On The Eastern Ghats On A Monsoon Day
a benevolent sky
a silken road
uplifting green on either side
the blue-grey hills move farther away
as i move closer to them
always standing on a hill
the other hill looked more welcoming
never there a high point
nor a lower point!
hills to the right
hills to the left
hills in front
hills behind
down in the valleys
green stretches of paddy
dotted by men, women
from the virgin ghats
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Some Thoughts To Ponder
every experience is a lesson preparing us to meet the challenges of old age n every offering is a way shown to us to offer ourselves willingly at the end of the show...
silence definitely eloquent. silence undoubtedly expressive. but to experience those moments of eloquence and expression, don't you think we do need some communication?
with whom you find yourself all in one piece/with whom you experience bliss and joy/that's where lies your final refuge
i came here branded as a daughter. later i got stamped under several brands. still i remain as i, struggling to get to the roots of the i...
agony at seperation outweighs the joy of togetherness...
the insides as well the insider are mysteries. when they surprise us is beyond guess...
visit to historical places bring the collective unconscious to the fore and allows us a blink of re-living in the old world we once belonged to...
the soul alone has the capacity to lay everything in stark day light...my strengths, my weakness, the dark niches of my mind-which i call a cave-the secrets i keep in dark...everything, just everything! it's a store house, you see...
i always wonder how much of here we know that we think what it may be there!
isn't thoughtless state, though for a blink, is joyous?
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Some Random Thoughts
the way things fall apart may seem a rude shock but there should be some reason somewhere for them to fall apart or unify...
when there are people to give, will there be dearth of takers? Yes, there will be if you don’t give what they want or need!
i'm in 'search' so or you-you'll understand the finding in your language and i, in mine. in language lies the difference the way truth gets revealed. 'search, any way! '
not only from womb to tomb (doesn't it sound a cliche?) that we are all alike...in between too, all our needs are one and the same!
affinity breeds contempt is what we all know. but to me more than contempt it breeds 'taken-for-granted-ness. ' i think that's worse than contempt!
standing on cliff of desire arms stretch towards the empty space and down below, everything looks remote and vaguely familiar!
just occured: why is it always 'fall in love? ' is 'fall' indicative of subsequent cuts and bruises?
however much we may like to idealize silence, we do need verbal communication to straighten several conflicts. silence is only a filler that consolidates all that's expressed.
uncertainty is worse than virus...
when heart is filled with the beloved, it's either wholesome or lonesome...
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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From My Yellowed Pages
LOVE
People’s heart do you repair
And make two a pair
Chasing the mind’s stink
Through the heart’s sink
Ignorant thou art
Make us feel
Everything is for us
And forever:
The moon and the moonlight
Churning oceans and streams of light
You hold no grudge
Nor wish vengeance
You tune mirthful melody
In the hearts of melancholy
You laden the sorrow of heart
You make a heaven on earth
(written on 11.11.71, the first documented poem of mine)
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The Beginning...
wading the waters i pushed my way
struggling hard to touch the land
held upside down, was my first view
of the world i’m to pass by
washed and tidied, i lie lost and helpless
a pair of hands cuddled me close…
i had nothing else but to pinch
all that i needed from her
merciless at my demand, i howled
and cried with not a dropp of tear
filled to brim, i would slip into
the world unknown to all…
slowly with the manna as my diet
i began to move the little i could
getting habituated to wail and demand
not a moment did i give her rest
demanding her constant presence
regaling as she gathered me…
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Stop Not These Tears…
do we have the right
to be called human
just because we know
how to conceal our nudity?
do we have the right
to be called human
just because we can
translate our gibberish
thoughts into meaningful(?) words?
do we have the right
to be called human
just because we mastered
the art of standing(?) on two legs?
whoever named this natural
instinct all living organisms share
as love?
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Sankraanti
Those three days of
Sankraanti every year
from the times i've known
it was as if the house was
flodded with people from
all walks of life and we were
designers, architects and land-scapers
into the late hours returned dad
from his endless hours of work
and then the night would come alive
trunks of dolls carefully wrapped
in our swaddling clothes were carefully
spread on beds n blanktes-porcelean
english lady that grandma brought from
her maternal home, birth of jesus with
mary and joseph on either side of the baby-bed,
two variants of rama, sita, laxman and hanuman
dasavataaras, brahmins at a meal, toddy tapper,
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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In the World of Frail-Brick Words
I diligently built a solid world of
Frail-brick-words around you
When winds of fear
Uproot me from
All possible directions
I cling to your torso
In this solid world
Of frail-brick-words
Going round and round
In the square fantasy of yours
I always miss the centre
In this solid world
Of frail-brick-words
You're always on look out
To live a fantasy; travelled against
Time to reach my solid world
Of frail-brick-words
Expecting to drench yourself
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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An Indian Summer of My Childhood
The sun would volley
Live coals on bodies
In threadbare clothes
The sun would blink
Through the meager waters
That’s left of a river
Sand dunes with scanty vegetation
Scattered all over
The small raft wouldn’t move
On thin layer of water
Where did the fish disappear?
Bedrooms shifted to isolated
Shades under trees
Leaves perspiring and choking
Under the smarting sun
The fires set ablaze to settle scores
Around the town increased
The mercury in the thermometer
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The Nine Manifestations of the Mother
Sailaputri
Trident in thy right hand...
Kamandal, an ascetic’s bowl in the left
A crescent adorning thy divine head
Daughter of Himavant, the King of Mountains
Parvathi, Hymavathi—the giver of boons
Salutations to thee, my Mother…
Brahmacarini
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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