Of the Gods own country
of this paradise
where green and blue
merge as one
in the north is a city
that encompass the beauty
where the dream lands meet
lined by kaasaraka trees
where seven tongues are spoken
and a unique lingo was woken
lined by shores and calm beaches
which meets with forts of ancient elegance
who can pass by with no notice
the mountains high and hillocks of beauty
forests green and tranquil rivers
places of worship, unique structures
renowned for coir and handloom
and for its customs varied
The people here, with a smile of warmth
welcoming with open arms
known for their variety dishes
which does prick ones tastebuds
of the sense of fashion
who can beat their passion
and their thirst for knowledge
is to be acknowledged
fame it has know from times of yore
of the arts and culture it beholds
this is the city of budding talents
feel the vibe and do relent
© Nadiya(14 May '15)
*Chosen poem of the day on 16 May 2015
Categories:
handloom, beach, beauty, city, nature,
Form: Free verse
there are so many pieces of torn paper
into the stone-chips of the broken road
they are of summer
they are of late autumn
beside is the ice-mill
the glow-sign board
attached tightly
the indelible ink
catches the finger of the lemon-grass
the fish-market is also alive and glad
the young minister of state
sends his best wishes
to the handloom-girls
in between
some horn-blowing of the
camels
the labour-strike trembles
the water of dhaleswari-river
has been filled
with the sound of subsistence
Categories:
handloom, fantasyautumn,
Form: Prose Poetry
keeping full trust on the fulia-handloom
some words may be uttered now
some words against the gun
an winter …
some fallen leaves …
some cold wind …
and a big vacuum in mind …
with all those adornments
i’m sitting now
on the terrace of a shiva-temple
in front of me
in a pond covered with hyacinth
the water-play of the ducks
in its water
the shadow of the sky
the shadow of the trees
along the side of the pond
a little child is running alone
with a toy-ball in hand
i don’t wish to know now
whether there is any compares
to that run
i’m only sitting
and staring at
it may not be known to others
but i myself know well
that by speaking those words
I try to hide my sadness… my loneliness…
Oh… instead of gun-powder …
if i could put inside the quartos
any translation of this joy of the child …
those who rule rely on guns
those who want to break the rule
also rely on guns
today when my pen wants
to tell something against the gun
i don’t know whether it will go
in favour or against
the sky… the birds… the trees… mankind …
Categories:
handloom, social, words, child, may,
Form: Prose Poetry