Ghats Poems | Examples

She Was More Than Light

Who would gaze at the moon
when her face held all the light?
Even the stars
seemed unnecessary
when she stood still in the night.

And who would listen to waves
when her laughter
sounded like home?
The ocean forgot its voice
the moment she smiled.

She wasn’t just beautiful —
she was peace in human form,
like the ghats of Banaras
where broken hearts
quietly drown
without needing to scream.

Around her,
people remembered who they once were.
And before her,
I forgot who I was.

How does one not melt
in the warmth of someone
so effortlessly kind?
She didn’t try to save me —
she just stood there,
and I burned
so gently
I almost called it love.

She came
like poetry with no warning.
And left
like silence
that never ends.

Characteristic of past

                           Characteristic of past 


The characteristic of some individuals cannot be understood within a single period of time, because completing a cycle of time requires two ghats, not any
 kind of success or failure. My existence is not a matter 
of concern. Searching for the character of my past in
 the present is like the shore and the sand.

OM Namo Narayan
OM Namah Shivaya
Rishi Tantracharya Aghori Mhabharamnad

With love all 
Jagdish bajantri

Indian Diversity

Crimson saris, silk
Woven with threads of gold,
A dancer's graceful sway,
Reflecting ancient lore,

A turban's vibrant hues,
Sun-baked earth, spice-scented air,
Desert whispers tales,
Of caravans afar,

Carvings deep and bold,
In temples, ancient stone,
Echoing centuries old,
Stories yet untold,

From the Himalayas' snow,
To Ganges' holy flow,
A sacred, mystic show,
Diversity unfolds,

Ghats, where souls ascend,
Prayers to deities blend,
The fragrance of incense,
Mystical events unfold,

Bhangra's rhythmic beat,
A joyful, vibrant heat,
Dancing in the street,
Celebrations complete,

From the bustling city's hum,
To villages' quiet drum,
A world within a sum,
India's soul, profound,

Flavour's bold and bright,
A culinary sight,
Spices, herbs, and light,
Taste of day and night,

A thousand faces smiles,
Across landscapes, miles,
One nation, mixed styles,
India's spirit, which beguiles

A symphony of sound,
Stories whispered around,
Diverse and ever-bound,
India's soul is profound.

The Blue Blossoms

The alarm warns: it’s time to wake, 
Time, twelve years of leisure to shake,
Take a look, King of springs has come, 
The time has come now to blossom, 
And this message spreads all around,
The plants perk up right from the ground,
And nature spreads blossoms of blue,
Nilgiri turning truly blue
On an eerie clock’s unknown clue! 
___________________________________ 
Happenings |04.09.2021| Free verse 

Poet’s Note: The Western Ghats of Southern India are all alive at present with blue blossoms of a flower called Neelkurinji (Blue Blossoms) which bloom for miles all at the same time of the season, and once only in 12 years. What alarm might be causing this synchronization is one of the nature’s wonders. Nilgiri is one of the hill stations on this hill range (Western Ghats). The word nil means blue.

Salute

Contented and unmindful of hassles,
We live snugly in our secured houses.
In the backdrop, you, the valid knight
Fight in perilous Ghats day and night.
Brave heart filled with dauntless guts,
Galloping warm blood in bulged nerves,
Honed mind with striking perseverance,
Mutable and rush to nooks and crannies.
Least bothered about food and comforts, 
Move with impetuous and swift actions.
Suppress wants, interests and feelings, 
And resist all temptations and impulses.	
Live in seclusion far away from kindred
And confront all dangers that demand.
Even your family longs your presence.
Is it not their praise worthy sacrifice?
Nothing could be cardinal to you ever,
Every nerve filled with patriotic fervor.
With least faze, hug the ruthless death,
The way you cuddle your beloved kith.
Without withdrawing an inch, settle
And consign to fight with all mettle.
For us and forever!
Salute Dear soldier!

STRAND COMPLETELY NEW(2) any theme any form
Contest Judged:  6/29/2020 
Sponsored by: Brian Strand 
position: Honorable Mention

Varanasi

Pilgrims and vagrants throng its Ghats
Beggars, seers and mendicants all,
Shrill peal of bells, the chant of hymns
And waters holy do enthrall.

Shiva’s trident nudges the soul
The Dhamak Stupa stands forlorn,
Their speak of legends distant past
Of antiquity long bygone.

Come chant and sing a Vedic verse
Do prostrate at the altars high,
Know Moksha will then beckon you
From pyres lit where corpses lie.

Pray walk across its ancient lanes
Inhale the scent of wood and smoke,
Its din and dust will soon embrace
Your senses with its blessed cloak.

This mystic land its hallowed air
Bathes all men with its pious smear,
Here mortals come to breathe their last
For doors of heaven opens here.
                      ***********

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.

