This cruel deadly times - lockdown periods Radhamani sarma

 

 

Poem of the week: from a renga by Marilyn Hacker and Karthika Naïr

 This cruel deadly times …. Lockdown period

 

 

I had a dream, sleepless nights

Immersing me, wolves haunt

Nowhere to escape  now

This deadly times aghast .

 

Also ode in line a cute

Formation to half moon

Me with steps dance

 Sad for liberation; 

 

There for us come

Ghazals pouring like rain,

Inescapable now, though

A flight away from this a longing.

 

A  spacious garden,

Resounding various rhythms

Of voices in our own

Sonorous mood  dipping with sway.

 

Ghazals a delight and redeemer

A thrill shaking us away from thraldom.

 

 

 

Sad irony of war Radhamani sarma

 

Poem of the week: Welcome to Donetsk by Anastasia Taylor-Lind

 

Sad irony of war

 

War, war, war,

War time, warring nations, warring moments,

Impacts, on innocence,  cruel, bloodshed;

 

Instinct to go back to your place

Of peace,  home town that reared you

In all peace, prosperity ,sanguine;

 

These  living plants,   green pots,

Sanguine creepers, memory  records,

Only in bygone days, now dry and dead;

 

The security who watered plants

Now sees, its greenery of  dead past,

Sad irony  irresistible for mind and soul;

 

There is scary look of apartments

Once majestic and  in colorful dignity,

Now only stones   unheard and unheeded;

 

City wearing blank carpets,

Schools and black boards

Without teachers and uniforms ;

 

The three letters war/ war/ war

its own destructive toll

beyond our recognition and redemption.

 

After Guardian ( in his diary) Radhamani sarma

 

In his diary…..

A strange  wish for him, never to be born

yet  had all the moment of wish fulfilled

all aspects, in fullest ray and  rapture.

Tea and tea party, wine and dance

merry and theatre, movies and retrospect

Occasional with moves sudden and secret.

No regrets, no   death wish, not a day

Of   gruesome thought to end his life

Ordained by God, thanks too to parents;

The philosopher in him sat by night

more for rumination, as he aged,

interpreted life’s purpose for a mode

constructive and congenial,

 hours more for charity and donation,

spent more time for lost and run.

Final stages are in his diary punctual ,

 Clarity and remorse prevailed,

all only for a day, peaceful and bright. 

Let us sleep fraying for eternity. Radhamani sarma

 

Poem of the week: Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen

Let us sleep fraying for eternity.

All through guns and granites,

I escaped after much battle and blood,

Mad frenzy of lying as were sleeping,

Enemies, dead soldiers, pitiless, and pitiable;

Calm and cool as were fast asleep,

I sensed hell was there, amidst hell

I am breathing to view many 

horrendous and stupid in a way;

with a tap I reached close

to him with half dead and alive,

a passive conversation 

to resuscitate him, at least a belief;

there was a time, each ran after beauty

 wild and vigor, now comes seeming rest

and peace, yet each clothed in its own coil

the pity of war in eyes wandering everywhere.

 You and I warring, still warring,

Dead in a way, dying into another coil,

In  a cold world, in a cool balm

Let us sleep praying for eternity.

ill what time, this stays! (after Guardian)

 

Till what time, this   stays!

A moment of rumination

Of how you bear pain now,

How you bore the unbearable 

Pain in past, both physical 

And adding to agony of heart;

The  creator blessed  

The sufferer with boon

Of patience and bear

Endurance in cheerful way;

This passes his heart.

Slow, the hour comes,

readiness to meet the end,

 prepares to bid farewell

to this coil after a long 

journey in this clutter.

Then comes the dead feel

Stone sits still on this coil

Till  a cessation in all prevails.

Poem of the week: Weep you no more, sad fountains by John DowlandAdoration of a gift of sleep

 

Poem of the week: Weep you no more, sad fountains by John Dowland

Adoration of a gift of sleep

************

How much her heart 

can withstand   painful flow

of fountains sad and blue

falling almost throughout 

despite her console sleep;

these sad fountains distract

her busy days schedule 

necessity for her daily bread

and share and care for fold 

 affection, loyalty bounteous rule. 

