A lone cuckoo whistled
Into the twinkling night The cuckoo in my earshot Opened a cascade full of memories... They beckoned from the times That have long passed me by. No winter had been warmer Than when we sat huddled by the fire No summer so soothing When we had those knobbly hands Fan us in a gentle stride. Four children sat cross-legged in a circle. Their awestruck orbs gaped At the animated face of the little old woman These wistful evenings taught us something precious. It takes, A silver-haired enchantress Armed with a knowing smile And a bag of tales bewildering To tie naive little hearts with a bond Whose memories might sway, But which not even time dare shake.
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Winds murmuring, scolding.
Tossing off tin roofs like dead autumn leaves on an open field. Winds Clamouring, thundering Cattle on the field, grazing with carefree ease. Two sprightly sparrows Hopped upon a tin roof. Moments until it breaks free A waterhen saunters by. A stork glides. The winds in their favour. Angry hissing winds. Whistling winds. Sweeps everything in her path. An old folklore tells the story of Bordoisila, The maiden who visits her mother The first time since her wedding. She misses her mother so much. She rushes home the first chance she gets. "A mirror and a comb will make her tarry," grandmother might say. The breeze of childhood has swept by And all there's left of it are the butterflies. Butterflies with torn wings. From a cave of concrete, Through a shut window, I will stare. At cattle and waterhen and storks and dogs and sparrows... I'll look at them, placid as a winter pond, I'll look at them for company I'm alone. In this storm. And I'm scared. Pray, dear sister, take me with you -- I'll whisper. I sat on the backyard bench
The afternoon of April seventh Feeling feverish, Of the wait. I'll be unhappy While waiting for it to happen. I'll be unhappy, If it happens today. For I would be aware I cheated; That I didn't go through the 'wait' phase. So I will be unhappy all the same. The series passed by In the haze of an all-too-familiar binge. So did the book, the novel. I skipped past parts; Parts that demanded faith in the wait. I skipped past parts that requested patience. Perhaps that's why, I am ever unhappy; My life bores me, Because... The difficult phase, the longest parts Are the parts I cannot skip. So today I'll sleep in pretense And tomorrow shall I awaken In the same stage as yesterday. I'll cry, be frustrated, Till I realize the value of the wait. A life bittersweet, is a life well-lived. Cliche much? It's life. It's meant to be a cycle of cliches: Pain-hope-suffer-give up-wait-suffer-hang on-rejoice. All I want for my birthday in May, Is to fall in love with my wait. Down the rabbit-hole for simple adventures
And old-time bliss; My goosebumps are on guard against reality's chill. Forbidden roads, a blocked memory; But down the well-worn road are hell's open gates. I walk on it. Nothing stirs, all but whispers intend To break into a loud bickering. They give fragments of tales From times that have long passed you by Whilst it all, you try to solve The temple maid's riddle. You dared to turn while crossing the river of oblivion. The fire of recollection never burns Try as you might to kindle. When the Devil broke into a smile,
I wondered if this was still a dream. They called me half-baked, ugly. But those crickets are now far away. I can't hear them chirping. The Devil said, "The fire that didn't kill you, Forged you into something stronger." To which I said, "Sir, you look funny with your tail." He had a clear, clever laughter Like a peal of bells trembling in a throaty breeze. He said it was quite useful, that tail of his. He used it as a spare noose to drag Conceited souls through the gates of hell. The autumn dusk fell upon the forest like a pristine veil. I felt a shadow lifting from my heart When the kind Devil said that he would teach me a game. Every creature has its season, he said. Winter, when they are nestled deep in Earth's warm womb Craving to exist, But knowing it isn't quite time yet. Spring comes with a bounty of life When the Earth glances at them with an eyebrow raised And says with the nonchalance of experience, "Ah there it is, a newling again!" Scorching summers test life in a furnace. To see if they can be moulded into something beautiful, Or would they end up in a sad, distorted shape. Autumn comes as a barren dream -- Lovely but deserted. The foliage is gone, the soul is sleepy. It will soon be time to return to the womb again. "The next time you see a person or a creature," said the Devil, "Try to look at them through their season." I was paying attention. The green forest now looked quite grey, And in the silver moonbeams Fireflies blinked at me as I nodded. The Devil cracked a smile again. I asked him what his season was. He said, "I am the lone morning star on a clouded night. I don't have a season." To which I said, "I think you're Fall." -- Before he walked away. I wouldn't be toothless.
I will weep when I want to. Even in public. And laugh the greatest laugh in the world, Right after that. I wouldn't care to put a filter On all the sarcasm my mouth wants to pour. And nature be my solace As I live in my own Isle of Innisfree. I'll wear colors that would make a peacock Come to me for advice; I'll pair my attire with wooden clogs Painted with all the shades of life my feet would have dipped upon. I'll have a dog and a cat and they will be friends. I'll help things grow. And seeing them sprout, For once I'll find meaning. My meadow will have acres and acres of Saccharum spontaneum... That I never planted. They'll dance with the wind, singing praises Of all things spontaneous. They'll bid me to be likewise. And so will. My feet wouldn't be wobbly As I move them in erratic ways, On a grey crowded street in April, Just before the showers come. The monsoons I'll keep to dance along my crops As droplets of life bring me to life, I'll be a crazy old lady, but a happy one The day I turn eighty. Existence -- a fleeting medley,
Of sounds and sights and sentiments; For life is but a few fragile moments, A thread of glass beads or poems bittersweet. The mayfly man knelt before the great altar, On Judgement day; Trying to make sense of his string of beads. He had a somber tone, A humble hunch His quivering lips uttered a twilight's prayer, And spoke of long nights and short days lived in untold fear. The mayfly man awakens every dawn And embraces demise at dusk. Noon is but a struggle, A plea on the feet of the grim reaper. Never in the morning would he ever wonder At the nature of life ephemeral; For every day he awakens oblivious To all that he learned yesterday. At noon he finds himself entangled, In wistful dreams, pursuits of passion, Assumption of an infinite swim around the river bend. But each time he finds death Looking at him in the eye, Just when thought he had it all figured. The river takes his life Until next morning, when he's reborn. The mayfly man spends his moments With a different moment in mind. It so happens that when the moment in hand swiftly passes him by, With his eyes far over the horizon still, He knows the time has come again, To leave the transient shell he so dearly loved. Perhaps tomorrow he'll fly, Upon the next chance he gets at life. |
Gauri Priya Bora @the_straying_shadowPoems for the weary ArchivesCategories |