Long Saris Poems
Long Saris Poems. Below are the most popular long Saris by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Saris poems by poem length and keyword.
“Is Fashion Modern?” MOMA* asks
And so, in its new show,
The items on display are there
To let us know it’s so.
A pair of Levi’s, baseball caps,
Bikinis and berets,
A Wonderbra, dashikis, kilts
And suits from prior days.
A Rolex watch, Adidas, Nikes,
Mao jackets, too,
A leotard by Danskin,
Polo shirts (but not J. Crew).
Lipstick, flip flops, saris, Speedos,
Ties, stilettos, Spanx,
Jumpsuits, hoodies, Snuglis
(For which new moms owed their thanks).
My friend and I did reminisce,
While strolling the exhibit,
About the clothes like those we wore
When age did not inhibit.
*Museum of Modern Art (NYC)
The Khasis
and their living root bridges,
woven whispers of time,
a testament to patience
and respect for growth.
The Santhals
and their vibrant saris,
each thread a story told,
a tapestry of dances,
a chorus of ancient songs.
The Gonds
and their painted walls,
stories etched in ochre,
a language of the earth,
a legacy of dreams.
The Todas
and their gentle herds
a symphony of bells,
a rhythm of the mountains,
a peace beyond words.
The Siddas
of Karnataka's hills,
a whisper in the wind,
a pearl of wisdom in their eyes,
a connection to the stars.
The Naga
and their warrior grace,
a symphony of drums,
a dance of fierce devotion,
a spirit unyielding.
The Jarawa
of the Andaman Islands,
a connection to the sea,
a whisper in the waves,
a rhythm of the tides.
The Rabha
and their bamboo flutes,
songs of love and longing,
a melody of the forest,
a dance beneath the moon.
The Bhils
and their bow and arrow,
a hunter's heart and soul,
a respect for the wild,
a harmony with the earth.
Oh, these are the things that whisper in my soul,
even in the city's clamour.
In their enduring wisdom,
I find my own.
The sun drenchs and heat soaks the air.
It throbbs with fumes.
The drivers of the three wheeled, canvas covered
taxi’s curse, beep, and press
their way between motor cycles
with garishly clad riders.
Males in western-style helmets
drive women, dressed in peacock-colored saris,
down the main boulevards between
the Mercedes of diplomats and
the Range rovers of the wealthy Western usurpers.
Upon the cracked concrete edged sidewalks
lined in a herringbone pattern of bricks walk bird venders,
whose baskets of finches, parrots, and macaws tweet wildly.
The baskets upon their shoulders swing.
The noxious fumes of the traffic apparently insufficient
to quell the beating of their small hearts.
Shop keepers hawk fly covered, freshly butchered chickens
from dirty white porcelain surfaces;
as tomorrows dinner pecks seeds through
the floors of their wire cages.
Through and amongst the plethora of colors and noise
military and police in mundane blue with rifles mounted
on the rear of their vehicles pass by.
Ordinary citizens hack up spittle from raw throats and congested lungs
while horns blare continuously;
blending with the barks of hundreds of stray dogs.
A is for Aprons, like Moms used to wear.
B is for Barrettes that adorn young girls’ hair.
C is for Coats, many colors and styles.
D is for Diamonds, best friends that brings smiles.
E is for Elbow pads skateboarders use.
F is for Flippers folks might wear on a cruise.
G is for Gowns, to wear out . . . or to bed!
H is for Helmets - Hard Hats for one’s Head.
I is for Indian saris so bright.
J is for Jewelry that dazzles at night.
K is for Kilts used by Scotts, do you know?
L is for Lingerie, a woman’ peep show!
M is for Masks to look scary or funny.
N is for Necklaces from your sweet honey.
O is for Overalls, comfy for big men.
P is for Pajamas, so easy to fit in.
Q is for a Quilted skirts and jackets too.
R is for Rags - what our worn clothes turn into!
S is for Shorts, for a day warm and glad.
T is for Ties that we all give to Dad.
U is for Underwear. I can see France!
V is for Vest. It enhances your pants.
W is for Wig, great when hair has been shorn.
X is for Xmas clothes too rarely worn.
Y is for Yamaka - only for Jews.
Z is for Zippered, the clothes over buttoned ones that I would choose!
Oh, the things we’ve been wearing since Adam and Eve
first started it off by just wearing their leaves!
For the ABC Contest of CYNDI MACMILLAN
Written by Andrea Dietrich, a big fan of poetry and PoetrySoup.
Inspired By Connie Marcum Wong's Poem "Dreams Of India"
Dreams of India
Her music haunts me
in such a knowing way
it makes me weep
and causes my heart to ache.
I become homesick for her
scents, her sounds, her food,
her enchanting dance
which spawns dreams
of her romance.
I know in my heart
I have lived there,
I know, I have loved there.
Her poetry transcends
my spirit to encompass
a wholeness that is
so familiar to me.
I dream of the Ganges ,
and her gentle cleansing flow,
of reflections on its surface
when the moon is hanging low.
Of crickets singing nightly
to serenade me to sleep.
I dream of colors of the saris,
the beauty that they keep...
Of garlands placed with care,
a gajra in a maiden's hair
and the hues of floral leis.
I hold a reverence for Hindu
Devata and Devi.
