Archive | March, 2011

Soulful

27 Mar

Writing, to me, is like cutting a cake.

To divide my soul into

A big piece and a few crumbs.

I offer you the little bits,

And with myself, keep the rest.

I spread those crumbs for you

On the floor and wait for you

To come marching like black ants.

Take a munch, I tell you.

Relish it or spit it.

The choice is yours.

But, judge me not, from how it tastes.

And bite me not if it burns your tongue.

Always remember, that I have kept

The better part to myself.

My soul is far tastier

Chocolaty, sweet and delicious.

And when the feasting is over

When each one of you have left

I look at the remains

At those crumbs untasted

Reflecting me like shards of a shattered mirror

To tell myself once again

How beautiful I look.

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Manhood

23 Mar

You men sit in your groups

Talk out aloud in your rough voices

Hands holding your whiskey glasses

And mouths boasting of your manliness.

Of how every other woman you’ve met is a flirt,

Of how all of them have fallen for you in secret,

Of how spineless and dumb your colleagues are

And of how bold and brilliant your own deeds are.

You humiliate your timid friends in front of others,

And tag all men who show affection to one another as faggots.

Know that you are no different from those soldiers,

Who, after having ravaged countless enemy villages,

Celebrate the intoxicating victory with bottles of wine,

Their swords glinting red from the blood of innocent men

And talking of how each woman they violated,

Like whores, in front of their masculinity, behaved.

And arguing, on how many more each killed

Or how many more each raped.

What they used were sharp swords,

And what you use are your sharp words.

With their swords, they hurt bodies and spilled blood.

With your words, you hurt minds and spill tears.

Still, if this is what you call manhood,

Then, to say that I am not a man, I am proud.

 

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Written as part of the poetry prompt given at Magpie Tales Week 58.  The prompt given was the picture shown above. This is a One Shot Wednesday poem as well. Visit the sites for more poetry blogs!

 

 

 

 

Violet

21 Mar

Violet, reminds me of you, Krishna!

You once were my dearest mud idol,

In the sacred room, your face violet.

I used to love you then.

Your indignant pose,

With hands on your hips,

Your brow arched as if in contempt,

And that smile confirming it.

You did indeed charm me.

I spent my hours near you,

Polishing your ornaments,

Decorating you in ways countless.

I embalmed your beautiful violet face,

With sandal paste, cold and scented.

Trying to make your face new,

Drawing eyes, brows and lips

On that set white sandal crust.

Alas! Lifeless were the eyes I drew,

And smileless were those lips.

Washing away the sandal,

That ugly countenance,

In a gush of water,

I looked again at your face

To see that hue, violet,

To see your smile, playful.

Only a bare brown mud mould

Stared back at me, expressionless

A new Krishna stands smiling now,

In the sacred room,

Its face, a dull, pale blue.

In an ignored corner,

Covered in dust and cobwebs,

Stands another one,

His pose still indignant,

With hands on his hips,

But with a brown blank look on the face.

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Posted for Magpie Tales(Week 57) hosted by Willow Manor!
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Funeral

18 Mar

His lifeless body lay there, on the clean floor.

People floated in and out,

Not even one staying.

Only that peculiar stillness of death lingered.

I stood there, in the room, leaning on a wall,

Staring at his fragile frame, and pale face.

My dear old man should not feel lonely,

Even in these last hours.

I knew it was of no use,

For, a corpse knows feelings, not.

When they placed his body on the stretcher,

And carried it onto the pyre,

I wailed aloud, sorrow choking me,

And went after them to the graveyard.

I saw them setting fire to his body,

Heard their casual talks,

Of the fresh wood not burning well,

And the apprehensions of a possible rain.

Even after everyone had left, I stayed,

To keep him company,

For, my dear old man should never feel lonely.

I looked through the burning logs,

To get a last glimpse of his form,

Now deep within the hungry mouth of fire.

Black clouds of smoke blinded me,

Flaring red flames scorched me.

As the pyre burned out, I turned back,

Looked around, and found no one.

I knew that nothing remained of him.

And what became of me ?

A withered, lonely boy of twenty.