#mangoes
i smell your scent,
like mangoes
i tasted them,
unripe & sour.
But I like it.
Sep 29, 2024
Sep 29, 2024 at 5:24 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall HSG
[email protected]
Someday I Hope to Meet a Mango Tree
For Pradip Chattopadhyay
Someday I hope to meet a mango tree
And sit at its feet to learn wisdom from Buddha
And if Buddha is not there, then I’ll learn from him
That the absence of teaching is a teaching itself
Someday I hope to meet a mango tree
Where lovers stroll beneath its gentle shade
And if lovers are not there, then I’ll learn from them
That the absence of love presupposes love
Someday I hope to meet a mango tree
Maybe in Veluvana in holy India
But if I never make that pilgrimage I’ll learn
That the magic of the mango is real
Someday I hope to meet a mango tree
Where surely I will find both teaching and love
Pradip Chattopadhyay - Hello Poetry
Symbolism of Mango Grove at Veluvana in Buddhism - Silent Balance
Mangoes: The True Caribbean Currency (caribjournal.com)
Jun 10, 2024
Jun 10, 2024 at 4:03 PM UTC
I feel like ripping wet paper
and smashing mangoes against my lips.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
If it were up to me you see, I would've been holding your hands from the beginning.
If it were up to me, pens would feel comfortable between your fingers, poetry would feel natural flowing from your lips
If it were up to me it would feel less of sandpaper and concrete
Instead, more of silk and lollipops to your tongue in the middle of summer
If it were up to me you wouldn't hate summer, you would adore it
If it were up to me you'd look forward to fresh strawberries and mangoes, the wind hot on your face like my breath would be to your chest
Curled up in your arms listening to your heart beat, waiting for you to stop wishing for it to stop
If it were up to me I would lay by your side each night, holding you close, patiently waiting for you to slip into slumber before letting myself do the same
If it were up to me I'd keep you from anything harmful
If it were up to me the sun in the morning would signify survival, not failure
If it were up to me the sunset would paint the sky with reds and oranges and purples every night to give you a reason to keep going
If it were up to me you'd look in the mirror and see the stars in your eyes rather than storms
If it were up to me your cheeks would be stained with loving pink kisses from the sun rather than tears made of salt and self loathing
If it were up to me you would've held my hands and felt content from the start, rather than grasping onto them hoping to find something
Other
Than
Summer
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 4:07 AM UTC
I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
About things dear to me
I walk on alien paths and eat foreign food
And remember
I paint **** women, their hips large
Dark hair and full *******
And I know
We all seek perfection, not knowing
We are already perfect
I sing, my notes rise and fall endlessly
Like a tireless swallow in the sky
And I praise
Hosanna in the highest
And as the dust motes dance in the wintry sun
In my wooden church, I am transported
To singing with Irish nuns
My skin browner, in a country of heat and dust
A country of mangoes and temples
Of saffron and silks
And as I don my jeans
Memories of my mother’s swishing silks
Take me home
But I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
And home is just another four letter word
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:29 AM UTC