Stray Colors

Now burns the stillness of thoughts.
Be my enemy.
Ants are running out
of the eye.
Nightmares:
I am collecting the ashes from
the burning ghats.
The steps to the lake are disappearing
in the blood of moon.
The dogs-
are carrying away a half-burnt leg.
It stinks
stinks
the whole river, all night
all day.
Don’t shut the window
I am crying.

•	

Tin man was walking on the sea
of words.
He did not want to utter F………out.
The hirsute triangle
pops up, every time
you close your eyes.
All night he was dreaming
he had become inert, like a corpse.
Can you start a salvage chemo ?
So that I can levitate in emptiness
and meet
my arithmetic
midway like cherry blossom
falling, yet not falling.
You will never understand me.
I was waiting for the night
beyond the sky 
beyond the stars.

•	

The stigma
the style.
No pollen wants to land on your cherry
Stainless shirt waves a white flag
to stop the war.
I am not a cherry picker
in a moonlit night
undressing the smile.
It is for you, the next life
a little wee
if I don’t come back
from the sea of carnage
pure as a fish.


Satish Verma

One Hundred Laments

Trading the sweetness, a rainbow
on icefalls, you will come back on rocks
and drink the elixir of death.
A fantastic dream of soap bubbles in a tumbler,
ejecting the inky grief on the transparent glass.
The pink goddess of wealth
will descend again in your bowls. Brassica
will decide the future of grass.

The moon ride has become cheaper in cans
like sardines, unethical but sleeping with god.
Thongs were visible on steps of bathing ghats
for the benefit of bullfighters. Gibbons
indulging in aerial bombing. Comfortable
in groves jacarandas were smiling.

Unlike you I smelt the dried flowers
between the pages of history
to meet the shadows on the walls of time.					


SATISH VERMA

Descending

i  make ready myself for an insult
and chest pain, keeping unshorn hair like nettles
on contours, to take unknown turns for restoring
the clouds on moon-blue hills, spreading the water colors
on trees; someone inside the shrine was making
turbulence: yellow room has the footprints of
a naked fakir, after the apocalypse, who walked eyes closed
on the burning ghats, his rags are now worshipped,
the later years found the darkness
glowing in the furnace of propped up body
by roses,roses all the way, he tells the
hanging man, how tall were the poles, with song



SATISH VERMA

Biased

BIASED
THE LIFE HAS BEEN RUINED 
LIKE AN OLD MANOR,
THE ALFRESCO HAD TURNED
INTO SIRROCO OF LIFE.

IT HAS GIVEN ME  THE
MASOCHISH OF LIFE.
IT HAS BEEN RUINED LIKE
GHATS OF GANGES
BY  PREACHERS  WHO ARE  
FAKE TO THE WORLD.

THE LIFE HAS ANGINA
WITH BOULEVARD OF 
NO FUTURE.

THE BELL LOST ITS RING,
AMETHYST LOST ITS 
COLOR,
I HAVE BAD PIEANO NOTES 
ON MY FINGER.

THE COLOR OF RAINBOW
IS BIASED,
LIKE ME.
WHICH HAS NO REASON 
TO CHANGE.

THE FEEL IS GIVING 
ME COUP DE GRACE
EVERY MOMENT OF LIFE 
AGAIN N AGAIN.

Descending

i  make ready myself for an insult
and chest pain, keeping unshorn hair like nettles
on contours, to take unknown turns for restoring
the clouds on moon-blue hills, spreading the water colors
on trees; someone inside the shrine was making
turbulence: yellow room has the footprints of
a naked fakir, after the apocalypse, who walked eyes closed
on the burning ghats, his rags are now worshipped,
the later years found the darkness
glowing in the furnace of propped up body
by roses,roses all the way, he tells the
hanging man, how tall were the poles, with song



SATISH VERMA

Blind Swings

gradients
vivid, humbling
I was collecting a bit of myself

reading anatomy
of animality
spawning the hidden eggs

flecks of echos scarring:
reconnecting to starry night
I could not hold my enrged otherself

and the homely smell of gunshots
orchestrated to send a message of
mayhem – for optic illusion

            the reptiles have broken
the law for an oceanic boat
collecting the golden fish

on the burning ghats, streetscape
full of falling leaves and
bloody wings of black crows 


SATISH VERMA

One Hundred Laments

Trading the sweetness, a rainbow
on icefalls, you will come back on rocks
and drink the elixir of death.
A fantastic dream of soap bubbles in a tumbler,
ejecting the inky grief on the transparent glass.
The pink goddess of wealth
will descend again in your bowls. Brassica
will decide the future of grass.

The moon ride has become cheaper in cans
like sardines, unethical but sleeping with god.
Thongs were visible on steps of bathing ghats
for the benefit of bullfighters. Gibbons
indulging in aerial bombing. Comfortable
in groves jacarandas were smiling.

Unlike you I smelt the dried flowers
between the pages of history
to meet the shadows on the walls of time.						


SATISH VERMA

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