Long Betel Poems
Long Betel Poems. Below are the most popular long Betel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Betel poems by poem length and keyword.
It's again the soothing pale sunlight, with bright morning mist,
The cooling dew on the green grass, touching the feet with ease.
Above, the azure sky and the soft cloud,
Like white, fluffy cotton scattered all around.
Ponds turn clear like scintillating crystals,
Hidden under the pink flowers’ petals,
As if new brides wearing lotus-veils.
The unchanged riverbanks bear tall Kash,
White plumes dance with the flute of air,
They shimmer with joy as sunlight's gentle clap draws near!
It's again the field of golden paddy.
The hands hold sickle, scythe and spade,
It's already time to harvest.
The granaries are smiling, preparing for grains' homecoming.
The field and the furrows left forlorn,
Bidding their friends farewell,
‘Goodbye, dear friends! When the year returns, we will meet you once again.’
The eyes glitter at the sight of long-awaited fruits,
Hunger cries, ‘I am losing my roots’.
It's again the same moon; silver and pale.
In the night sky like an oyster’s pearl,
It shimmers carrying thousands of untold memories.
In the sleeping night, it sings, consoling the harvested field,
In the silent air, it hears the furrows’ muffled murmur.
On the rooftop, it casts its silver threads,
Children chant ‘Chand Mama, Chand Mama,’ lifting their heads.
And to the draped window
It appears like a fleeting shadow.
It's again the day's tired sun setting,
Coloring the West with its crimson hue.
Night jasmine blooming, releasing its sweet perfume.
The flaking old house standing still and tall,
A beautiful patina of time.
In the corner of the large courtyard,
An old woman, quiet and wrinkled through the years,
sitting with her wooden cane and a blunt betel nut cutter.
The tired young souls return and gather,
With curious yet loving eyes,
Asking their old grandmother,
To tell them old stories.
Grandma lovingly scares them with her croaking voice,
All run scared; Grandma deeply sighs,
'It's always the season that leaves and returns.
We, its leaves, are left to fall and burn.'
Who so has whatso any,
O deem thou more than plenty,
Fair ‘tis enough fame to fetch,
No one has all of world bounty.
Does Pineapple plant flowers fetch?
Can Forest Flame fruit-bearing be?
Betel-leaf has fruits nor flowers,
Nature to no one all its grace showers.
_____________________________
Translation |09.08.2024| free verse, fate, nature
The Sanskrit verse:
kasya api kah api atishayah asti
saha tena loke khyaati prayaati
na hi sarva-vidah tu sarve |
kim ketakee phalati
kim panasah su-pushpah
kim naagavallaya api cha pushpa-phalaih upetaa ||
They proposed stabilization
Friction from the augers
Rotation
Caused one to ponder
Would such affect
Those ah yonder
Then in perfect diction
He said it as a predict
If thee surface of this
Slate should pop
It will create a lot of
Rocks
And if these rocks should
Roll
No one. Would be in control
He rethought the matter
A solution was what he was after
Reaching down in his soul
He made sight of stories told
He'd use boulders as a buffer
We're the stones to roll
Nothing would suffer
Everyone loved his plan
They stopped by to give him
A hand
They proposed using an auger to drill holes to
Plant trees crack the mountain side below the
Surface. They also bored holes and filled them
With cement to instantly began the process.
the third floor of a six-storied building,
silent room of three family members,
father, mother and a son
the son corporate job holder
in this populous city,
punctuality, sincerity, responsibility
makes him busy in his daily job
in the parent's room
crystal eye-glasses on the tea table,
Dainik Janakantha on the easy chair,
cigarette ashtray full of burned ashes.
on the tea table empty teacup,
mother comes in this room for betel leaf
though busy in the hassle for the lunch,
well the charmed picture of the great leader
hanging on the wall,
the father of Bengali nations
seeing silently all
three-four footsteps ahead of the balcony
the far around full with city drainage garbage
with floating lichens and mosses,
crows coming with crowing,
dogs coming with barking,
some wayward street child coming
with an iron made thin stick
to finding something
for surviving best,
on the small city garbage mound
sometimes ambulance of unknown medical
comes there and discharges some black polythene baggage,
dogs and crows run to these
as if competing for these mystifying baggage
are there any palatable dishes for them?
nobody knows without the wayward street child
-Tuesday, July 2, 2019 Chattogram
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
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
There were liberal field, golden paddy, mild touch of south breeze
And there were you, your beautiful smiles with opening mind
There were jackfruit, plum, mango, palm, and betel-nut trees on the bank of the pond.
And there were you, the sounds of anklet-rings, the scent of tuberose hair oil.
There were creeping plants of legume, balsam-apple, cucurbitaceous, snake gourd, and all these flowers on the home yard.
And there were you, daily watering on those plants, vegetable collecting basket.
There I was happy
when you walked on the field,
when you smiled under the trees,
when you watered on the creeping plants
And there I was fully quenched seeing you surreptitiously
My shyness farewelled you silently, wiping tears
Now, I am happy when I hear your life is joyful there
This heart is nothing
just a flowery bed of love,
just a heaven of love,
just the mighty throne of love
Now, to me, the field, trees, pond, yards, creeping plants are nothing
except for a pure reflection of you
all through these, my happiness comes and goes
peacefully
delightfully
amorouslyerotically
-07.12.2020 Chattogram
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
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
Fugitive Truth -Asad Chowdhury
Reciter - Shimul Mustapha
Fugitive truth, where did they all go?
In bottled milk, rice bowls! Nowhere to know!
In the restaurants, hotels, salons
In a library and inside antique smells
Television or cinema, radio
In a boat ride or snake charming carrier truth, nowhere to know!
Where molasses Jars, and poison boxes
With candy pots and those grocery bags stay
Cigarette cases , betel cans
In zarda boxes and in the laxmi, carved,
In motif of culinary, underneath the furniture
Looked for them, and all of them, only to fail, to ponder !
A journalist and the wooden desk
In papers and books and the scriptures and pens
Injections and the eczema gels
In vanity purses, pockets and attires
In drawers, banks and iron safe, a rare
Truth and the glorified truth, nay, nowhere!
In poems , in songs
In feminine those gestures to kindle house warm
fanatic those mayhem to dense
Dramatic those dialogues, abreast
To rule, to speak
In the dark, or to lit
In lines or in lines of pens
In answers to those questionnaires
In gowns ,performed or in those syllabus, understood
In permits or in those bonus boons blessed
In depression or in optimism, they
In love and care and from these depth of lover affair, says
Not even in black markets, no
Truth, where did they all go?