Long Epiclife Poems
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Patradoot The Messenger 44/
English version by Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
How he sleeps, O dear letter without even a cot and bed
Resting on a rough blanket, lying on the floor, and
Who pats him, when he faces such tortures of the Jail life?
When sleeps also does not come.
He must be eating there, the tasteless dry foods of Jail,
That too, without ever getting a chance to hear,
The affectionate words, which makes a food,
More delicious or tasty, when it comes from your love ones.
O, please tell this also to me, dear letter,
Does my husband ever remember his life companion and
Does his eye ever get wet, while remembering,
His dear wife, who is so much away from him.
What message my dear husband has sent?
Through you, O’ sweetest of all dear letter,
What teachings, he has sent through you?
To tell his loving wife, please tell me, O dear letter.
Do not think an Indian woman,
To be a weaker sex only, dear letter,
She may sacrifices her life, for the one,
Whom she makes her life partner, dear letter.
Ravindra to continue in 45..
Kanpur India 06th January 2011
Based on the true freedom struggle story of Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
Note:
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
Has any question or queries, they can
Send me an email on kapoor_skk@yahoo.com
Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my late father
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor around 1932, who was a freedom fighter.
He wrote Patradoot in Hindi, when he was kept in Faizabad Jail for quite
a long time. The Epic was written as a gift for my mother and it was
sent to her secretly from Faizabad Jail. He was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. He was imprisoned
many times during 1920 to 1947. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
Hours of Minutes
Hours of minutes rush by
as my focus turns time
into a bullet shooting the mind
holding onto what I can clutching
the unknown till
I have only myself and what I am unsure of.
I try to figure out the reason of life but life dosent answer.
The silence is loud enough for questions to be understood by those who
ask if you heard anything.
The echo of straight travel is independent
keeping its sound one solo gleaming adventure at a time
assuring that you get one chance in history.
My options are limitless as hours of minutes clock
I can talk if you’ll listen my thoughts spill like paint brightening your day filling
your path with the spectrum of radiant hope I emit, now
appreciating the finer things in life.
Trust is built
then destroyed
upon wreckless impact
breaking solid gold relationships like needles injecting sin like traits upon its
victims….revenge is born as hours of minutes bleed
I live to see the day when change is physical,
and I am the product of new order governed by either man…will destroy its self mad from
disease and money….or nature….
will hatch its own shell and feel the energy that she has so graciously
coated us with over the years,
soak into her essence.
Let life be reborn as hours of minutes evolve.
I listen to the stars from the underground where I yell at the panic of man to calm this
blade of chaos cutting killing those who are armed with natures weapons cuffed from the
ability to use them wisely.
Hours of minutes lock my thoughts into a stream of insanity travelling to radical change
from knowledge of the questions once asked
now answered
fills my mind with the extasy of peace and passion to progress
go to bed universal child as hours of minutes sleep.
The stigma that we have selfishly gifted history and our mothers with
will burn our accomplishments for the good is easily overlooked
where the harsh actions are radiant.
sky night miracle bright man made destruction coats holy like beams of natural light
which at once we gripped as our sword of triumph to defeat the wicked ways of the
unknown.
As hours of minutes pass we find ourselves.
Form:
Where do I turn, when all I want is it to be over, where do I run when all I want is
closure or what do I say when every question shot at me starts another
interrogation, where all it does is ignite the flames to my aggravation. Where is the
medicine to help with this situation? Why is my heart thudding in this drugs
sedation, is it all because of my lives creation? Where I live my worst fear, a life
unending for where does the mind take me when the body fails to be sober, and
free of this sick delusion where all I see is my life becoming a reality, and you
actually loving me, what a sick and twisted illusion.
Why when all else fails I turn to my inner most child, pray to God, to let
me feel something, to let my emotions run wild. Even then I still fail to just hold on
to my sanity and still some how I twist my own fate, some how I took your love and
made it hate. What kind of mind set does that create? One that is so self wound
they can’t tell fiction from facts, as they look back on their lives all the see is the
fading black, when they turn around they find there is no turning back?
That is the world I was surrounded by, every dark moment in my life had
an alibi, but I was sick of the reasons I want to know just why. Why this life made
me cry so many times, how it made me want to die and crush my own heart is my
chest, how you made me feel worthless at best. Why did you make me question my
own mind, you even made me call myself crazy and blind, but it’s not me it’s you this
time for you no longer committed the perfect crime. When you lied to yourself you
crossed the line, it that what you wanted from the beginning of time?
…. This is all I have left of my so called life, is
this how it will end? It’s practically over before it had a chance to begin? I tried so
hard to keep up with my mind the scattered memories and the wasted time, with
the toxic and poison I filled my body with I changed my whole world just to make me
able to forget. As I grow older the deep wounds still sit, every scar tells a story and
every drop of blood keeps a secret, this is my story but how do you see it?
my flesh is filled and fraught with foul disease;
offensive is my life to mine own eyes
who sees me sail life's clear and cloudy seas
where faith fills up or empties out our lies.
now here I stand a broke and beaten man
whose love of life laments obscurity
but in the end ambition's naive plan
reached in and stole my soul's integrity.