I aspire to learn the sacredness
of varmala in the seeds of
past lifetimes I have shared.
A passion grows for those
whose love glows through their
auras to welcome strangers.
I'd love to share a cup of chai
to chat with friends in open air.
I long to return home, though
I have never been there.
Notes: *a gajra: flowers which females use as a decoration
for their hair.
*Varmala: is a tradition from ancient times where a beautiful garland of flowers symbolizes a proposal of marriage. In the tradition of Swayamvar. A female would choose her life partner from a group of suitors by placing a flower garland around the neck of her chosen man. Once the girl had made her choice, a marriage ceremony would be held right away.
MY TRIBUTE TO CONNIE MARCUM WONG
Connie never went to India, but she thought
she should have been born there…a mythical, mystical, sacred land of her
dreams ~ a Princess wearing
a Banarasi saree, a gajra on her hair…stunningly beautiful!
In my mind, she is there holding, for her beloved, a Varmala!
September 24, 2022
Short Connie Tributes - How Did Connie Marcum Wong Inspire You Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature-trees, flowers, grass-grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence…We need silence to be able to touch souls—Mother Teresa [Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu]
“But Jesus Himself would often slip away to the wilderness and pray.” (Luke 5:16)
In Silence
Her love--she speaks of silence,
without flaws or violence.
Calcutta’s poor whom she served,
this increasingly disturbed.
Simple, free from obsessions
These her only possessions,
a bucket and two saris,
is all she’ll own and carry.
While visiting Darjeeling,
by train saw poor suffering.
Saint Teresa heard the call,
solemn vows; provide for all.
Now known as “Mother” served us
of India for Jesus.
Inner conscience she had sought,
spoke Bengali where she taught.
This a tactical gambit,
chose a white sari habit
with a double blue border,
this she wore for the order.
Touching souls of lives her quest,
without silence there’s unrest.
As stars shine in alliance,
may the wind come in silence.
Strolling Nungambakkam’s dusky evening street,
The serpentine vehicles queues hold them as each other they coyly greet.
Ina foreign tongue they converse, so mystically sweet,
Melodies tingle in my ears with rhythms upbeat.
Chennai ladies, Chennai Lasses………
Ear stud to ear stud,
Between it , their smiles nestled on their faces like an unfurled bud.
Ear ring to ear ring,
Their faces are lyrics that bards like me yearn to sing……
Dazzling bright saris of kanjeevaram silk draped around their waists with utmost care…
Velvet layered oiled dark braids interwoven with cymosely clustered jasmine laden hair.
A smile lying await to erupt from their lips,
As they gently walk, gracefully rocking their hips.
Perched on their nose, ring of gold they boldly show,
These jeweled motifs setting their face aglow.
A near a solitary maiden my eyes behold!
Her eyes so brown and skin reflects shades of weatish gold..
Lucky silver trinkets clasp gently ankles
Between the ground she trods and the edge of her bold sari pleats, all silver sparkles.
Her beauty so immensely rare,
She stepped afar into the alley without worldly care.
She by far is for me the fairest,
Her fragrance she leaves behind that floats to my nostrils is one of the rarest.
She does not know my name…
But does it matter all the same?
Beauties of Chennai….. beauties of Chennai
From my eyes reach now you slip away…
Across the sea she waits unfree and writes
of her friendships and of true harmony.
Her children and loyalty keep her from flight
a poet matron married for her great beauty.
Her mind soars and eyes devour old tomes.
learning to write odes and etherees
she leaves her shell for foreign homes
delighting in words of camaraderie.
The heat of Saudi, the thrill of Mumbai
the feel of silk saris under gray skies
all of these does she gift to such as I
and from her captive perch we hear her cry.
May the written word always be the key
which brings our fairest Yasmin here to me.
*A tribute verse to the budding skill of Yasmin Khan
Beautiful and bold she paints my imagination
Every flowing dance move a total inspiration
Ssmiles adorn every face even if covered in lace
Movements made elementary through elegant grace
Lights reflect all the colours of her sunny saris
Rainbows flow to music becoming a safari
Bengal tigers roar a mosaic of emotion,
carrying their sound far over the deep Indian Ocean
Strong imagery makes her show a potent hot curry
Partaking in this bowl can’t be done in a hurry
Your tears will flow but your heart will fill surly not fold
Her gold henna hand draws you out from the freezing cold
Hollow and cold Hollywood sneers at soft and pretty
Black blue and bleeding is what feeds that heartless city
The rustle of silk saris in a temple breeze,
a voice that echoes with the ancient Ganga's flow,
a woman weaves words, her heart at ease,
a tapestry of stories, where ancient myths grow.
She speaks in the language of her ancestors' prayers,
a melody of tongues, vibrant and bold,
her words, a peacock's dance, in the air,
a symphony of whispers, stories untold.
From the quiet hum of a flute in the twilight
to the thunderous beat of a monsoon drum,
she sings in the languages of every light,
a mosaic of experiences, her spirit spun.
In her verses, traditions dance and collide,
she breaks the silence, with a fearless stride,
her words, a bridge, across the cultural divide,
a chorus of voices, rising, with pride.
She is the voice of countless, whispered desires,
a woman who speaks the truth, with fire, her words,
a flame, dispelling all fears,
a woman in poetry, forever near.