This summer - his view poem by Radhamani sarma

 

Poem of the week: Reflection by Peter Scupham

 

This summer - his view

*******

Looking through the window,

Sky and stars, blue sky, blue firmament,

 far off waves from the dashing Blue,

 His Summer’s special note .

 

Flowers clipped from buds,

flown by the wings of fast

moving, dashing against

all  both sad  and suave,

 

now  touch him and go;

a refreshment from bath tub,

 lavender soap permeate,

while inward reflection

 

stays and journeys through

his mould and mind now cool.

His charmed soul, his mind

floating carefree  and buoyant ,

 

now imprisoned in a cradle

perhaps imperfect he visions,

beyond his nerve  and verve

where he is yet to be aware.

 

His summer now sails him

far away, to a  vanishing

from this imperfect coil

to a far distant wandering.

His flute- his time and mood… ******* Guardian july 17

 Poem of the week: Iota and Theta … by Osip Mandelstam

 His flute- his time  and mood…

*******

He earnestly worships the Greeks,

Yet no recitals despite his  eager wait

For long, how long we don’t know.

He is so divinely attached to flute,

Ever in his active rhythmic mouth

Fingers tuned well  to notes  of melody.

All by himself, all recollecting name

Of his birthplace,   musical composers

He records, composes anew fresh and melodic.

Age  and weariness, take their times and toll

Mild impact on my lips and hands

Laying aside my flute in a corner now.

All for one, now gone. After guardian) Tennyson ---

 All  for  one, now gone. 

Waves break, dash against stones, 

dash against my moves, sentiments,

my concern for  the begone, pitiable,

words beyond expression.

Meet the agile sailor with oars,

 talk to the fisherman keen on net,

replete with fish pounce and play,

you are with a  sad tone sing a song;

A song full of recollection,

Melody  of moments gone and spent

in togetherness of mutual understanding,

melody still in me even after silence.

All for the one, gone now, now

deserting me in wilderness,

hereafter a day is waste, waste

beyond  repair  and no words express.

 

Waiting for its own time RDHAMANI SARMA

 

Waiting for its own time

Waiting for its own time

 

Her well observant eyes

 see  a  Clock a clay,

beneath fresh green grass,

soon to settle atop,

in colors and steady wings.

 

 

No matter rocky winds

or rains falling stupendous

overtaking roofs and huts,

she stays stubborn and calm,

Clock a clay never unsettles;

 

Spinning day into night,

 night into day, night into day,

into its penfold, slow and watch

“Red black spotted clock a clay”

Seemless wonder again and again.

 

A loner, watcher, all by itself

Waiting for its time of day.

 

Rolling on her mat... Metverse MUSE JULY 22 Radhamani sarma

 

 

Rolling on her mat….

 

One septuagenarian  all by herself,

mood of calm and  detached  in green shelf,

stored by experience bitter  and vast,

no matter  how much storms  rise aghast!

 

All years go by leaving marks and shocks,

how much this  innocent and  unexpected blocks,

fish and crab in net to be  burned  alive,

some force pulls out playful yet make them thrive;,

 

we are here why we know not, she ponders,

submitting to a force beyond our ruggers,

rolling again on a  mat tattered and old,

with thinking anew all set for harmless and  gold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

for a celestial swim too Radhamani sarma

 

 

For a celestial  swim  too

 

All through the night

A special charm and crave

Of my body for swim

A first step for clean

Body and mind  in total

Soothing, freedom of tension.

 

Night taps me, a relief

from sleeping mode,

Relief for struggling body

On bed, relief from so much

Of chaos  tampering self ;

Day by day, waves of conflict

 

That trigger weakening mode,

Controlled by this new apparatus;

Swim and sail and sweep

A mantra creeping within,

After  the pull , a rest  and calm

Reschedules its  original sway!

 

 No lemon, neither any cool juice

Will enable from this swim and sway,

Only serene calm self into its abode

Of withdrawal aiming for more

and more time for this celestial

Swim in its abode.

 

 

 

 

Deep rooted reflection ... Radhamani sarma

 

Poem of the week: Upon Wedlock, and the Death of Children by Edward Taylor

 

 

Deep rooted  reflection on family

 

Do you ruminate upon wedlock,

difficult to comprehend and  proceed.

Here is an example wedded deep

In flowers, perfumes, oaths  dipped

In love,  Love’s  knot, beyond  undoing.

 

Flowers, loose leaves, broad and  bright

Choose  and choice, colored and mixed

On the table, a  group solace endless,

Out birds and chicks moving fast, fast,

Hither  and thither, for a life new on wings;

 

Many a flower shoots  from one branch,

light after light, leaf after leaf, branch

after branch, salutary influence on mankind,

holy and sacred in God’s  place, special

for meditation and offering all the day.

 

 Glory, prayer  consistent did ascend

 comprising peace  and prosperity,

 for a life in earnest prayer and solitude,

flowers sacred,  flowers serene  and sweet

 adorn for all sad  and sober, yet compromise.

 

After all earnest chanting and prayer,

embedded in routine and  familiar shaping,

rhythm and regularity, Glory and chanting

name of  God  The Almighty, all, seeing ,

 watch  all the time, also, safety the mantra in all.

