Long Bazar Poems
Long Bazar Poems. Below are the most popular long Bazar by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bazar poems by poem length and keyword.
A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din
A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin
The blood-curdle choke of rage from before
Now purchased like plasma from the needle store
Go hump yourself, If you want my schtick, you vampire whore
You’ve had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you’ll not get more
Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead
Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread
A shroud sewn with Alcubierre’s hand and Teller’s eye
Will re-write the laws of your time to die
Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest
Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it’s wicked feast
The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain
To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain
With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush
And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush
The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube
Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max’s Cubic Rube
The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side
And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride
the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde
Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords
And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain
A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane
With countless ages past since the Dust of Sumer lent
It’s hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent
The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast
In the once Green land where sage grew fast
The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost
With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost
From Alabaster bone the Ocean’s a-shallow
The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow
Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed
That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed
Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they’d trot
Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot
None could account for the empty space of land
Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand
The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks
An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks
Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price
None could garner their strength or bleed them twice
the canto of begging
1.
when the morning sets in
with the sun rising in the east
i put on the dress of a beggar
extended up to the horizon
and the canto of my begging starts
i beg
beside the big-bazar
beside the fly-over
beside the college-campus
beside the cow-market
you then put your elbow
on the body of the day
giving a perfect and unbiased pose
to attached to the album of life
people of the working-class
spread hither and thither
to write some more decimal fraction
on the notebook of life
2.
in the dusts and soil of rural-bengal
in the testament written by the grass
i am a son of the immortal
my begging-bowl is the most
favourite go-ahead of a alone man
then speaking around are
the chop singara aluposta
and the love-story of a hyacinth
blooming in the pond
blind by mud
also in the overflowed dustbin of the city
waiting rightly with an erected head
the excitement of your absence
3.
coming to this canto of begging
do you know
i enjoy both
your intensity and your sharpness
your secret current flows me to the pore of the skin
of the body of the puller of a hand-barrow
your cold attracts me
towards the syllabus of waning moonlight
i do realise now that the stale afternoons
saved in my pocket
stitched so many new muscles
with my vocal chord
and i’m howling in joy…
4.
what’s an enjoyment… hahaha…day after day
spending too much chaos
and living to so little extent
tell me is it the least
within the left-over on the leaf-plates
after eating by the baboos
i can discover more and more
love
the mango tree the grass-hopper my begging-bowl
and from the tune of the laxmi-panchali
coming from the middle-class houses
listen, how flourishing is my mother-tongue
My loving cousin
Nongmaithem Manihar Singh ,
had not seen for decades;
how time can sting,
after his passing I went
to his home at Yairipok Bazar
where memories roam
to attend the Asti sanchay.
That country market place
miles from my house in Imphal
I have not visited for a long time.
During my childhood days
long ago in the sun
I wandered there often
where the small market spun
that was busy only at dusk
selling fresh produce from the fields
and ground.
At the time of his mother's death
more than two decades ago
still it was a traditional marketplace.
My mother her sister had passed away
more than two decades before her
leaving a silence that echoed evermore.
After they left us our bond grew thin
we have not seen each other ;
it's been far too long since than.
That day
the rural landscape had changed
so much from what I remembered,
It felt like a touch.of nostalgia
The market place now was much bigger,
more bright modernised and crowded,
a bustling sight.
I recalled then the old days and my long past,
with memories swirling like leaves in the air.
20.01.2021
A prosy prose for deity to mourn,
As the hunger stricken wobbles the ground.
Oh! the old retinues that feed besides our ribs.
Come again with their unbearable tax payers,
While the labourers' stomach rumble!
The ignorant chieftains stare from above,
While the Kwashiorkor kids parade the streets!
Farmers clank their basket and hoe,
For nothing to bring homewards when the farms never yield.
As the hard labour tastes no fruit,
Wife and daughter, are forever famished.
The sailor that despoil us,
Snatch the bouquet of our feast.
As we wallow in our hollow labour?
Leaving us despondent at the edge of the farm,
Oh! We are made for you to drain,
When the basket of yam fully stored in there yard.
The old retinues release starvation from its dungeon,
As hunger flay around street, whipping!.
The rise of commodities in the Bazar,
A loaf is bought at high price.
And the grain is untouchable!
This is a prosy prose for deity to mourn,
How housewives turn to modern beggars,
While the toddlers sleep with void bellies and empty jars!
