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Kripi  Sep 2013
Upagupta
Kripi Sep 2013
Upagupta* the disciple of Buddha lay asleep on the dust by the city wall of Mathura,
Lamps were all out, doors were all shut, and stars
Were all hidden by the murky sky of August, Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets, touching his breast of a sudden?

He woke up startled, and the light from a woman's lamp struck his forgiving eyes.

It was the dancing girl , starred with jewels,
Clouded with a pale-blue mantle, drunk with the wine of her youth.
She lowered her lamp and saw the youth face, austerely beautiful.
" Forgive me, young ascetic"* , said the woman,
" Graciously come to my house. The dusty earth is not a fit bed for you."

The branches of the wayside trees were aching with blossom,
Gay notes of the flute come floating in the warm spring air from afar.
The citizens had gone to the woods, to the festival of flowers.
From the mid- sky gazed the full moon on the shadows of the silent town.
The young ascetic was walking in the lonely street, while overhead the love-sick
koels urged from the mango orchards their sleepless plaint. Upagupta passed through the city gates, and stood at the base of the rampart.

What woman lay in the shadow of the wall at his feet, struck with black pestilence, her body spotted with sores, hurriedly driven away from the town?
The ascetic sat by her side, taking her head on his knees, and moistened her lips with water and smeared her body with balm.

"Who are you, merciful one?" asked the woman.
"The time, at last, has come to visit you, and I am here", replied the young ascetic.
"Upagupta" is a fine poem written by Rabindranath Tagore. The poem has a beautiful theme. It shows that a person is known by the action he does. The greatness of his characters is reflected through his deeds. One must practice the principle of simple living and high thinking in life. Physical beauty is short-lived. So one should not feel proud of it. Only good actions done by a person is remembered by people. They live even after his death.
Àŧùl Apr 2013
Let me continue the story about a guy named Akshant,
Who belonged to Mathura in India, once the city of Krishna.

Akshant rejoined college and scored acceptably well this time,
He had realized his mistakes while he was to stay at home.
Repentance on committing mistakes intentionally was ripe,
He barely controlled the regret from flowing through his eyes.

Anamika was the only friend who was by his side in this time,
Giving him relief from loneliness which rang as the door chime.
Akshant had a poor memory so not much could stay on his mind,
Stressing his memory too much would only make his brain to grind.

Akshant then studied cautiously holding onto Anamika's hand,
Cautious he was not to crush it as he had formerly done to others.
He brightened up his professional life along with the romantic life,
And he scored brilliantly given his mental health was really affected.

The dried clots inside his brain were still an issue two years later,
But he controlled himself to not harm others from his anger.
The clots used to come out through as tears and ear wax,
Almost all was physically well after three more years.

Akshant went Kodaikanal after his bachelor's degree college,
He was an eligible bachelor when he had a job confirmation.
This happened when he was drifting away in the Kodai lake,
Anamika who sat next to him in the boat congratulated him.

Now Anamika confessed her feelings for Akshant in the boat,
Akshant couldn't find any words & found himself quite quiet.
This made Anamika challenge and taunt about his manliness,
Which caused Akshant get enraged & kiss his reply on her lips.

The boat swayed terribly in the star-shaped lake's still waters,
Anamika ogled & felt her hair get wet & this made her ****** Akshant.
She started kissing him back now & her eyes were coming back to normal,
These had been wide ogling when Akshant had started kissing hard and so it was.
Read part I here:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/7-seconds-part-i-of-a-poem-based-on-my-unpublished-novel/
My HP Poem #176
© Atul Kaushal
Le 17 Avril, 2013.
Sayeed Abubakar Dec 2016
[Dedicated to Aung San Suu Kyi, the greatest Fraud of all times]

Darkness like Halagu Khan is running
taking sword in hand;
Light is fleeing raising its tail.

The decorated dream-city will lose its
electricity for ever;
in all directions, the slogan of hyenas
will be heard only.

Going to the shade of Bodhi Tree,
I asked Gautama Buddha,
'By tasting which poisonous fruit,
your disciples have become insane
and have been involved in massacre
in Myanmar? '

Hanging his head, said Gautama, 'Darkness.'

Going to Bethlehem, I asked Jesus Christ,
'By drinking which grape-juice,
your disciples have become insane
and have been involved in massacre in Mosul,
Baghdad and Syria singing of democracy? '

Hanging his head, said Jesus, 'Darkness.'

Going to the holy home of Moses,
I bowed down my head and said, 'Would you
tell me, by eating which Manna and Salwa
your disciples have become insane
and have been involved in killing children
and women in holy Palestine? '

Hanging his head, said Moses, 'Darkness.'

Going to Mathura city, I said to Lord Krishna,
'Please tell me, by eating which food
offering to deity, your disciples have become
insane and have been involved in massacre
in Kashmir, Delhi and Gujarat? '

Hanging his head, said Krishna, 'Darkness.'