 

Prayer, absolute  selfless chanting,

Prayer in all its  forms, only glory  going on.

 

Saxophones on air in my hand Radhamani sarma

 

Saxophones on air in my hand

 

 

My mood, my board, my keys

On four fingers, internal flow

On air, breathe  and smooth

blow with a rhyme and tune

carefree  and strengthened yet.

 

Looking above, he jostles

amid tension and turmoil

voiceless for he sees as

a world of noise  and nuisance;

moving ahead is a great ordeal,

 

these  notes on saxophone,

with  a pitch and breathe

lingering in me, around me

for the instrument is my birthright,

 

no birds, no pecks,  no “ma”

no belching cow  in the vicinity,

no slowness, drudgery bugging,

only a saxophone  truth saying

my life is all in the instrument.

 

 

 

 

Only when everything goes well.... Radhamani sarma

 

CPC  JUNE  2022

 

Only when everything goes well….

 

It is her  inward pain, her  silent brood,

Irreconcilable mood  and make,

like  the rotten wound  not  bandaged,

undressed, uncared  and unhealed;

 

days  and hours  of solitary  paining,

her struggles  and exploitation voiceless,

only viewing morning’s caw and peck

in its mechanical world  of open balcony;

 

sudden wisdom or realization dawns upon,

a saying within herself, repeat, repeat, repeat,

only when everything goes well…

all around will  go well,  smooth  and soft

 

like  porridge well cooked  down inside

throat crave  and thirsty for quick remedy,

your gulp  and swallow  for aches in and out,

only when everything goes well …..

 

you set right the stopped needles,

run clock, battery in watch, recharge cells,

but  cannot set right certain people,

until Time  THE PANACEA intervenes!

 

Along  your morning drink, coffee or  tea

You mix  this coinage, your inward pill,

Inculcate within yourself, oft and on,

Only when everything goes well …..

 

Leave the rest to your appendage,

Conclusion to your worldly image.

 

 

 

Bonded AffinityrADHAMANI SARMA

 

Poem of the week: Last Hope by Ben Wilkinson

 Bonded affinity ……

Don’t think about graveyard so terrifying,

 Neither do you ponder about oak strong

 and  sturdy with edifice  not for challenging;

 free  air all with healthy bustle roaming about

drawing you free in its penfold with aura 

somewhat wholesome  and  though  around yard

no stones embedded with writes, bullying you,

no memory so horrid on every visit dilating 

all remnants till now around your pockets.

A song from the branches  not bitter layer,

but sweet mood hampering your sour appeal

from throat of a  bird accustomed to the arena;

 

love or lost love, yielding  pained moments,

where is counterpart, unheard voice from afar,

memory or fiasco in all its wounded pride;

in the lost hope,  rewinds  sudden  echo

replete with a  bonded affinity of galore

  

 

AIR

 

Poem of the week: Air by Victoria Adukwei Bulley

 

Air

 

From patio to garden

Springs of blows free

Unchecked, you are friend

Our inevitable, salutary;

 

unseen at times, your angered

moments devastating, cause

unknown to us, yet a crave

boon imperative for us all times.

 

 You come, inhale and exhale,

  from our lungs, inspiration,

  propelling for a poem  unchecked,

  all in open air how fine and glowing!

 

 Our life, our living, our writing

 all from your grace, glow, blow

 prolong our longevity, for family

unity and coherence and strength.

 

 

 

 

 

 

not turning the calendar Radhamani sarma

 

• Not turning the calendar
  

  
  

   
  

  
  

  The first whistle of milk boiler,
  

  
  

  The early  bird call in your balcony,
  

  
  

  Dawn’s wisdom rooted in rhythms,
  

  
  

  tune  of sacred  Vedas in  television,
  

  
  

   day to  day act designed in her home;
  

  
  

   
  

  
  

  either  by its own course  ordained,
  

  
  

  or willed by human, tuning  to seek peace
  

  
  

  these  go on undisturbed in her
  

  
  

   household serene, not  a void sure.
  

  
  

  Mind’s pure solace for ages  ancestors’ crave.
  

  
  

   
  

  
  

  Turning her calendar in its  majesty,
  

  
  

  tearing off the page or  previous  pages
  

  
  

  with dates  and notes , dues and rounds,
  

  
  

  her  morning’s must and rapturous norm
  

  
  

  words  beyond expression  now.
  

  
  

   
  

  
  

  One day she missed turning calendar,
  

  
  

  Her mindset with the same month before,
  

  
  

  hence everything was amiss, with all  calculus,
  

  
  

  booking and train re booking, jubilations
  

  
  

  postponed or cancelled  against her class. 
  

  
  

   
  

  
  

  Not after  all  a paper, or papers in order.
  

  
  

  Your order set by, fingers by command,
  

  
  

  Of mind , mood , to have orderly sail,
  

  
  

  Violated if you miss your memory the day;
  

  
  

  Yes  calendars or Seers  going before for us.
  

  
  

   
  

  ---

• 

  
  

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.