Let the sun and moons switch off their lights
I have no complaint
One hundred zeroes in my room
Let them shine bright
Still hundred pictures I do paint
Till I have my grapevine
I live in cloud nine
Thunder lightning or rains
In my vein, no pain
They gladly aid my poetry design
I had asked the spiralling vine
Would you one day stop serving me wine
She laughed a mile
A purple smile
Bringing out from my pen a moving line
Whenever I am surrounded by clouds
I rush to the smiling green sprout
Time and time again
It rubs balm on my pain
In me sunshine laughs aloud
As I sip my tea with an olfactory glee
Over the rim of cup, there stands she
In the sky, the sun hides to see
burning with an orange red envy
My grapevine and I keep up our smiling spree
In twilights, I say how beautiful you are
She answers I am sleepy
Please do excuse me
Okay we will meet tomorrow
at your green bazar
______________________________________'_________
October 6, 2019
An Auto Ride
A shuttle auto ,we were all into,
a student passenger leapt in.
Agglutinated her ears to the air pod,
eyes wide on the screen.
A small distance auto rickshaw it was.
But she kept busy ,wishpering and blushing,
time to time a smile popped flashing.
In between annoyed for some cause,
Pretended to be,to the one over the pods.
Her destination arrived in a while,
lost she was on her mobile.
When the driver called “Nager Bazar”,
once, twice, then the third time.
The damsel had not committed a crime.
Just that,she didn’t hear until shaken.
Lost she was, in her world of heaven.
Oops! Yet she didn’t realise,
until she felt the jerk.
Looked upon by every eye.
Cut the line in embarrassment,
hurriedly paid to the driver, in decent.
Got down, and back to the talk.
Aah ,what I thought it was,
A life without phone,
Could be a life long gone.
REFUGEES
I read of Rohingya
Thrown out of Myanmar.
In a city near Cox’s Bazar.
I remember that place.
It’s hundred-mile beach.
Its waterfalls, jungles.
Its beauty and peace.
A place where turtles
Come home to nest
Where waterfalls
Splash from on high.
Where the jungle holds sway
Over tourists at play,
On the longest sand beach
On our world.
Please tell me I’m wrong.
They are there for whose wrong?
Their own?
Or the Myanmar regime?
A city? A slum…
Yet still thousands come!
While a whole race is shown the door.
By an army upholding the law…
Is it legal to kill
For somebody’s will?
Be they Muslim or Buddhist or more?
Erase their existence,
Ignore the insistence
Of countries who don’t understand
that for National pride,
let religion decide.
Put your trust in a faith’s genocide.
REFUGEES
I read of Rohingya
Thrown out of Myanmar.
In a city near Cox’s Bazar.
I remember that place.
It’s hundred-mile beach.
Its waterfalls, jungles.
Its beauty and peace.
A place where turtles
Come home to nest
Where waterfalls
Splash from on high.
Where the jungle holds sway
Over tourists at play,
On the longest sand beach
On our world.
Please tell me I’m wrong.
They are there for whose wrong?
Their own?
Or the Myanmar regime?
A city? A slum…
Yet still thousands come!
While a whole race is shown the door.
By an army upholding the law…
Is it legal to kill
For somebody’s will?
Be they Muslim or Buddhist or more?
Erase their existence,
Ignore the insistence
Of countries who don’t understand
that for National pride,
let religion decide.
Put your trust in a faith’s genocide.
Bangladesh has got lots of natural beauty,
This is nothing but for us God's bounty;
Cox's bazar sea beach is the longest all over the world,
It's wonderful beauty can compare to the dreamworld.
When the rising sun starts shining
The barking sound of the water seems to lion's roaring;
Standing on such a hill,
The roaring sound makes our mind thrill;
When the sun about to setting-
The lovely colour starts to dancing ;
If we are bare footed on the beach,
We can enjoy the view as long as our eyes can reach,
If we walk into the water's edge,
At any time the wind can change.
The sea weeds can gather near to the shore
The children can collect them with wonder and say, more! more!! more!!!
No beautiful face on sale; Bazar is out of order
Fairyland - O dear goddess Ishtar! - is out of order.
I was alone at home, we'd to spend the noon together
Now, she rings aft' afternoon: my car is out of order!
Life is not that simple that few words on paper decide:
Words are limited - leading quasar is out of order!
"My speech is not contrary to public benefit - think..."
In Parliament, members' seminar is out of order.
"We can't measure depth of sea, sorry captain! we're stranded-
Sea breeze is against our ship route, sonar is out of order."
We may attack own cities at this impatient moment;
Enemy jets are coming, radar is out of order.
April 01, 2022