Women's day Radhamani sarma

 

Women’s Day

 

Pumping water in taps,

streets and amidst queue,

 early stage of pregnancy no excuse,

rushing back home

water titling at hips;

women’s Day glow at her heels!

 

women, dutiful mother,

caring housewife, home loving

in all onerous situation,

home work of her ward

lest he or she should bear cudgels;

Women’s Day at her heels!

 

After all she is a daughter in law,

Supposed to bear the brunt,

for decades for all pittance

Of property and claims

she owns by rightful law;

Women’s day at her heels!

 

A nonagenarian

Mother-in-law recollects

her days then and now:

herself a flicker of lamp

with blinking eyes;

 Women’s Day its own rhythm.

 

 

 

 

 

On a wintry Morn

 On   a wintry morn

,

Still inside the net, 

dark outside, downpour heavy,

ears  deafened by  banging doors,

some bold mosquitoes ringing

away from her claps, claps,

loud CLASPS perhaps, some

on her  knees,  subtle injection;

 

she thinks of milk man’s  ordeal

drenched rain coat,  satchel at door step;

if any happy TV flash  about school

holidays,  but ironically   exam time,

 after covid  just reopened; Covid’s  one face.

Still pouring beyond words, non stop,

still, not pliable roads haunting amidst.

 

She being caring housewife, wary

Reaches clock, needles rotating,

Sun or rain, what if for the machines;

Igniting gas her first step, blast

Of kitchen window gnawing her,

Inescapable for  cumbersome  routine,

She competes with rain, pour, flow,

 

all for family,  bond, wholesome

Nurture, thanking GOD for this boon.

 

 

Hair and comb Radhamani sarma

 

 

Hair  and comb

 

Right from  our grandmother,

great grandmother days,

 inevitable attraction

 

Or bond between the bending

and mending  without question;

it is process on going;

 

in the unbending  process,

matter of resistance, hair falls,

in clusters,  unseen invaders  around;

 

sometimes, mixed abominably,

food  items, we throw,

for  the blockade by strings.

 

 Ruling, could be round shaped with pricks,

or long with  teeth chiselled,

if broken with gaps  clumsy;

 

my memory recalls those

days of  combs of wooden structure

hard   to ply  and run,

 

   before technology improved,

  or improvised by dexterous hands

  of man, a plastic comb

 

a misnomer or never dreamt of ;

harmless battle between  bender

and mender  has go on.

 

 

After Guardian’s Slow walker… He is a puzzle somewhat... Radhamani sarma

 

 

After Guardian’s Slow walker…

 

He is a puzzle, somewhat….

 

My kith, I  reared him from his childhood,

With all affection and care.

There is a change  in him , sudden

Stupefying, he smiles, away from group,

any number of times, called, refused

at dining table, to be one among us.

 

Dresses smart, looks pretty,

Yet, there is also a deliberate make-up,

Uncouth, dancing in many rolls,

Singing as if  in duet, with steps

Related ,at times quite out of place.

Me, wondering, why, what is happening.

 

Rolling in bed, he is not what he is,

he meanders in different world,

rewinding   self to  present, he cant

for sure, something of evil, not exactly

lurking beneath his  unsteady coil;

from afar, me  a silent spectator.

 

From his freshness, like rose water,

he dons  a robe dirty and uncouth,

not for long, soon jumps into newness

shining like  Angel with  Majesty

and mirth twined on his face;

 My prayers for his betterment soon.

 

 

 

Dead starlings – hard road and why: A new tale by Radhamani sarma

 

 

Poem of the week: Importents by Naomi Foyle

  Dead  starlings –  hard  road and why:

  

It was a  wonderful spring morning,

Mirth and merry making and  pictures

and jubilation all through the streets;

He was a lone watcher, of the sky

and starlings in flocks, perhaps a lesson

for mankind unity is strong beyond

your  bone strength; election campaigns,

acoustics, deafening all around, rains

and floods, devastating, sudden roll over

of birds  and starlings, in dangerous roots

roads, paths, taken by leaders, groups,

perhaps stampede for birds and insects;

stampede too strong for these,

yet inevitable, bleeding  and obstructed

passage ruin starlings abominably;

sudden sweep of bodies, turned down

for  them very difficult  to stay on;

 A pity and pathetic spectacle

The roads overloaded with.

 

 

 

Solitude- is poor A take by Radhamani sarma

 

Poem of the week: Solitude is poor … by Olha Kobylianska, translated by Olha Rudakevych

 

 

Solitude – its power,

The very thought of solitude

A very painful  image  and idea

Running most of us, a fearful grip

Shuddering with a pain endless;

 

Indescribable pain and uncontrolled tears

Hands running to wipe all pains,

All walls silent  and echo

Nonstop and reverberate

reaching ears and  unable to redress.

 

A forest, lonely and walled

with thin trees, only rustle,

a murmur, who hears except

walls damaged and water seeping

amidst peeping,nodding plants.

 

A sight of deer, blood oozing,

Unable to run, fear striken,

Seeks asylum where, it still seeks,

Only amidst minimal silence

Stemming out of gun shots.

 

Shots and solitude

Always fearful but inescapable.