Poetry Friday
Deeptesh Sen
www.deepteshpoetry.blogspot.com
A Western India
I am proudly Indian
better still, a born and bred Kolkatan;
Why then do you ask me
to deny and disown my roots
in the name of mere progress?
Here in this age of reasons,
the lights are fast changing in the city;
here nobody bows before the Ganges
or sings Tagore in the evening,
and not a single soul stops by
at Nandan for the classics.
Western apparels are all stylish,
always wear tight jeans or short skirts
when you go out in public,
show that you are anti-Indian
and excelling in foreign glitz;
but never be scared to try out newer forms
of modern, trendy feminism.
The other day I saw a young couple
holding hands at Victoria,
they shared a moment of passion
as I sweated, waiting
for the lights to change;
that’s all too normal, they tell me,
for that’s the American way!
Talk about fusion and globalization
when your friend in New Jersey
is just a few keys away
and kids carry cell phones
like light jingling coins;
Family planning is also fast catching up…….
No more of rustic life
with three pretty wives
and a houseful of children
Modernization is just an euphemism
for westernization;
‘Forget Jibananda and Feluda’
they tell me,
‘forget Singur and Rizwannur,
forget this fertile sun and soil
foreign has far better prospects;
If you wanna grow up,
get rid of your Indianness,
only believe in brain drain
and Americanization,
kissing and then divorcing,
Be glamorous, western and artificial
and if you truly want to live,
first learn to lie….’
But alas! I only want to be me
Pardon me sir!
I would rather be a Bengali!
Song of the pendulum
Time moves in the dusty attic
like the curse of the wind
that strokes the rusty pendulum
with a parting kiss
the moon melts on your cheeks
the heroes of war
come back home in my sleep,
their laughter brings the storm
the tree winds in her dream
and seeks the river
beneath the sounds
the peacock carries the sounds
in her plumes
at the dance of colours
crossing the bridge
between time and the mirror,
the tongue of the river
licks the breeze
where the sky meets
the songs of earth
inside old desert houses
where women speak sonnets
with wooden, virgin voices
and hide inside an evening kiss
and the flamingo descends
with fire from her wings
on the pedestal of poems
what thoughts assail you
my little girl,
when you sit alone
in an empty room?
what griefs chase you
that make you weep in silence?
your tears ruin the evening
like the strokes of the moon lyre
fireflies rise into the night
like confusions of a tired mind
as the nightingale nests
in her night songs,
the lights meander in the city
amidst the ruins and smells
you press the rose
against the symphony
of your lips
and watch me with a numbness
reach out softly for the phial
the pendulum mocks the silence…..
at dawn,
the flamingo encircles the river
that flows into the summer of secrets
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Puddles
by Zorlone
http://zorlone.blogspot.com/
I
Splattering traces of brown and black,
against the white and pink of your dress.
Your feet landed on puddles of mud,
the rain spits out hues at your gaiety.
II
Footsteps of a ballerinas' accolade,
pirouettes and fouettes executed passionately.
Waltzing drizzles of steady drums of thunder,
soaked your lavished hair and your pale skin.
III
The smell of your fragrant giggles surround,
and strengthen my lonely desperation.
I borrowed the swift legs of mercury,
dancing with the tarantellas of your rhythm.
IV
I caught your beat from the redundant drum,
your hand in mine and my soul in yours.
We entwine out hearts in the pouring rain,
the puddles at our feet envy us.
Note: This was submitted to Helium at a poetry contest
here is the link: http://www.helium.com/items/1414740-puddles
Wonderful!!!!!!
Thank you......
julia
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