Best Indo Poems
Indo-Fijian Girls CAN Run
I Remember...
Clearly as my memories of Fiji’s blue tropical skies
Desiring to raise my hand for the school’s track events until I heard the lies
Frail, short Indian girl was the brand I was tagged with
But deep down the desire to run I could never ditch
I Ran…
In the fields and I ran on the road
Believing that I was the fastest girl in the globe
Low suggestive whistles, catcalls and disapproving glares - my only reward
Frail, short Indian girl- my presumed physicality; this shackle daunting me from moving forward.
Pakistan was born on 14th of August based on communal grounds.
Many have this misconception that India was born on 15th August.
India was at least 2222 years old country.
We got independence on 15th August 1947.
The name itself was derived from the river Indus.
Muslims in India are the second majority after Hindus.
However,they enjoy minority rights.
India provided Hajj subsidy for almost 33 years.
The subsidy was stopped by the recommendation of a
Muslim Parliament member.
Cut to the chase I want a logical answer rather than some
standard False outdated answer by those sitting in Rawalpindi...
Soldiers strengthen the fence of iron wires.
Border looks like a fair face, disfigured by
smallpox. Virus is still active. Infiltrators
crawl through the mist into India’s heart.
They are brave, but brainless.
A myriad of men waste their sweat in the
nearby militant camps, while wheat farms
lie locked with weeds. They harvest tears.
Machine-guns and mines can never sooth
stomachs. Both sides spend millions on
missiles, when many starve and struggle.
It’s midnight, yet guns roar again, sparks
of pain fall down.
This side loathes green, and the other side,
saffron. These are everybody’s colors. Alas!
Soldiers and citizens are conditioned.
I say, ‘I’m Indian.’ You say, ‘I’m Pakistani.’
When’ll we say, ‘We’re men?’
Stop production of widows and orphans;
invest in the infrastructure.
Remember, once we’re one. We’ve to share
and care again. We’ve to barter the unwanted
with the wanted. Life rusts in revenge and rivalry.
Pendle War Poetry Contest Winner (Overseas Category)
Yesterday we were together,our life and death was the same,
Today we have drawn a line for reasons foolish and lame.
Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand,we have been through life,
Trials-tribulations we faced ,struggled through slavery and strife.
What then has happened today that we have turned bitter foes,
We bay for each others blood and added to our cup of woes.
Ashamed I feel when we strip naked in front of the world
And all of them quirk and laugh at the erstwhile land of gold.
Our food is the same,skin alike,blood and ancestors are one.
Gandhi and Jinnah,we have together the battle of freedom won.
Then why our minds go astray and we build the walls of divide.
Time breeds maturity but our chasms of friendship grow wide.
Let not the guns rule and terrorists spill the blood,
We have other things to care like famine and flood.
Lets bind our hands together and sing hand in hand
Today or tomorrow realization will land,
That we have missed many years in hatred and warfare,
When love could change our lives we shied to care and share.
Form:
When silence breaks with a siren's cry,
And ash clouds darken the morning sky,
Two nations rise with wrathful might,
Blind to peace, prepared to fight.
Where rivers flowed through fields so wide,
Now burn with rage on either side.
Flags once fluttered in monsoon air,
Now mark the graves of young laid bare.
The tanks roll in, the bombers fly,
The missiles arc across the sky.
Steel and fire tear the dawn apart,
Each strike a wound to the human heart.
And then the flash — a blinding white,
Day turns to dusk, and noon to night.
Mushroom clouds in dreadful bloom,
Cities fall in silent gloom.
No victors left, no songs to sing,
Only echoes of what war will bring:
Children charred, and mothers weep,
Fathers buried in endless sleep.
The air is poison, the soil is dead,
The living envy those who bled.
No border now, just common pain,
Shared by the ash and acid rain.
What was it for — this fatal pride,
That turned the world to suicide?
India, Pakistan — names now lost,
To power's game and mankind’s cost.
Oh leaders drunk on hate and fear,
Is this the glory you held dear?
Let this be written, carved in stone:
Peace is a seed, war reaps a tomb.
(Written through the eyes of a 6th century B. C. era Scythian warrior poet)
wind o wind o wind!
wind o wind whichs cleaves
the steppe in dire stagnation
eternal is the ride,
endless, the expanse
forever is the arrow
and the still air it slices
has no end to it either
below the ever-great sun-disc
we tremble
like hearts in lover-chests
half human, half stallion
hoof and hand, neigh and bow
into everlasting cold
echoing
aryan ancestry
from back centuries or even millenia
into ever-hinterlands
where slint-eyeds
and blue-eyeds
and brown-eyeds live
the steppe-nation spreads
like eagles soar
or how wolves migrate