Mountains and fountains 

Rule and flow, yet care 

for me a little, for it sounds

what can they do to my mind

and soul perturbed of late strong;

yes beyond redemption,

though sleep hugs me

unsteady and bold, yet relieving

me at the call of those blow

 catching my weak pulse.

Now she sleeps, warm 

in hug of comfort and console,

yet she knows not where

her sails are set, how and when,

yet gently in sleep’s duvet.

Me  and  her sail

In the same boat.

 

A heap all around Radhamani sarma

 A heap all around

************

Broccoli’s sponge in summer,

will never be same with murmur,

 amidst all hands and touches, 

uncouth and hurried stitches;

visit in garden a pleasure sane,

no longer same midst rules bane,

when Nature wears   mask crude

in isolation and rapid waste accrued.

Your heart rudimentary loss,

Sees like seer envisions dross,

How long is question cross

Sounds now and often digress

for those life is a gambling,

catch and live and lure rambling,

you are struck in passivity,

in earnest full of objectivity.

Leaping high to catch yard of sun,

Your dream never knows it is fun,

Yet a mound of heap all around,

Propels non stop despite some home bound.

‘A Memory not desirable, yet trampling my senses’ After Guardian Radhamani sarma

 

‘A Memory not desirable, yet trampling my senses’

After Guardian

She ponders in wake of dawn

A painful pondering 

Her desire wrapped in a moment’s move,

But some Divine coil a preventive,

Protective encircles her being,

Sudden negation of all that goes round;

A swimmer in past, a lake of her choice,

Slow motion, slow move, not deep currents,

A steady dive safely coming out,

Merging into a calm, serene introspection,

No more lake, nor any swim,  

 

Dreams and more stories within.

The brute in her is dead already,

Waking her up into realms  sobering.

In a garb not your own

 In a  garb not your own

Days behind the bars,

 a caged bird with wings cross,  

not guilt in you bugging stride

for culprit outside loitering with pride;

for how long   and why so long,

every moment in you queries prolong,

family of stones and visiting birds,

outside world is full of noisy rides.

No proper definition for  Karma,

No acute definition for Dharma,

Only in  a mood to blame Brahma,

Unending garb worn for this Dharma.

Thronged by many going and coming

Their own attributes, reasons   of seeing,

 The Earth still rotates still on its axis,

 A witness to all these trauma of crisis.

Me counting my days of release,

for this vehicle of run and stop with grease,

not sufficient to propel further

for a journey replete with  heather.

Look up!  for Almighty is up,

and watching you down  with grip,

will never forsake us the honest,

dictum sure for ever  and near   earnest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A story still on its page… rADHAMANI SARMA

 

Poem of the week: Composition by Howard Altmann

 A story  still on its page…

 Now I am in bewildered state,

 A condition where from no console

nor reprieve for the moment 

of torment inward is beyond expression.

My life, my story, my sad tale

 No warp and weft at the moment

 except like that of my own and

 scribble and move in haste

drawing something sober 

beyond rectification.

Tides   and waves blow

Brimming with questions

unanswered and clueless,

akin to that of a poem,

or story or event, happening,

I did not take cognizance;

Yet withal, searching 

for happy ending, 

no villain, no morsel

to spoil  show in flow.

Let me gather the leaves

Not parched, but green 

and fresh to go into 

pages of story with smooth sail.

Women’s Day

 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.

woods my lovely companion A dark wood Radhamani sarma

 poem of the week: Woods, and Us by Alison Brackenbury

A dark wood my day companion.

Lovely wood where echoes and green

nourish your spirits doomed,

My wood, my spirit and companion.

Thrush and cuckoo visit my being.

Songs and air and rhythmic wind

blow salutary adding wood’s charm

My wood, my spirit and companion.

Dangling in the wood, in air

Growth like a fine background

Where  mud and stagnation 

don’t hamper the salutary grew.