Darkness like Halagu Khan is running
taking sword in hand;
Light is fleeing raising its tail.

Again the days of darkness have descended on earth.
I have been searching Abdul-Muttalib's son
Abdullah's house in Pharaoh's city—
in such a thick darkness, no doubt,
the Sun of the desert had risen
in the lap of Amina!

[Translated by the poet from Bengali]
It is a protest against Myanmar Muslim killing by Aung San Suu Kyi
Àŧùl Apr 2013
Let me tell you a story about a guy named Akshant,
He belonged to Mathura in India, once the city of Krishna.

He was born on 23rd of December in the year 1990,
It was a stormy & rainy night when he was born.
Krishna was born under much similar conditions,
He was taken to safety away from his wretched uncle,
Time is exactly as the glorious & glorified mythology has it.

Akshant spent his early life much like any other kid,
Just the difference was that he was totally alone.
He spent his teenage in similar lonely circumstances,
Akshant searched for love all his teenage but to no avail,
Time gave a lonely -read tough- early lifetime to Akshant this way.

Akshant met a deadly accident on the highway,
And he went into a long & carefree coma.
As Akshant slept he took their breath away,
But they prayed for him to come out of the coma.
Time has its own ways of teaching lessons & for him it chose this way.

Akshant had been wasting his time in the search of love,
Ignoring the words of parents, his studies & friends.
His girlfriend ditched him for a fit & fine guy,
Who could take her out on dates unlike our Akshant.
Time had its own wicked ways of making him pay for the wrongs he did.
Read Part II and other parts too...
My HP Poem #173
© Atul Kaushal
Prabhu Iyer May 2015
Let us go to Galilee
that four yard cell in Mathura,
deerpark in Varanasi,

and ask where are we headed?

Fallow the field we furrow.
Lost the harvests of our youth.

And when all's done, this
our fear, that it was not enough,
that it was not enough.

What does it mean to
love, find peace in works,
uncover the joy of existence?

(Mere) myth, delusion, infant
babble of an evolving kind?
Galilee, Mathura and Varanasi are places associated with holy memories of the 3 greatest incarnations of mankind - Jesus, Krishna and Buddha.
In hall-1, we first exchanged our gaze,
You on the first bench, I a row behind,
Speaking of ghosts, tales that amaze,
Unknowingly, da bond that soon we’d find.

Wish we’d met in da first year’s light,
But in semester five, our paths entwined,
Though time was short, it felt just right,
For deep connections don’t mind da bind.

Bewakoofiyan, we shared with glee,
In you, I found a friend so true,
Your mole, your confidence, all I see,
A fierce spirit, yet sensitive too.

Your loud voice, a speaker in disguise,
Bossy yet gentle, a paradox so true,
Your hmm… irritates me, but I realize,
In silence or chatter, I cherish you.

Like a mother, you cared with grace,
At farewell, your words still ring clear,
“iska dhyan rakhna, ye bore naa hoo, mai lekr
aai hu isse,” As if my joy you had designed.

Now, in different courses, we tread,
Still, our friendship holds its flame.

We’d align our clocks even in haste,
Just to meet for minutes, to laugh and sigh,
To ***** about courses, professor’s taste,
Stuck in this college, wondering why.

Though your taste, I often tease,
Saying, “There’s no accounting for taste ,’’
You’re my friend, who puts me at ease,
You’re a bee, flying high, untamed by herds.

And in winter’s chill, you came for me,
Waiting in fog, while I was delayed,
My lecture ran long, but there you’d be,
With warmth in your smile, never dismayed.

From Mathura to Agra, you’d roam,
And now, in different cities, we strive,
And no matter da distance, our bond redeems.
                                                        ­                             By :- KANISHK
Shofi Ahmed Aug 22
If, in the golden Bengal,
At the crack of dawn,
The rainbow from beyond the skies
Gently alights upon the wings of a butterfly,
Smiling all the while

Then what shall befall
As the day softly wanes,
In the twilight beneath the veiling horizon,
When evening tenderly embraces the earth?

Wandering all day through the villages of Bengal,
Across the vast wetlands, fields of rice,
From door to door, along the wild paths,
Through shaded groves and verdant forests

Amidst the gaps of flaming Krishnachura trees,
On that very path,
The midday red fairy peeks through with a playful glance.

The dark Mathura clouds paint the sky,  
As the graceful Giriya ducks spread their wings,  
The vermilion-touched woodpeckers tap away

While the sunbirds sing their melodies,  
By the edge of the waterlily lake, beneath the banyan tree,  
A contented farmer's flute releases the joy within every heart.

And none other than the blue fairy  
Leaps out of the monsoon pond,  
Only to descend into the courtyard  
Woven by Bangla Mother's enchanting, tender touch.

So too shall the golden sun descend at twilight,  
With a gentle smile amidst the evening's enchantment.  
At the close of day, it will offer to the moon in pure bliss
Its crimson garland of red water lilies!

— The End —