In the sadistic Storm
The men the women the children
Swaddling babies
Captured by deceit, coercion 
Smoked out of hideouts
Caught before they could flee
The branches, leaves of the Ethnic Tree

Bundled into trains
Carted off to feed
Every burning pyres
Or flogged
Till backs broke,
Spirits and bodies fell-
Pell mell

Their belongings piled
Mounds upon mounds
of suitcases, footwear,
Clothes, toys --
Rotting leaves
Awaiting release


Brutality
Has fancy names
Genocide, Ethnic Cleansing
 Attempts made time and again
To expose, exterminate, expunge
Entire communities

Yet,
There is Survival
Revival.
Return.
So, it is never done.

On Killing A Tree
#KaafiyaMilao