All pieces of wooden furniture

Where children and grown

 Chat and play in tune

With a mellifluous spirit of own.

My wood, my spirit  and companion

can never be forgotten.

No more Dear Life Radhamani sarma

 

Poem of the week: Dear Life by Maya C Popa

 Dear Life

 

No more Dear Life

 

So much I have dived,

so vast enamored by beauty,

a keen desire to put all that

into my pocketful of glee

glamour in the limited scope;

 

both injury to body and soul,

all unforgivable and unforgettable

wounds lie deep beyond articulation,

still somewhere something forms

to surface  all to the  forefront.

 

Not knowing I should not cross

The boundary, not being aware

I would not pluck before ripening,

Not realizing, norms are more

Significant than nuts and bolts;

 

 In the rush ever, I cringed,

Craved for more than needed,

Now tightening ropes are there

around me, my neck and self,

unbelieving bent for more time;

 

all I wanted only nullification,

of the worst, restoration of all

lost, a grief with repentance

to redress  all  is  gone with wind.

A blissful nod of gratitude

To the Maker, my avowal now.

 

 

 

 

 

a poem after ( poem of the week: To … by Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

 

Poem of the week: To … by Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

Mind is clean, calm and not for chattering,

 Neither profane and soiled, giving way

Only for salutary endings and   positive

Beginnings with aura blithe and bright.

 

World of pity seems far off,

World of hope too elusive,

Yet hanging on a rope of faith

by your side I am steady and serene.

 

It is not mere love, nor longing,

A worshipful veneration for you,

Undisturbed and unquestioned,

Times will not change or check.

 

The night  does not prolong,

Desires for  the day amplify,

 Seek for Sun and serene

 for seduction Of sorrow .

 

Let us long for day ,

Bright star in our hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not a victim to that false bait A take by Radhamani sarma

 

 Not  a victim to that false bait

 

Poem of the week: An Ode to Himself by Ben Jonson

 

Where am I  now?  Where was I ?

It is still bewildering to know

If ease  and sloth had their share

Equal in shaping me.

 

A desire to trample the “common moth”

Always lurking in me, but time

had its own measure and meter

to slow down its path and rectify.

 

My complex and greed

had hooked to a bait

until a call from above

Unleashed descends quick

 

to protect and guide

with a magic wand

of strength and assured will

on body soul and my Muse.

 

Make me not a victim

to  censure  and  praise

for all that is  gifted

is endured  and blessed

 

 

 

Broken things

 

 

Poem of the week: #family by Romalyn Ante

 

Broken things

Some  precious time I allocated

reading on broken things,

broken toys, broken window panes,

distorted for all purposes.

Why exception for bones, collar bones,

Fractured bones and bones beyond redressal.

 

Mother always comes to rescue;

When her anointed hands

touch my ribs and back bone,

no longer pain, a moment of pain

converted into boon. Waking up

gently after  hours of medication,

now  in a mood of meditation.

 

Broken things can be mended

But broken hearts beyond our ken

 Redressal. I go in search of something

 Which will stay, abide by my instinct,

My future safety and feel. Look into breakage,

Loss and gain, that is where my solace

Begins, sustains and strengthens me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem of the week: Please Do Not Touch the Walrus … by Caleb Parkin

 

 

A take after…

I decide to clamber up, despite my receding will,

After crossing so many mediums,

Stumbling blocks too, a fiberglass pathway,

Reaching destination of iceberg, a difficult

to describe. How   to describe thick cold ice

thawless, as human heart, especially in times

of distress and dilemma, bugging ever.

My imagination ever expansive as

Boat on widening path, woods floating,

Catamaran still catching our eyes

for the day, moving there. Islands

and beaches, merry spots as we read

in our books, volumes, surpassing our

imaginations. How fantastic our luxury

boat with all luxurious crew, sightseeing,

last to appear is walrus, our pride and delight

beyond our speed of flight into high regions.

 

A grand praise for Garden Radhamani sarma

 

Poem of the week: The Garden by Nicholas Grimald

A grand praise for Garden

Who will not like grand theme of garden?

