Best Betel Poems
Emerald green that shines on
gleaming green jewel bug
Algae green of the serene pond
And there swim the shoveler ducks
Harlequin green from areca leaves pinnate
Softly grins when sunrays gently penetrate
And the dark green on betel leaves
Oh ho, the deep red on tongue it leaves
Light green of the Mandevilla
That climbs high to shine bright
Mixed hues of the leaves of taro root
And turquoise green on the crystal clear Lake
O! The iridescent green hues
of peafowls whose vibrant colors ooze
off his pretty long feathers,
Do I need to apprise further?
Green paddy field glares
And sways like a girl's hair
Teal green from singing river
Accumulates minerals and delivers
Did I mention the grass green?
Hey! Isn't our earth's screen?
Raising that lustrous curtain,
unfolds vivid scene by scene
Our earth breaths through these shades of green
Without these green, there is no pleasant scenes
How calm, how cool aah!
In the queue of betel jackfruit, mango garden
Happiness run with family
Paddy area and the mustard field.
Baisagu arrived in our village
Beautiful dance of joy, welcome
Village to replay around parties
Kham jotha thorkha playing.
Aah! so glad to live in this
Parties to the action
Great brother to help
Birds keeps rearing cattle, pigs.
Does harvest crops in the ground
Golden and green coloured design on clothes made in weaving,
Waterfall in the lake while fishing jekhai
Deer and wild boar hunt.
Waterfall behind family run
Oh! how beautiful
With beautiful gardens
Made in the field of veterinary.
World of wonder in nature
Full of joy and pain, in my village
Fight to live every moment!
How calm, how cool.
Embellished saris glide with hot winds
as the clatter of bright anklets varnish
female heels rippling on New Delhi's trails:
pungent waft of curry permeates
through a local mart —betel, cinnamon
and mint leaves flaunt their skin—
kohl for Oriental eyelids, ambrosial herbs
rousing elder men-- while a bowl of lentils
incite my buds.
Although the thick of dust settles mid-air,
Delhi’s evening of jasmines reflects
a holy incense sanctifying a mystical chant
quiet , ethereal as I adorn myself
with a comfortable sari and layered bangles ,
gazing at Taj Mahal, if only to imbibe
this calm energy unfamiliar yet known
inside my core… my breath follows
Hindi prayers of wonderment
on and on like a song of moonlight,
until I accept allow such deep belonging
through the city’s rhythm with the world
and somehow, intimately mine.
Exotic Contest for Debbie Guzzi
7/20/2017
Betel nut nations,betel nut pride;
They spit on their walls:
Their teeth they'll hide.
--- Princefreakasso
(Artist and Poet)
You are a woman, with numerous names –
Whore,
Harlot,
Courtesan,
Street Walker,
Concubine,
Lady of the night,
Prostitute,
a sex worker???
Bird of prey -
eyed by predator pimps,
numerous numb nights
spent in bleak brothels,
flocked like cattle in filthy sheds,
Time-etched face -
worn-out profane beauty
concealed in mask of makeup
lures lewd customers
to satiate their lusty appetite
in the jungle of devouring groins.
Whirr of rickety wall-fan drowns in
cacophony of coughing customers
caricature of intercourse doodled on cracked walls
painted with betel-nut spatter stains…
Blemished ruffled bed and
stink of semen-soiled sheets
mingles with fumes of cheap liquor
and whiff of stale cigarette stubs.
Your wasted life –
a snapshot of soiled images,
a tarnished tapestry -
smeared and smudged
with sexually transmitted diseases.
sheds tears of anger, hurt and deceit
for the relics of
dreams of a dignified life…
I would rather call you -
Mother of manifold miseries
Sister of silent sufferings
Daughter of decaying despair
Wife of worldly woes!
