A Notebook And Its Cover
I sat down with resolve,
Crossed legged on the wooden bench,
Trying to wipe the frown
And stretch my spine.
Watch my breath
Pray for strength
And peace and calm, a spiritual balm.
I smiled as the cool breeze
Teased my cheeks
And flirted with my carelessly
Tied thick mane.
Told my mind, now
You be quiet;
This is me time.
My glance rested
On the notebook,
That goes with me everywhere.
It’s my secret treasure
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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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A Shift in Perception 2
I used to hate colour yellow.
It made my complexion look sallow.
And reminded me of jaundiced eyes,
Stubborn stains that won’t go despite
Trying every trick.
It used to make me sick.
Ugly yellow top cabs,
Yellow fumes in chemistry lab,
But now that I have mellowed
I have spotted beautiful yellows.
It is the colour of spring and sunshine,
That is our life line.
Bright mustard fields,
Sunny daffodils,
Cheerful sunflowers,
Clusters of Amaltas,
Marigolds and yellow roses,
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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Scent of democracy! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
A homeless woman squatted on the pavement
Empty bottle of mineral water by her side.
It was a hot summer noon …the stench
Of poverty makes me ashamed as I ride,
The swanky metro. Brooding… get off at my station,
Impatiently, walk as the street urchins extend hands to beg,
For money, for food; wonder should I buy rations
With dismay, saw one was hopping, had only one leg.
Anger welled up against the mafia that maims these kids,
And trains them in art of begging, recognise the victims.
The so called slum dogs, with resignation and grit
Grow into petty thieves or whores, at the mercy of pimps.
The dance of Democracy reaches a crescendo.
Candidates come with promises and folded hands.
Smouldering eyes, one asked with bravado,
How come in the name of growth we see a helipad?
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That's Life
Life is not fair,
So it is futile to compare.
Grass always seems greener on the other side,
Who knows what skeletons in their cupboard people hide?
That couple who seem to be made for each other,
In privacy, for all you know may not be talking to one another.
The man who seems to have achieved all his goals,
Might be waging wars in the silent chambers of his soul.
A woman may hide her tears behind her make up and smile,
As she doesn’t want to appear cynical and senile.
We all have to play the cards we have been dealt with,
And try to remain calm and not seethe.
Every hardship is an opportunity to grow,
So keep on moving even if you feel low.
I hold silent conversations with God,
And ask “what lessons am I supposed to learn lord?
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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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At day break.... lingering shadows! ! ! ! ! ! !
Melancholy in her eyes, pallor on the cheeks.
She sat with her hand on chin, heard a moan, bed creak.
Quivering lips, trembling hand, hair carelessly done.
She reached out to the sick man, one and only one.
So vivacious and gay, on her wedding day,
What was on her mind, as he groaning lay?
She picked up a holy book, began to chant a hymn,
An uncanny calm… reached out, his hand cold and thin.
Tears welled up in her eyes, Said now free of pain.
Sorrow writ large on wane face, wiped dry blood stain
From his lip… moved to phone, called grown up kids.
Dad just died, now at peace, you may good bye bid.
I’ll Take care of everything, you need not worry.
Now there is no point, so don’t come in a hurry.
She seemed like an enigma, as asked me for tea.
I must perform last rites, and then go to sea.
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At night fall....! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
At night fall…
Lost in thought atop a hill above Ganges
Eyes rest on terraced fields down mountain ranges.
Lush and verdant, almost pastoral at places.
Kids screamed as they rolled down towards riverbed.
Slowly the view gets blurred, day yawns, night falls.
I imagine I can see silhouettes in the dark.
Recline in my chair and soak in the silence.
Watch the night sky and glow worms flit by.
Stream of consciousness, takes me to childhood days.
Had a flashback to times when I was timid in some ways.
Mistook my sibling in white, for a ghost at large.
I really was scared of night, bats, owls and pitch dark.
How things change as one mellows with age.
Now I wait for night and as if on cue slow my pace.
Although I manage to just catch a glimpse of patch of sky
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Dreams
In my colourful dreams
I live my fantasies.
Sometimes
In my dreams
I fulfil my wish
To travel to distant lands
Of which I have only read.
I have visited
Wordsworth’s English countryside
And seen Daffodils smile
I have gone to Mauritius,
And gone under sea
To see the coral reefs.
i have lied on the beaches
of exotic Maldives.
Dreams, wrote Freud
Release fears
From deep
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An Epitaph
On a sultry day, walking on the roadside,
Someone gently tapped on my backside.
Turned, saw my best friend, with a broad smile.
Oh, where had you been all this while?
Well, honest, went on a self imposed exile.
She replied wide eyed, without guile.
Life was getting to me, so to save my identity
Took a short break, I not like whine and self pity.
For in city, only time hear a giggle or a tinkle,
Wrinkles soften and eyes light up and crinkle
Is when folks hold the stem of goblet to make a toast
Over sparkling champagne and chicken roast.
No children in the park sing or dance
Hop, skip, jump, roar, shriek and prance.
On my way here, saw some old and young
At dawn, laugh in the park, with arms flung.
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Lust for Perfection! ! ! ! ! !
Enraptured by the mystic starry sky
Vincent so desperately wanted to try,
To paint this enchanting twilight scene,
But how, Colours in that light couldn’t be seen.
He longed to paint on the spot at night,
What he saw, as he saw without artificial light.
‘Night is more richly coloured than day
Putting little white dots on a black surface, no way'
Struck by brilliance of stars on closer attention
And his zest and lust and passion for perfection,
A legend goes in rural areas of south of France,
He put candles in the felt hat to capture and paint.
Thus the locals gave him a name, illumine
French word meaning lit up and delusive.
Couldn’t care less, night to be painted on the spot
Settled for a gas jet after pondering a lot
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Poetry, Mathematics and Distress...! ! ! !
Poetry turns into jugglery,
As I struggle with counting syllables
To meet the demands of structure-
Haiku, iambic pentameter,
Stress, unstressed;
Leaves me in distress…
Free or blank,
Verse or worse,
Is it art
Is it craft?
Lament the classicists
Follow rules, they persist…
A pen, a piece of paper
And some floating thoughts
In the stream of consciousness,
Are basic tools, but to add spunk
Rules are a must,
Add effectiveness…
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