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Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
I am a man, grandfather to four.
Adherent to the same religion,
Poetry.

Breathing through mine eyes,
Exhaling carbon words,
That with time and pressure become
Poems, verbal musical notes upon life.

Each motion, from tiny to grand,
A capsule of expression,
That if examined under microscope,
Familial DNA, interconnected tissue,
Discovered, tho logic says,  
Time and distance render impossible.

But this is a diamond
This is a writ to be slipped
Upon the finger, the heart, the essence,
Of the only Banyan tree I have hugged.

This poem but a fig,
In the cracks of kindness,
The crevices of caring,
It has slow germinated.

You dear, Sally,
My host,
A building upon I can lean,
When wearied spirits uproot
My surficial composure.

Your seeds carried from east to west,
By a fig wasp, a bird unknown,
An ocean voyager, of indisputable vision, strength.

This seeded messenger, word carrier,
Supplanted in me, and your pupils,
Jose-Bolima-Remillan
Xavier-Paolo-Joshh-Mandrez
Whose very names breathe poems,
in others too, like me and Atu,
Seeds to become new roots, but you,
Our Host official and forever
Planter of trees of loving kindness.

You already know with love and affection,
I call you Grandma Sally,
And when you ask, beseech,
I cannot refuse.

Together we will will banish the sad,
Acknowledge we, that life's ocean,
A mixture of many, even sad, a necessity.

But I promise that will turn it into
Something simple, something good.
For you have asked and I answer you
Right here right now - your wish,
My objective, deep rooted like you,
Like an old banyan tree,
Your roots spread far, spread wide.

So some eve, when to the beach, to the sky
You glance, smile, no matter what, troubles dispersed,
For the reflection of you, seeds, full fledged trees now,
Bending skywards, in search of your rays of expression,
Your maternal wisdom rooted, spread so wide, globally,
All over this Earth, is visible from your
Beloved Philippines.


---------------------------------------
In her own words..

I am a widow,
with five remarkable granddaughters....
all beautiful, intelligent girls.
It is such a waste not to write....
each morning that unfolds is filled
with things to write about....
the people, the birds,
the trees, the wind,
the seas,
everything we set our eyes on,
they are all
poetry in motion.
Life itself is poetry,
I always have pen and paper within reach.
My past experiences are a
never-ending source
of ideas and words for my poems....
I shall write until time permits me,
"til there's breath within me."

-------------------------------------------------
A banyan (also banian) is a fig that starts its life as an epiphyte (a plant growing on another plant) when its seeds germinate in the cracks and crevices on a host tree (or on structures like buildings and bridges). "Banyan" often refers specifically to the Indian banyan or Ficus benghalensis, the national tree of India,[1] though the term has been generalized to include all figs that share a characteristic life cycle...
Like other fig species (which includes the common edible fig Ficus carica), banyans have unique fruit structures and are dependent on fig wasps for reproduction. The seeds of banyans are dispersed by fruit-eating birds. The seeds germinate and send down roots towards the ground.

The leaves of the banyan tree are large, leathery, glossy green and elliptical in shape. Like most fig-trees, the leaf bud is covered by two large scales. As the leaf develops the scales fall. Young leaves have an attractive reddish tinge.[6]

Older banyan trees are characterized by their aerial prop roots that grow into thick woody trunks which, with age, can become indistinguishable from the main trunk. The original support tree can sometimes die, so that the banyan becomes a "columnar tree" with a hollow central core. Old trees can spread out laterally using these prop roots to cover a wide area.
Over 1900+ reads as Nov. 10th.
Sally, That is a lot of friends and admirers you have!
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Let us not keep our secret,
secret any more!

Thousands have read your poem,
from your tributary, they have drunk.

So I am re posting once more
to remind grandmother,
so many
you,
adore.