Yes, you are still to me -
a woman with numerous names
and weeping eyes…
I do not know his name
But always like to watch
He is a small vendor of betel leaf
At my village market
Never he wears a shirt and footwear
Monday and Saturday, the market runs
The Saturday market is my favorite
Always I will be there on Saturday
To buy and sell my cows and calves
After settling my dealings
I will go to a small toddy shop
Where fresh coconut toddy gets
That betel leaf vendor will always our
Attraction there
He is a good singer though old,
We are not drunkards
It is only our leisure time
In a week after hard works
Only one room of the home of thatched roofing
Night nest my childhood grew up
On the reed mat, at the cow dung floor
We slept in a line warmly in whole room
With the portion of my dinner, given by my mother
In the evening I came, Grandma’s home ever
Grandma, Grandpa, seldom with my brother
Nights I spent was a book grim brother
Close to the rice pot and two hot curries
Sat for the dinner eagerly by the light of cruet
Hungry amber color painted night touched faces
Taste of dinner though simply and smell haunt
Passed happy and sad days, rich and poor days
Stamped mixed memories in countless nights
After the dinner and betel desert of delights
Mats were laid, the door was ajar till sleeps
Of Kings, princes and heavens the story long
Longed to hear until grandma wants to sleep
Visualized images and in horrible forests
In Grandpa’s narratives, I wondered as a cloud
Once he tells and ends about a demon’s tale
Afraid my feet disinclined of going to pee
Night and dark when light and door were closed
A visual screen through roof’s holes that story plays
Grandma, Grandpa both are my cinematic creators
Unwritten epics of my big world narrators
Imaginary mind and poetic soul me granters
Your place far away and become exiled traitor
Pan: Betel. Or quintessentially creole, made anew, pan-American music
Aloo: also Native American, the staff of life, versatile with curry
Naan: often translated roti, chapati, dhaalpuri, but not rotisserie
Dholak: the drums that doubled (not Doubles) as tassa, for Hosay
I : I, too, know bitter sugar, the syrupy blood of plantations
Tasted: Tasted the brotherhood of the boat, in another middle passage
Appointments: with pen. She is a better pendit than Claude McKay, CLR, VS ...
rain comes rain
rain wets my pain,
wets my dust of gain,
cleans my walking lane,
find I inside a path of sane
rain comes on empty green fields
cows, calves, goats run away dancing
rain comes and wets nature
dogs, cocks, hens move on my doorway
sparrow, tailor birds soaked in the grove
flapping wings and feathers seek warm
rain comes and wets coconuts and betel-nuts trees
raindrops fall as trees tears
rain comes on the poorly pond
fishes are playing hide and seek around
kingfisher waits to make a dish of fish
in food natures allow- no bond
rain comes on paths, quay, field
a passerby walks with an umbrella
ship discharges goods
soaking child play mirthfully
rain comes on little boys and girls of the village
they use banana leaves on the head like an umbrella
rain comes on the desert
quenches its thirsty heart
rain comes around us
venomous, non-venomous snake crawls on frog liberally
earthworms cultivate soft field gamely
rain comes, water plays its rule over all
urban drains are full of naughty- garbage water
urbane street and footpath flooding
skyscraper building floating on immobile stinky water
rain comes unsurprisingly
cholera, diarrhea touches neighbor slum child
rain comes, roaring flood attacks terribly
dead crows, cows, dogs, mice in the urban dustbin
rain comes, soggy feelings on my sight
I do not find my pet cat and tame dog
rain comes, flooding, around my flooding
the street tong tea stall flooded away
supplying daily foods-goods are short
the tariff rate is high
rain comes with a price hike
rain comes but the doctor does not come
water cause patient increases day by day
rain comes with snow coolness
cough harasses beloved voice
I'm not hearing a welcome song of rain
rain comes and I come-
by the right eye, I see elated life of around nature
by the left eye, I see gloomy death is nature’s feature
-August 13, 2018 Chattogram
Rabbit vs turtle,
The old running race,
Another race is on the cards-
Swan vs betel,
The floating race,
Betel means winning leaf,
Like the old rabbit in belief,
The finishing point is nearing,
Both Swan and betel in the hope of winning!
(The presidential election in Sri Lanka is to be held on 08.01.2015
The symbols of the two main candidates,Swam and Betel leaf
This is my garden.
I recently discovered
the quiet allure
of the forgotten art of gardening.
More than shoving seeds into soil,
More than impatiently waiting for seedlings and then greedily harvesting the fruit of one’s labour.
More than the many thankless hours
of back-breaking weeding, mulching, watering, cursing, despairing.
And when it is time for the plant to finish its cycle of giving,
the gardener plans again, plants again, hopes again.
In the midst of this mindless weeding,
this ridding of unwanted plants,
I am often surprised by a sudden creeping silence that descends,
a rustling of leaves both immediate and near, perhaps the cooing of doves hidden.
And then I know-
I am in The Zone, lost to the world.
I am reckless in the garden, deliberately so.
Relishing a recklessness which otherwise in any other place I am not permitted.
I allow weeds to sprout
and birds to disperse seeds of indeterminate origins everywhere in this tiny and crowded yard.
My garden’s alarmingly haphazard appearance
Is strangely comforting and somehow familiar.
I check-in daily
on the betel leaves, periwinkles and black-eyed peas-
humble and oft-overlooked flora.
I am learning from their hardiness and dependability,
their valued ordinariness.