I am but one who's never been an us:
no flesh - no blood - no break of fast to feed;
a lustful trust once wrapped in omnibus,
ground down and made a graven slave to need.
disgusted as those degradation days
laid waste upon the taste of indiscreet;
my soul a hole of black and blacker ways
confronts chronicity of incomplete.
there is no way to spread the dreaded blame;
excused are those accused or left behind.
I do so love to play the changing game
in every little corner of my mind.
I've traveled every twisted rut and road
that zigs and zags across my mottled map
and every road became an endless load
and every stop became the same old trap.
I've tasted magic mushroom's mellow cure
alongside mystic natives in Peru;
made love in huts to ladies quite unsure
as glitter ghosts played rock and roll kazoo.
I've sat inside the sacred Shaman ring
where apparitions dervish-dance around
but what the Shaman brought I could not bring -
my last was lost - my first was never found.
I'm jonesin' in the center of a city
while waiting on some powdered China-white.
I pray the man can deal a bit of pity
or sick I'm bound to be throughout this night.
I think I see my hero now a-comin'
like a pimp he's dressed in tapered leather
tripping proud with lanky strides and hummin'
tunes he writes but cannot keep together.
I'm watchin' death come walkin' straight at me
and I don't think or blink a cautious eye
but hand the Ferryman Charon his fee,
relieved to leave without a shout "goodbye."
All my adventures are at an end,
and the treasure I have salvaged
over the years, I have stored away.
The map that guides locked safely
in the many memories of distant
places visited.
Shorelines that always gave rise to
curiosities of what lies over a
horizon are now just resting places
to revisit travels.
Distances I traveled, careless,
winning over the moments taking a
piece of wealth to enjoy in my
twilight years.
Precious memories re-examined,
reliving the experience, enjoying
life’s cuisine and leaving my
audience with tears of joy.
I have been blessed, my life a book
written with subplots of valor,
infidelities and admiration.
Challenging situations in dark places
and stepping out on faith overcoming
hostel environments.
Seeking, always looking for the
forbidden fruits, savoring the flavors
proudly displaying my conquest.
The many lives I have influenced and
those that have touched mine. Are
but the many gifts presented in the
years I planted the seeds of my
existence.
I have used my time, sometime
recklessly and sometime wisely, but I
used it to the fullness ether way. I have
no regrets, I loved, I lost, and I made
friends and enemies.
There is not much more I can do, but
what ever is left cannot compare to the
adventures I have already experienced.
Therefore, as I walk off into the sunset I
tip my hat to a life well lived.
This is a colabration between I and a friend, his name is Dhruv Pandya.
Command this commandment,
living in the light,
waking in the dark,
they toil,
every day golden suns come up night and day,
swaying in labor fields making human mind capital,
shadows of lights are yet still dark,
yet it doesn't quench the thirst,
1st of life is beyond living,
walking in death while waking,
a life that is living in light as dark,
without a sight for acknowledgeable real color differentials,
a walking waking dream,
a lost memory,
driving time backwards to eternity,
commanding in chiefs of all resurrections.
written by Dhruv Pandya
I'm sending harmony,
Through the air,
My voice of light will,
Bring you joy not despair,
I'll shower thee,
With treasured true gifts,
Of love and devotion,
From the bluest sky of mist,
No traps to befall you,
No restraints shall stall you,
No boundaries will ground you,
No liars can challenge you,
You'll carry your heart,
For the world to see,
For it bears the truht,
Of you and your destiny,
You'll hear my voice,
As you grow,
People call it intutation,
For they do not know,
I am your guardian,
Granted you at birth,
I'm here for you,
Through your life upon,
E-A-R-T-H.
Written by Deborah Jarrell Broussard
A Day In The life
A day in the life of a shattered boy,
Who grew beyond the use of toys.
Growing legs and a growing mind,
Grew beyond his wanted time.
A frighten child, a timid lad,
Who gave life all he had.
But a secret he would never tell,
Kept him in a solitude cell.
Haunted by touch, afraid to feel,
For the nightmare were all too real.
At sixteen he tried to run,
From jokesters having fun.
Reliving days he rather forget,
Kept his fuse constantly lit.
At twenty-two he took his life,
To be rid of the raging strife.
In a graveyard, three rows deep,
A victim was laid to sleep.
A frighten child, a timid lad,
Who gave life all he had.
Now his candle no longer burns
For life gave little in return,
Having control of your life is
rare.
Living is hard and dying is bare.
You can be happy or scared.
Me, I don't care.
Life has nothing to spare,
But people fighting, drinking,
doing drugs , and people
wanting to have sex with a
pair.
I'm wondering if there is
something in the air?
Babies die before seeing their
father, life ain't fair.
Their father probably don't
care.
Because he has more money to
spare,
More condoms to wear,
And more naked girls to stare.
Some bottles and pills to share,
With that girl he met at the
state-fair.
Seeing real fathers these days
are really rare.
The world is broke and the
world doesn't want a repair-
Mario Perez
Life is tattered and torn
crooked and bent, with it do's and don't
Yes life is cruel at times
twisted in every angles
And yet different in every aspect.
Oh yes life as a whole is enough to
make you mad.
Yes life is never fair
with it ups and downs
But anyway who says life is fair.
Life in every point of view
Is unique and special each and every way.
It's also what makes everyone different from each other.
And it not always coated with luxuries.
Life is just like a rose, with thorn to prick you,
when you hardly notice it.
So my advice to you dear friend is, not to give up in life, but to make the best out of it.