A Sparrow

A sparrow soaked in rain,
Shakes off a tiny fountain,
Time to fold the umbrella, and,
Drizzle-walk NYC again.

-GG

Sing along

Sing along, even if you can't sing.
Tomorrow's tune will be different
from the gloomy notes that today played.
Tomorrow will be a different song,
And if you decide,
It could be a joyful note on the string.

Sand dunes

Alone under the sun
bathing in sand I stand.
Stung, yet alive
I grow, I thrive
and inch towards the end.

GG

A Day to Remember

Today is death anniversary of Sukhdev Thapar, Shivaram Rajguru and Bhagat Singh and 100th birth anniversary of Ram Manohar Lohia. I would have not remembered, but for Vinod Dua's 9.30 news slot on NDTV India.

On March 23, 1931
Three youths died
shouting slogans till their last breath
to keep the revolution alive.
More than six decades of sleep later,
they perhaps still scream in their graves:
Wake up.

A government hospital

The filth, the clamour
The smell of blood, whiff of death
Poverty, helplessness
Apathy, gloom, juggernaut —
A government hospital.

Please vote for me

Hi...

Short and Sweet has been accepted in the Original Poetry Contest category on Indiblogger. It will take you a few minutes to vote, or create an account if you are yet not on Indiblogger...

Also, may I go a step ahead and say that I would be grateful if you ask your friends on the blogroll to check out Short and Sweet and vote for me...

Here's the voting link..

Wish me luck!

--Gauri

Swing on a star

The radio played:

"... Or would you like to swing on a star,
Carry moonbeams home in a jar
and be better off than you are..."

From Doris Lessing's short story 'A road to the big city'

Mesjay, this one's for you. I have been filling up a little diary these days and so the blog's neglected a bit. :)

Where they go

The footpaths on S N Banerjee and CIT
were littered with near-naked rickshawpullers
swooned in sweet fatigue after midnight
till a few days ago.
It's begun to rain now
and I wonder where they go...

I love low-cost planes

In three hours flat,
Can reach the home I most love,
I love low-cost planes

Kuch zakhmon ka hara rehna

Us ne muskura kar kurede mere zakhm aur kaha
'Khalish' accha hota hai kuch zakhmon ka hara rehna...


- Vitthal Gharpure, Khalish

Why do we?

Summer sleep, rainy talks
Falling leaves, cold blankets
Seasons change. So do we.

Lazy walks, school socks
Scribble pads, chewed pens
Seasons change. So do we.

Red roses, touchy cards
Long letters, shy tears
Seasons change. So do we.

Why do we?

-GG

Summer

It's hot and sultry
but not just right enough
The sun was far more demanding
In the town I grew up in.

It hit you on your skin
and pierced right through
Till you burnt a funny red
And then sweat cooled you up.

The hot vapours pricked you by
As you zoomed past on bikes.
Back home, under the lazy fan;
Water after a minute or two
Life would slowly seem bearable again...

Ahmedabad has a thousand memorable things
But the most I miss
Are those ruthless summer months.

Mee asheech Mee tasheech

Mee khari
Mee khoti

Mee kali
Mee gori

Mee aahe
Mee nahi

Mee sona
Mee dagad

Mee agni
Mee jal

Mee bangdi
Mee dora

Mee eechhha
Mee bal

Mee lahan
Mee mothi

Mee asheech
Mee tasheech

Mee satya
Mee asatya

Mee Gandhi
Mee Bhagat

Mee phool
Mee madhmashi

Mee nadi
Mee samudra

Mee aapli
Mee parkee

Mee pandhree
Mee laal

Mee ho
Mee nahi

Mee asheech
Mee tasheech

Chaitali Phadke is a vivacious Mumbaikar, a charming, chirpy girl whose poetry you have to read to believe her sensitive way of seeing things. This poem is her take on herself.

A much used maroon sweater

It's a chilly winter morning
The types I cannot imagine waking up at six
And getting into a school uniform.
And yet I did exactly so
Ten to twelve years ago
With sleepy eyes, a heavy head, cajoling mum
A hot cup of tea waiting for me
Bag packed by aaji and lunch made my mummy
Off to school after a wait for the public bus.
O what fun it was, hoards of students waiting at the bus stand
At six thirty those frosty mornings, Baba standing beside me
making small jokes, pointing a puppy here or there,
We dreamt big on those cold mornings, we still do.

And then the bus would suddenly come, and I would rush
Leave him behind and shove my way in the crowd
Once inside, wave him a smile again.
He would always wait a few minutes after I left
Lest I would jump back again for want of change,
Or a forgotten book,
Or with a frown say, 'no mood', I want to go back home
He would wait till he was sure I was safely on my way.

I would have by then lost my sleep
And get worried about the rounds of school
for getting late again.
We walked our way from the bus stand to school
and walked the way back, Reni and me.
And got scolded for taking a five rupee rick out of lazyness.

The PT sir would dye his hair once a month
to a startling, dazzling jet black
And everyday he coloured thus, I broke into giggles right on his face
After that running about the school campus,
I would finally slag up to the class.

Friends would smile that fond smile that said, 'Late again!'
I would scamper for a text book
And Reni or Rupal or Sanjana would slide their text towards me
We would push and shove the book on our sides and thus would start a game;
And giggle and talk in whispers and pens till teacher said 'ssshhhhh'
Then after the lunch break, we would get rid of the maroon sweaters
Knot these on the shoulder or the waist
Or simply dump them on the bench and gossip about at length...

Gone are those early mornings of rush that I try to get hold of even now
Those were different winters, this is a different cold...

Tired words

Tired words, used and re-used;
It's a task to churn up something new
If 'new' at all exists... :)

Death

Death, you can't touch me
Till you kill me. Or my loved ones.
But then, you have a sinister smell and sound
That crosses the sea
From that vibrant city nestling the Arabian
to this soulful place lining the Hooghly
You have put us all on our toes,
Nerves tense, tension aimless
Sorrow, brooding, unanswerable questions.
Why do you need to kill
to teach a lesson?
Death, why don't you be good once in a while.
Spare. Be gentle. Let us live as we die.
Give us time to say Goodbye...

Me?

Poet, you mean creature
You pick up life's odds
and mask those under a coating of heavy words,
Words that are glossy, Words that are hollow
Words made big with intellectual humbug...

Poet, you mean creature
You make no difference to my miseries, my sorrows.
You lap up my misfortunes
And make money out of my death and grime.
Poet, you mean creature,
Leave my privacy to me...

Nibbling

It slowly eats away,
bits of my intestine, heart and veins
but most of it, my brain...

Anger, which part of me
did you nibble today?

--Gauri

Just go away

It's uncomfortable
fiddling with the past. And yet it's
nothing I can control.

If only memories
could die as completely as human bodies;
Rot or burn away.

-GG

Birthdays are happy days
You grow up, or think you have.
Reason enough to enjoy...