Re-potted, sytrofoam-boxed, stringy, stunted, yellowing and nondescript
None look impressive.
Yet,
I am satisfied, I am quietly content
With these hurriedly snatched moments
on a Sunday morning, on a harried weekday evening
here among these humble pots.
Here in this garden of joy,
faith is restored
sanity preserved
through the power of a seed.
26 Dec 2013.
4.
the sex-appeal of the telephone
and the bugle of the carnies-breaking cock-crows
are all harmonised seamlessly
the noon in the blood
is flowing along the river
all the dialogues are covered
with misspelling of men and women
the tailors want to increase life
cutting rightly the walking of clothes
after the vanishing of collyrium
from the eyes
there is not a single being
in the relief-camps
as far as the eyes can travel
i can notice in the ear-lob of the village-boats
the water-colour of fire-flies
twinkles
then let an agreement be signed
with the defence ministry
on the right
to enter into private bathroom
5.
in the air
on which flowers are engraved
the union of the betel leaves are making their outposts
anew
before the calling of the next pine-woods
you all the butterflies do take on board the tram
to go to the south-pole
is it well to incline so much
towards the tv-screen
who can say
the waves of the terracotta
would never make revolution
i’ve sent some full-moons of winter
and some water-bodies
into the holes of the handkerchief
the lacking of the colours
may kindly be excused
the birds that are blind from their birth
has been singing till now
the songs of the cave-civilisation
there is no question any where
this eclipsed-valley is adorned
with the answers only
How happy can one be?
Ofentimes, I wonder aloud,
Taking advantage of my creative licence.
Let me explain -
The filth I encounter in this city:
Stinking garbage hills along the sidewalks,
Bloody graffiti of betel-nut stains on walls and lampposts,
Jellying lumps of bronchial ejaculations
On carelessly laid pavements of crowded walkways
On which I negotiate my bearing with a grandmaster's moves,
A gentleman peeing into a roadside drain,
In broad daylight, all the while
Looking up at the sky,
As if he is criticizing a painting of Michelangelo,
Even as his beer color discharge bubbles on
Overflowing effluence let out
From cesspools of adjoining buildings,
A hairless dog licking at a sanitary napkin,
Thinking it is a slice of loaf with generous spread
Of jam on it,
Like the way a chupacabra plays with a helpless lamb
Before the fatal bite.
I reached my breaking point yesterday,
When I saw a shining red car with sparkling windows
Pulled up and a hefty plastic shopping bag flew out of it,
And landed at the foot of a signpost by a level crossing,
Which read - Don't dump rubbish here!
And the car rolled away in style.
I stood frozen in utter disbelief,
While a three legged goat limped in and
Began inspecting what was inside the new arrival.
I returned home hallucinated and deeply scathed.
In the bedroom,
I found your black silk stockings
Sprawled across the floor.
I observed the illusive embroidery on them and sensed
A slow storm brewing up in my guts.
A precarious yearning suddenly nudged me
To touch the blue veins on your ankles.
And I felt a minimalist petal of happiness swirling
On a gentle breeze in my papery existence,
In spite of the revolting landscapes.
Prolonged sickness
At the first sight
Sickness is a luxury coach
Bed of apples
Party of toast and eggs
Crowded like a holiday trip.
Soon after
Sickness sickens
Like diabetes;
Dense faces turn thin and hazy,
Cripples vision;
The sweet sting of arrow
In the betel leaf
Begins to bite,
Heart fails;
Ambition
Fails to dialyse doubts.
Time wriggles
Like rusted saw,
Fruit trays
Corrode to cough pits,
Horlicks jars vomit
Flattened rice,
Life monitor repeats
To migraine.
Everybody came
Wished :
Live long!
And soon departed
Finally vanished.
Man ‘s a social apparition
Grinning at the dying man.
Plowing the pages of textbooks,
Sali’s teenage sauntered away
like a bull.
Her breath smelling chewing gum still lingers
in the solitude of his soul, but he’s
forbidden to call up.
His free bird’s died, getting a shock from
the wire of life – worms of worries
rot his mind.
He’s been installed in an insalubrious office,
where he gets itch from the file-ants
and the bossy-words.
His spouse’s spun a web for him –
he always moves
like a spider.
It’s only when he babbles to his baby
that he feels,
‘I live’.
He chews betel to reduce the level of
his tension - stains increase
day by day .
‘Adult’ is imprinted on his back
to carry all on
his back.
He jumps from counter to counter like
a grasshopper with the bills
in diverse hues.
And all his hopes are
cast over a never
homing day.