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Best Poems Written by Mehnaz Veetil

Below are the all-time best Mehnaz Veetil poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Burning Embers

I close my eyes
Feel my heart on fire,
coal set scorching in subterranean mine. 

Now, must I pluck out
this fire burning , siphon this out
these drooling embers?

I am not to be blamed. Please,
I didn't start it, I only kept it ablaze,
with that tiny spark you blew in. 

I love these golden flecks
they hold me in  a fiery fantasy, a fairy
with wings of love and a sparkling magic wand. 

Look, can't you see,
our dark silhouettes an entwined beauty
drenched in the heat of unguarded love ..

I am the moth
drawn to your passion's flame
dancing wild as tomorrow never comes.

Protect me, from your fire,
this golden trance I love so dear, 
to dust may I burn
in embers you feed my heart! 
Happily so...,what if tomorrow never comes?

For Gail 's Burning Embers contest...
02.17.2013

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A Kiss In My Dream

...Stars
       shine soft,
   The kiss, yours
Ablaze,deep,eyes lull
            Eternal...

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A Life Lost

A Life Lost


    blue ocean waters
jewel- like fishes abode
   old sucker -cat dies..




*my sweet n brave goldy(golden sucker cat fish)dies of white spot disease . :-(

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Dancing Eunuchs of India

Dancing Eunuchs Of India
Eunuchs they were, who sang at doorsteps for alms
At birth and death alike; blessed the bride and groom too.
They danced their dark bodies heavily gyrating,with
 busted breasts, hairy chest and hefty forms tightly clad 
in saris candy colored ,sequined and six feet long.
Painted smiles, jingling bangles, tinkling anklets
sang bawdy ballads  of glorified virgins and stillborn children,
in a third gender voice-a hostile blend of two opposite sexes.


01/11/2013
Mehnaz Veetil
Entry for 8 lines contest on a native culture, sponsored by Debbie Guzzi 


Note: Most of the eunuchs in India live by begging. They normally come out in groups of about five to ten and spread out in streets approaching small shops and restaurants for alms. Normally people give them alms out of fear of being cursed. It is widely believed in India that the curse of a "hijra" is very effective; same with their blessings. They offer to dance at small family functions like naming ceremonies of newborn children, weddings and other village functions.

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Mother, Middle Aged

Mother, Middle Aged.


Forlorn, she sinks into the abyss of a middle aged
mother,  her pupae no longer the apple of her eye.
Baffled, she sees her cocoon tear open and barge
hastily, fumbling in quest of sham grown ups’ pride.
A mother she remains, middle aged. Spiteful and void.

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Haiku

pen delivers
              thought into word--
                     baby cries

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Is Love a Choice,Or a Mercy

Is Love A Choice,Or A Mercy?

Love unbosomed
Sweet joys seamless
Does 'Reality'frown?

Torments over,
We are our answers
Do we not have a choice?

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In a Hotel Room

The ghats,grey serpents in green thickets
cool and moist, dampens restless midgets

There ,in  a hotel ,in the lushness of the tropic's crown
are trees mighty tall with neat flights of stairs hanging down.

stood  perched on trees, a cabin each of uneven logs
with wooden planks hand-polished to parqueted  floors


A large cypress cot,an inviting bed ,the sensuous Umrao-Jaan
on canvas overhead, glowing in hues from a crystal pan

white porcelain figures, lovers dancing  on mantle;love lounges,
windows open to wild flora , a few ripe mangoes hanging in bunches

On the rails ruddy jasmine vines flaunt little white stars
antique bamboo lanterns at the door , happy to be ajar
 
warm aroma from oils of wild-herb toiletries exude
wanting a trickle on the heated hearts' pursuit

cute candles whispers roses and jasmine in the air
nothing more,  the imp of the mind feasts on love in the air. 

on the small balcony , the cool breeze of the underwoods caress
In this tree-house,bask in nature...at its best to soothe five senses.

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Passionately Yours,

Passionately Yours


         Hills of joy we rode ahead,
    Down the valleys sweet we buoyed;
         Like  river merging ocean,
              Solace I devoured.

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Midnight Black

MIDNIGHT  BLACK

No, I’m not -A racist of sorts, I mean
But detest I do, the black of midnight scene
Purple ,that smirk’d a wicked sheen,
groped, wiggled, with cold fingers keen.

Palled by a convulsed face wretched in pain 
viscous slime ,red on  bruised mane 
Daggers sculpted life off, like insane
Lifeless limbs sprawled out in sunken lane.

Sharp silver deep in thick flesh lame
Ants and moths eager to claim…
Did vicious black mouth my name?
Yes, detest I do, the midnight’s game.