Who would abhor entering into the blissful

Spot unless infected with cold or similar such?

Her Muse, already invitatory notes to compose

Song in praise of sweet aroma of garden’s flower,

Buds, blossoming spell on her mood and mind

Set for another journey celestial and sacred;

Herbal roots with tiny upcoming leaves,

Medicinal care for cure for long ailment

Dictated and preserved in scriptures for long,

 By Sages and sagas, of long Repute in histories

Carved and cared with all veneration and due respect;

Bees buzz in morn and eve, on honeyed flowers,

 Around buds, a coil for them in and around 

Seasons full of honey and sweet perfume,

When thrill  for imbibe proves never ending,

At times, buds bar closing themselves,

For mankind a wonder unheeded.

Leaves of medicinal care and endure

For mankind in dire necessity and timely care.

Agriculture  and sericulture other  feeds

On the tool  of gardening, provided full flow

Of water  and  tilling, good soil  and deep plough.

 Medicine  and food from leaves, greenery

In plenty for Nature ever  stays in gardens

With unfailing aids,  at all times.

My muse now ready to compose

Songs in praise of gardens and  yields.

what and where is demon?

 what and where is demon?

what and where is demon?poem of the week: A Little Catechism from the Demon by Edwin Morgan

what and where is demon?

From morn till evening,

Questions throng your mind,

already disturbed, unable

to reach or find answer.

  Internalized questions about 

Mountains, fire, deep and river

All aspects of Nature don’t stop;

Thunder and deep boom around;

Somewhere something is hanging

Or pushing you ahead on march;

Film and villain, war and victory

roll on from victories and defeats,

still a query arises where is the self?

Demon or thinking or evil 

Set out to spoil your make,

Your karma or consciousness?

Could be demon hiding from within

enacts a drama either for good or otherness,

all proceeding from your thinking mode

demon for negative, angel for prosperity.

All time answer for my introspection.

 Poem of the week: The Mower’s Song by Andrew Marvell

 After ( guardian)

  A day in grass and lawn

Day in grass, day on meadows

Sing and jump mow and lawn,

My field of grass, field of study,

The green smell  an aura 

runs along my blood

As  nature did for the great  Bard.

Moment of pine, cut the blade of grass

But a flower smiling with nod

I leave with care to the edge of lawn;

Sorrow sings a song not joyful

for days of sad moments still linger

her moments spent  now with grass nod;

ye, grass  and meadows don’t fall

for earth replenishes your growth

but my heart still holds her whom 

I loved once, but she forsook hard

She  willful pushed me aside

From where I am yet to regain and grow.

 Age of machines, age of innovations,

flights, pulverized food, easy mode,

food in form of tablets, oranges 

in machines, mixie,grinders,

rocket to propel our desire 

straight to moon, moon landing 

curiosity dipped in dedication,

today children in classes, 

in private hours, marvel at moon;

orange peel on ground, earthbound,

when we  land to moon, a history 

culled out, deepens in our efforts; 

after all the culminations, success,

discoveries, a time for longing,

a longing for time, your own time,

aloneness, to think and move, strong

and stable, your horizon of choice.

After  all this, we need our own

Time, aloneness, to brood and invent,

Write and compose, to publish and bind.

Guardian’s The Age of Cardboard and String

 

GGuardian’s  The Age of Cardboard and String

Age of machines, age of innovations,

flights, pulverized food, easy mode,

food in form of tablets, oranges

in machines, mixie,grinders,

rocket to propel our desire

straight to moon, moon landing

curiosity dipped in dedication,

today children in classes,

in private hours, marvel at moon;

 

orange peel on ground, earthbound,

when we  land to moon, a history

culled out, deepens in our efforts;

after all the culminations, success,

discoveries, a time for longing,

a longing for time, your own time,

aloneness, to think and move, strong

and stable, your horizon of choice.

 

After  all this, we need our own

Time, aloneness, to brood and invent,

Write and compose, to publish and bind.