A Rose Is A Rose Is A Rose
A Rose is a Rose is a Rose
A Rose will I give to you,
A rose bloomed in an arbor,
Silent garden with ecstatic fume
did give birth to that bloom.
A Rose will be for a Rose,
Timelessness for your love,
With deep sensual sensitivity,
My Namesake
Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey.
You scarcely need my tardy thanks,
Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend--
A green leaf on your own Green Banks--
The memory of your friend.
For me, no wreath, bloom-woven, hides
The sobered brow and lessening hair
For aught I know, the myrtled sides
Me Poet Yeps The Poet..
The Poet the poet
*******
You are not a stream
O poet the poet,
You are a source
From where stream springs,
If poetry is a stream,
Your are an epical dream,
Every breath of you
Is a canto.
Women Of Words 05 - Muddupalini
Muddupalini
Was a Devadasi
And consort of
King Pratap Singh
Of Thanjavur.
She was well versed
In Telugu and Sanskrit literature,
was an accomplished dancer,
A composer and choreographer
Homage To Michael Madhusuda Dutta
Michael Madhusuda Dutta__ Homage
On 26 th January, birthday...
____________
The bard of Bengal the impetus
Sprite,
Restless constant for parboiled
Parnassian,
To the abbot of thy being Calliope,
Though it seem unconsciously full of life,
Inner Realm - Pain In Heart
Inner Realm
Pain in heart
Poignant pain In the wall of my heart 💓
In the deepest part of my being.
It is due to unusual dream that lasted not,
It is due to fullness that life failed to achieve.
Pain poignant to walk on the path leading to nowhere,
Life is a walking with no aim to reach,
An aimless march to a path without track.
All-Pervading Supreme Being
In all, scintillates Thy divinity.
In all, Thou art, Thou art, Thou art.
O Lord! In all, Thou art, Thou art, Thou art.
In the sweet mellifluous tone of cuckoo,
in the efflorescent fragrant lotus,
in the lucid-watered lake,
in the mountain where flows
the fountain with indistinct tunes,
scintillates Thy novelty,
Maducayan, Ili Tako (Maducayan, Our Place)
MADUCAYAN, ILI TAKO (MADUCAYAN, OUR PLACE)
Att.Basilio Wandag Melvin D. Banggollay
Sia se vobroy, nanggawa-an, (It’s an abode surrounded)
... Vilig nan-jomma-jommang (by mountains in every sides
Nampod-aden, na se dao-wang (where a pristine river fed
Danum da siw-wang-wangan (all mankind who resides
2.Urey no ngan, Nangasawaan (Wherever, we got married)
Weeping Branch
Mist in modern discourse:
protesting decor, Lavender Mist.
Dismissive of mist's specifications
and spacing on canvas, you now have
know-how - decorative, unless it is
axiomatic lyricism; the lyric,
not too decorative, unless it is
complacent. Prejudicial against lyric
Tg
9
THE GREEN
How deep could I plough I wonder!
I know my limit, I hear the Thunder!
The Why is subtle, the When, Where
The How too, yet the Query everywhere!
The Time, the master traveler, tills an’ tills
Till what time, Janaka and Balarama only know!
But I have to furrow into the depth till it stills
Though shallow my frail, untrained Will could harrow.
Bhim Puja/Vasant Panchami
Bhim Puja
I can see them at work,
Making a large clay idol
Of Mahabharatan Bhim
With a mace
With a sturdy, bulging
And robust bust
Celebrated by the folks
Sitakant Mahapatra
Sitakant Mahapatra,
An Oriya poet of Orissa,
Orissan myth, populace, art, culture,
Thought, society and tradition,
A ditto Oriya man
With his nativity and roots of Orissa
Writing about the Orissan landscapes,
Intruding upon their resonant silence,
Personal space and scapes.
The Terracotta Temple
The terracotta temple, the small-small temples,
Standing as historical heritage and legacy,
Which you know not, I know not,
But there is history hidden in them,
The small-small terracotta temples
And the miniature painting done into them,
The terracotta design and building.
The terracotta temples, small-small but beautiful
Made of small-small bricks and lime stone powder
Chariot Of Dreams By Dwarakanath H. Kabadi
Though written earlier, he could not pursue and follow it then
As for being a boy of eighteen to take up commerce,
The kernel of Chariot of Dreams was sown earlier
And he wrote it then,
But could not publish it for so long.
Again, when dusting the racks and shelves,
He found the manuscript
And he went through it,
The work written during his youth
The Day New York City Almost Slept...
The City,
The buildings,
scraping,
blue skies-
that were really
azure, puffy, calm,
but it mattered not
this day...that day,
the day the sky
turned black
The Agony Of Poetry, This Is India Where Merit Is Crushed
Even after writing for so long, I could not be a poet,
Even after so many years of practice, I am not,
The poets and critics went through my poetry
And the papers of criticism
But commented upon not in their publications.
Their letters are with me, but not their support,
They have the awards from the Govt. of India
But I have not,
Sometimes my spirit too disheartens it
Rama Series
Rama Series (Written in continuation of, in commemoration) / O, Singer of Rama, Strange Singer! People Will Go Away, But Your Song Will Remain It Here/ Song of Rama/ Strange Singer of Rama
Foreword
I do not write the poems keeping in view the epical formats, but the poems get tagged to naturally to take the canvas and length of epical poems and so the case is with my Rama poems which I have been intermittently to discharge my emotions and feelings just as a compensation for from time to time to recuperate and to recover from tragedy and trauma felt in the aftermath of the loss of lives. How to console the broken self? Where to gather moral strength? How to repair the damage? The haunted houses dilapidated and lying as mouldering heaps of debris and rubble with the input phantom listeners listening and whispering, where to go leaving them? Death is a great leveller and time is the best healer, how to ignore them? My end, I know it well, there is none to be by my side. I do not want to waste my precious time just after engaging with words and if there is something to read and say to, say you definitely passing them on and if not, keep them aside branding it rubbish. And with this, thanks, let me take leave of you!
Whisky
WHISKY
In the coldest domicile in this winter,
I'm inside her hand made quilt with her!
The body heat and Carbondyoxide;
Heaven is on earth in this epical night!
Milton
Burning the midnight oil
Wrote he
Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained,
A poet with a massive plan
For a literary work
Of a vast cosmology,
Epical and classical,
Profound and elegant,
Latinized and sublime.
Derek Walcott
The Ramleela which he saw
Staged in Couva
Remembered he for long,
The epic fragments and their dramatization,
The folk dramatization of it
In Trinidad and Tobago,
The open theatre
With the common people
Acting as actors
So colourful