Saris Poems | Examples

Philosophical Pen

S-ilent
A-uthor's
R-eliable
I-nk
S-moothly

D-esigns
I-magery,
N-aturally
G-iving
L-ife
A-s
S-imple
A-s
N-ame

©bfa042725
Monocrostic (Birthday of Saris C. Dinglasan)

Indian Diversity

Crimson saris, silk
Woven with threads of gold,
A dancer's graceful sway,
Reflecting ancient lore,

A turban's vibrant hues,
Sun-baked earth, spice-scented air,
Desert whispers tales,
Of caravans afar,

Carvings deep and bold,
In temples, ancient stone,
Echoing centuries old,
Stories yet untold,

From the Himalayas' snow,
To Ganges' holy flow,
A sacred, mystic show,
Diversity unfolds,

Ghats, where souls ascend,
Prayers to deities blend,
The fragrance of incense,
Mystical events unfold,

Bhangra's rhythmic beat,
A joyful, vibrant heat,
Dancing in the street,
Celebrations complete,

From the bustling city's hum,
To villages' quiet drum,
A world within a sum,
India's soul, profound,

Flavour's bold and bright,
A culinary sight,
Spices, herbs, and light,
Taste of day and night,

A thousand faces smiles,
Across landscapes, miles,
One nation, mixed styles,
India's spirit, which beguiles

A symphony of sound,
Stories whispered around,
Diverse and ever-bound,
India's soul is profound.

Beyond the Concrete Jungle

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.

Echos of Ganga

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.

In Silence, a Motherland

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.

November In Varanasi

Varanasi town’s radiance glows vibrant tonight
‘Neath the moonbeams soft autumn flow
It’s the full moon festival of the god’s sacred light:
Dev Deepawali; joyous spirits will glow

The Hindu month of Kartika is finally here
With lotus lakes sparkling bright
Women in stunning bright saris appear
With marigolds and songs of delight

Clay dija lamps will shine this night
In every corner of every room
To remind us of the god’s gift of light
And good and knowledge over evil and gloom

Belly Dance

Russian rhythms warm 
              the crowd up 
in the gloaming. Hairs 
              create golden 
cascades on the street. 
              Even a moralist 
doesn’t go home, enticed
              by the beauties
 in silk. Suppressed desires 
              leak through the 
moral vents. Like blue 
              snakes, the dancers 
sway on the Keralite culture 
              that always tends 
to wrap feminine body in 
              saris and churidars. 
The nude flesh fragments 
              in exotic white 
enthrall the spectators. 
              What is artistic
there turns erotic here.

First published in The Literary Hatchet.

Sari Finesse

Chandelier earrings dangling
Golden bangles jingling
Thick long raven hair
Twisted and pinned in swirls
With ornate gold embellishment
Luxuriously wrapped
In silk and brocade
Lavish lengths 
Of rich flamboyant colors
Parading effortlessly
Their exotic saris
Swaying in graceful rhythm 
Gliding by on air
In exquisite hues 
And charms of opulence



Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~NAMASTE~ 2020

AP: Honorable Mention 2020

Submitted on June 17, 2019 for contest YOUR CHOICE (10) IMAGIST STYLE sponsored by BRIAN STRAND  -  RANKED 3RD

Originally posted on May 7, 2019

Empty House

Hands tapering down to fine wiry wrists,
They were strong and straight.

Footsteps left empty along the cleaner than before 
Floorboards.

The ancient sounds of cats scratching over them gone.
Dust settles and falls from no-ones skin,
Just the walls, and ceilings stretching out.
Creams and eggshell blues, soft pinks and mauve paint,
Is the only trace of her.

Her delicate hangings made from saris stitched together
Piece by piece, are packed tightly in boxes.
The bright mosaic coffee table
Stands empty but for a wilting chrysanthemum,
Sitting alone in the centre.

Fashion At Moma

“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)

Quick

Reading diaries of different discussion blots is considered to be akin to perusing the top shelf of a historical library section. Each label once worn drops like stones sinking into the carpet and creases of streamed floorboards. Floorboards do float don't they? Have you not seen the many that pass the doors? They are quicker than the doors anyway so best spray the armpits and go jogging then. Thought the woodworm athletic tribe. Gathering gabled garbled gargling gatherings greet giant Gregorian gargoyles getting generally gifted garters gutting grouped gismo geckos. How triumphant then? And hopefully a dance will last longer than a sharp snapped second. Seconds are neither seams, seamstresses, nor stressed sultanas in safaris and saris, nor are they acrimonious android alphabetical alpacas racing to a degree of a nine foot tail spin. Ring ran road. And a big lorry leering. Lecherously. Leeches lingering. And limbs lumber. How rather audaciously brilliant then. Isn't it? Kent jam race on the large spoon. Z meteorologic Z at fifty cones carving creative cosmoses' to sixteen apples in leotards cheering on the waves. 1 2 3 4 ~ and clam. Z

Anklets and Jasmine Incense

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

Bollywood

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

Chennai India

Brown sugar sapotas
Blending with custard alfonso mangos
And bold sweet lime juice

Georgette saris
Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces
Mixed with peals and rubies

Gently sloping palm trees
Swaying in balmy sultry air
And hazy golden sunsets

Frenetic yellow autos
Competing with dusty zipping mopeds
Mixed with ambulating pedestrians

Aromas of cumin
Blending with the sewage
Other times with incense

Glows of brass oil lamps
Singing in hums of prayer
Added with turmeric's incantations

Brightly-patterned salwars
Accentuating gemstone bindis
Comfy fitted leggings

Savory masala dosas
Coupling coconut chutney
Meter-high filter coffee

My Mothers White Saree

MY MOTHER’S WHITE SAREE
The cupboard contained white garments,
Pure white sarees with brightness
No colours to dim its brightness
Wondered and worried why always in white sarees
Humble mom, simple mom, educated mom,
Became tragic heroine in her life span
Gave birth to four kids; grew widow at an early age
Felt frustrated, seeing in white saris
All the dreams swept away, as it was fate
Could not fight against destiny
Darkness became a nightmare
Tears were absorbed by pillows
It dried my mom’s energy
Physically, mentally and spiritually 
Aspirations changed the fate
Getting rid of black holes
A way to meaningful life
Survived all these and nurtured, looked after,
Cared, loved& led the young kids
I am proud of my mom’s white saris
The purity mom charity mom always in white sarees
Aged 85 still in white sarees
Symbol of peace &sweet memories for my dad
God’s grace mom’s presence is a blessing like a heaven

I am proud of my mom’s white saris, the  great mom world ever seen.
Care &love parents, and uproot the old age home.
								BEENA SUDHEER

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