I love that added tenderness in my body each month;
it's like I incarnate the spring myself:
delicate bloosoms, that juiciness,
ready to bear and bring a new life on the Earth.
But the pollination never happen,
because my husband died four years ago.
Thus, instead of adoring the fetus in my womb,
I'm adoring my poetry on my notepad:
from my pregnant mind they comes out to fill my life
and reduce the emptiness of not being a mother of a human offspring.
Am I crazy
if it’s been five years
and I still expect you to walk through the door?
If I can’t give away your clothes
because you might need them?
Am I over the line
if I fantasize that your treatment worked
and you never died at all?
And I laugh with you over breakfast
while we sip coffee
as we always did?
I’m afraid to tell people
that I saw a perfect birthday gift for you
and thought I should buy it.
And that I can’t stop thinking about
the trip to the Bahamas we always wanted to go on
and that this winter would be the perfect time.
Letting go is harder than I ever imagined
and I don’t want to.
If this is crazy
then please let me be mad.
O, to dream of mythic trails, velvet underfoot
to float on whipped-cream waves of desire
To feel your soft contours sigh in sync with mine
mint vapors to inhale, on moonstruck wishes to dine
To saunter down sandy boardwalks and disappear
sans white buds or jeweled baubles in ageless ears
Missionaries unflinching, for unrepentant good
ere sunrise flickers out 'neath ashes of widowhood
There has been a joining of an adult male and a female child
Not quite a proud owner of a single pubic hair,
Letting a lamb under the same roof as The Wild
And treating both as “A Divine Pair”
The man’s boyish smiles are a ruse:
The girl hasn’t yet begun to bolted bathrooms use…
Now, there are to be matches between a stout phallus and a hole
Too tender to start conceding a goal.
… As it could burst into flames, vowing to not forget
A treatment not befitting A Nugget.
Supposedly the answer to prolonged spinsterhood
But ironically worse than chaining widowhood:
Aiming to stall a woman’s heartbreak by insincere suitors
But keeping the infant wife constantly with sly mentors.
Paired up are a two owning contrasting tracks
By races audaciously upholding their cracks
Also, the clear encouragement of hateful inhibitions
And a stark support of deaf traditions.
The many widows have a lock on they mouth,
The reason for widowhood will be deep hide.
The killer helped ms Smith this position allowed,
And for ms Jones helped just a dose cyanide.
You stabbed me
From behind
My shapeless image
With the most dreadful
Weapon of the ages.
The knife of shadows
Slaying me behind
The brightest shrine.
You were the pale priest
Making me quiver
With the pain
Of centuries of
Forced widowhood.
Till I trembled
Like a blue animal
In the wisp of coldness
Poisoned with lonely
Swords of desire.
Subhas Chandra Chakra
It’s a voluntary widowhood.
Whipped by Neeli’s tongue,
he’s gone to harvest Dirhams*
in Dubai desert – lest the embryo
of their new home won’t grow up.
She’s alone in a temporary shed
behind the basement on the bank.
Indian Postman passes by like her
days flashing ‘No’ with his fingers.
She looks into the distant desert
through the window of nostalgia.
Fear creeps on the walls of her
heart at night - even a Norway rat
becomes a ghost rattling in kitchen.
Years slip into the chasm of past
leaving behind the doldrums on her
countenance. Time partitions her
basement – mongooses, bandicoots
and rats get their shares – holes and
chinks. Now her dreams with streaks
of love have shrunk like her womb.
*Dirham – currency of the United Arab Emirates
[First published by Encircle Publications, US]
Throw me into the streets
And let me eat the dust of the earth
Sound the dreams and strip me with your shifty eyes
Till I lose my mind
Shave me bald
And scrap my pubics with broken bottles
Make slaves of my children
Till they become scum of the earth
Sing dirges for me while I live
And invite death to dine with me
Starve me,
Till my bony frame scares vultures away
Call me mother of witchery
And burn me at the stake
Let the smoke rise into the skies
Till widowhood is no more
Pile up treasures; rise and fall.
And want the lake and not the land fall,
Hold the bizarre beast, I wish wife.
My life is abandoned to the Life.
Behold an ideal idol of a wife:
The down fall will soon be late,
Whilst the crescent lake will wait;
This day will emerge another life.
Now bread and butter set on the table,
But miss the compassionate ring of able,
And call for the lonely wandering widower,
This moment can’t afford losing her.
Should I accept the defeat of livelihood,
And immortalize the spirit of widowhood?
My life is given to the Light.
These episodes of testing I can’t face:
I plant prayer for its erase,
And wind for a save and safe alight.
Incineration of Love God Madan Cupid 30
Originally written in Hindi by my late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
1899 to 1994. The work was written in Hindi somewhere around 1965-70.
Editing and English version by Ravindra K Kapoor.
Hindi Title ‘Madan Dahan’ 30
The sin does not die O’ Lord,
By killing the sinners of society,
Sinfulness will continue to live,
In multifarious ways and colors.
Why not, hate sin O Lord,
Instead of hating the sinner,
Wisdom has taught us all,
This simple lesson, O dear Lord.
The body of my most dear husband,
Will soon be consumed by flames,
And my widowhood would then appear,
How then your boon would prove true.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 2nd June 2012
To continue…..
Protected under the copy write provisions of Poetry Soup as per US laws.
Incineration of Love God Madan ( Cupid ) 29
Originally written in Hindi by my late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
1899 to 1994. The work was written in Hindi somewhere around 1965-70.
Editing and English version by Ravindra K Kapoor.
Hindi Title ‘Madan Dahan’ 29
Will You feel contented O’ Lord,
By destroying thine own power,
Created by your own delusion,
Hiding in it, the sweet consciousness.
You have just blessed life, O' Lord,
To my lovely dear husband,
How it will ever prove true,
Ponder over this, O' Almighty God.
The fire of anger is burning,
The form of my poor husband,
How my widowhood can be stopped,
If Your mercy does not protect him Lord.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 1st June 2012
To continue…..
Protected under the copy write provisions of Poetry Soup as per US laws.
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