Once upon a time
Not so long ago
They existed in peace
Separate, yet one
Sharing tears and laughter
Dreams of a better future
Separate, yet One
Then came the Holocaust
And brought with it
seeds of distrust, sowing
them in the minds of the unsuspecting.
Walls of fire broke down
walls of stone and there
grew in place of it
The Great Divide.
They were now no longer One
What had come between them
could not be broken down.
The tears in their eyes mingled
with their sweat
as they ran away into the night
leaving behind years
of pain and toil.
They were butchered, molested,
torn apart
And the red drops on the floor
were blood
Not rose petals.
--------------------------------------
A long-ago poem (1993).
Published in the St.Xavier's college magazine (1993), online poetry websites and several newsletters in India.
Peach
The best way to eat
a peach, I have found
is lean out of a window
and let the ground
reach out and soak
the juice that drips
delicious, sweet, from
the corner of your lips.
------------------------
Very corny. I know. And terrible rhyming!
30 July 2006
a peach, I have found
is lean out of a window
and let the ground
reach out and soak
the juice that drips
delicious, sweet, from
the corner of your lips.
------------------------
Very corny. I know. And terrible rhyming!
30 July 2006
Battle
Monday night
strings sway, Vikings protest
a princess shrieks
"he is your brother!"
My eyes begin to close
it's almost like someone's
forcing my lashes down
a palm flat on my eyelids.
I protest too.
my eyelids droop; it's a losing battle
swords clink ten metres away.
------------------------------------------
Written 4 June 2007. Not sure what this refers to, but I think Mr.R was watching something on telly and I was too tired/bored to give him company.
strings sway, Vikings protest
a princess shrieks
"he is your brother!"
My eyes begin to close
it's almost like someone's
forcing my lashes down
a palm flat on my eyelids.
I protest too.
my eyelids droop; it's a losing battle
swords clink ten metres away.
------------------------------------------
Written 4 June 2007. Not sure what this refers to, but I think Mr.R was watching something on telly and I was too tired/bored to give him company.
Pomegranate
We have no furniture.
The landlord's sofa beckons,
a coffee table and
otherwise bare living room.
But we have red tulips
in a vase
The dining table's still
eight weeks away
We make do with TV
dinners on a tray
But we have red tulips
in a vase
Fresh red tulips
the colors of a pomegranates
insides
subtle hues and shades of pink
reflect the light
While we walk among the
boxes and wonder where
this all goes
We'll look at the red tulips
and know
It'll all be beautiful
in the end.
-------------------------------------
Written 17 January 2007. The day after we moved into our new apartment.
The landlord's sofa beckons,
a coffee table and
otherwise bare living room.
But we have red tulips
in a vase
The dining table's still
eight weeks away
We make do with TV
dinners on a tray
But we have red tulips
in a vase
Fresh red tulips
the colors of a pomegranates
insides
subtle hues and shades of pink
reflect the light
While we walk among the
boxes and wonder where
this all goes
We'll look at the red tulips
and know
It'll all be beautiful
in the end.
-------------------------------------
Written 17 January 2007. The day after we moved into our new apartment.
Kurla Station. Long ago.
I once heard a man
fall
from the roof of a fast train.
From my crowded corner I
could not tell
whether he was pushed
or jumped
or if it became simply impossible
for him to hold on,
his fingers clutching the top
of the window bars.
I was in that train
when the shout went up
and someone stopped long enough
to pull the chain.
From my crowded corner I
could only hear rumours,
gleeful descriptions of what was left of
a co-passenger.
It was 7:30 in the morning.
There was a whole day ahead -
classes to attend, work desks awaited
The train moved on.
It was all in a day's work.
-------------------------------------------
Written while reading 'Marigolds grow wild on platforms', an anthology of railway poetry. Made me wonder why I didn't know any Indian poetry on the subject. So here's one.
fall
from the roof of a fast train.
From my crowded corner I
could not tell
whether he was pushed
or jumped
or if it became simply impossible
for him to hold on,
his fingers clutching the top
of the window bars.
I was in that train
when the shout went up
and someone stopped long enough
to pull the chain.
From my crowded corner I
could only hear rumours,
gleeful descriptions of what was left of
a co-passenger.
It was 7:30 in the morning.
There was a whole day ahead -
classes to attend, work desks awaited
The train moved on.
It was all in a day's work.
-------------------------------------------
Written while reading 'Marigolds grow wild on platforms', an anthology of railway poetry. Made me wonder why I didn't know any Indian poetry on the subject. So here's one.
Introducing the Verse Days
I used to be a prolific poet. Ask the people who knew me in college.
Life was inspiring then. The twists and turns of being a teenager are enough to make anybody a poet. And then I grew up. And the rhymes stopped.
I miss writing verse. So I'm taking action and getting back to it. Inspired by Mr.R (who challenges me to write a poem now and then) and by Neelima and by reading a lot of poetry, this is my effort to write a poem a day, or whenever.
The blog is called 'The Verse days of my life', not because poetry is a terrible thing, but because a lot of my other first choices for names were already taken. I was hoping for 365poems.blogspot.com, but that's taken by someone who made just one single post in 2005 and then abandoned it. (Grr. Selfish.)
Never mind. Verse days it shall be then.
Life was inspiring then. The twists and turns of being a teenager are enough to make anybody a poet. And then I grew up. And the rhymes stopped.
I miss writing verse. So I'm taking action and getting back to it. Inspired by Mr.R (who challenges me to write a poem now and then) and by Neelima and by reading a lot of poetry, this is my effort to write a poem a day, or whenever.
The blog is called 'The Verse days of my life', not because poetry is a terrible thing, but because a lot of my other first choices for names were already taken. I was hoping for 365poems.blogspot.com, but that's taken by someone who made just one single post in 2005 and then abandoned it. (Grr. Selfish.)
Never mind. Verse days it shall be then.
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