I will not stop
till ten
thousand new admirers
have you paid homage.
then I will
              post it again.


~~~~~~
Oct 6, 2013
The Banyan Tree (A Tribute to Sally)
I am a man, grandfather to four.
Adherent to the same religion,
Poetry.

Breathing through mine eyes,
Exhaling carbon words,
That with time and pressure become
Poems, verbal musical notes upon life.

Each motion, from tiny to grand,
A capsule of expression,
That if examined under microscope,
Familial DNA, interconnected tissue,
Discovered, tho logic says,  
Time and distance render impossible.

But this is a diamond
This is a writ to be slipped
Upon the finger, the heart, the essence,
Of the only Banyan tree I have hugged.

This poem but a fig,
In the cracks of kindness,
The crevices of caring,
It has slow germinated.

You dear, Sally,
My host,
A building upon I can lean,
When wearied spirits uproot
My surficial composure.

Your seeds carried from east to west,
By a fig wasp, a bird unknown,
An ocean voyager, of indisputable vision, strength.

This seeded messenger, word carrier,
Supplanted in me, and your pupils,
Whose very names breathe poems,
In others too, like me and so many,
Seeds to become new roots, but you,
Our Host official and forever
Planter of trees of loving kindness.

You already know with love and affection,
I call you Grandma Sally,
And when you ask, beseech,
I cannot refuse.

Together we will will banish the sad,
Acknowledge we, that life's ocean,
A mixture of many, even sad, a necessity.

But I promise that will turn it into
Something simple, something good.
For you have asked and I answer you
Right here right now - your wish,
My objective, deep rooted like you,
Like an old banyan tree,
Your roots spread far, spread wide.

So some eve, when to the beach, to the sky
You glance, smile, no matter what, troubles dispersed,
For the reflection of you, seeds, full fledged trees now,
Bending skywards, in search of your rays of expression,
Your maternal wisdom rooted, spread so wide, globally,
All over this Earth, is visible from your
Beloved Philippines.


---------------------------------------
In her own words..

I am a widow,
with five remarkable granddaughters....
all beautiful, intelligent girls.
It is such a waste not to write....
each morning that unfolds is filled
with things to write about....
the people, the birds,
the trees, the wind,
the seas,
everything we set our eyes on,
they are all
poetry in motion.
Life itself is poetry,
I always have pen and paper within reach.
My past experiences are a
never-ending source
of ideas and words for my poems....
I shall write until time permits me,
"til there's breath within me."
-------------------------------------------------
A banyan (also banian) is a fig that starts its life as an epiphyte (a plant growing on another plant) when its seeds germinate in the cracks and crevices on a host tree (or on structures like buildings and bridges). "Banyan" often refers specifically to the Indian banyan or Ficus benghalensis, the national tree of India,[1] though the term has been generalized to include all figs that share a characteristic life cycle...
Like other fig species (which includes the common edible fig Ficus carica), banyans have unique fruit structures and are dependent on fig wasps for reproduction. The seeds of banyans are dispersed by fruit-eating birds. The seeds germinate and send down roots towards the ground.

The leaves of the banyan tree are large, leathery, glossy green and elliptical in shape. Like most fig-trees, the leaf bud is covered by two large scales. As the leaf develops the scales fall. Young leaves have an attractive reddish tinge.[6]

Older banyan trees are characterized by their aerial prop roots that grow into thick woody trunks which, with age, can become indistinguishable from the main trunk. The original support tree can sometimes die, so that the banyan becomes a "columnar tree" with a hollow central core. Old trees can spread out laterally using these prop roots to cover a wide area.
Anavah Dec 2020
The Banyan tree is dying, the little boy exclaimed

Who would believe him though?
It was not just a tree but a legacy,
A witness of generations.

The Banyan tree is dying, the farmer complained

Many a hot afternoon
He had sought its shade
What an inconvenience.

The Banyan tree is dying, the priests shouted

The holy site had led to
Many days of profit
And few days of satisfaction

The Banyan tree is dying, no one did anything

Time withered its branches
Termites ate away the roots
And the trunk fell like a giant.

The Banyan tree is falling, the workers cried.

Work to be done
Land to be cleared
Nobody cares.
A piece on apathy in social concern, relationship, moral concerns.
I am a banyan(vatavriksha)
Standing like
The guardian figure
At the gateway of the village
Oh you thought
The champakas,rajanigandhas
Were envious of me
No,no
I am an old one
Seen some hundred summers
And winters
Children and tots
Playing merrily
In my cool shade
On a hot summer afternoon
The river near me
I daily see
Carries timelessness
Just like me
Lovers passionate
Passing on boats
Even in floods of fury
Dreaming of being
Radha Krishna
And gopis
What not
Do I see
Oh pralaya(destruction)
Did see Krishna
Floating away
On one of my leaves!
A baby ******* his toe
Untouched by any worry
My leaves are heart shaped
I do touch hearts of men
Read their minds
Some robust like me
Some weak
I wish to stand here
Endlessly
For just like holy kadamba
Under which Krishna gave gopis
Aatmananda(joy of self-conscience)
Rich with its divine glory
I am but a mere banyan tree!
Enjoy being mere?
Sally A Bayan Sep 2014
I Think That I Shall Never See
A Poem Lovely As The Banyan Tree....

It stands tall and sturdy
Telling us of unwavering strength
Evidenced by its toughened body.
It speaks with its huge trunk
As it holds itself firmly on the ground.

Its new-grown twigs
Otherwise known as sprigs
And branches, crowded with leaves,
Are shades and shields, replete with stories to weave,
The rings etched inside its trunks are proofs to show
Their age, their truths and tales from long ago.

Roots are both big and small... resembling us, our lives,
They are crisscrossed, entwined...they wrap the tree alive.
They spread deeper down and sideways, like an anchor
Giving extra hold that could last a hundred years or more.

One could dance and create verses on a windy summer day,
The same pace, as its branches bow, wave and sway.
It is a spacious tree house,
There is love, there is freedom, way above our brows,
Where sleepy, weary souls, are promised restful hours,
Like only a steady hammock could offer.
There is always shelter and warmth on cold days
Shade from the heat, when sun is ablaze.

It is too wide, our arms are too small a circle
To hold the thoughts, the countless words, like a cradle
To describe images of what's inside, above and underneath,
As we tell the story of the Banyan tree.

Underneath this tree are two lovers,
Fleeing... feeling light, like two soft feathers,
Flying, as if they could reach the heavens
But they always return to this tree, their haven,
Where their worries they disown.
Somewhere else lay, the problems they bemoan.
Here, they find the privacy they've always sought
In the outside world, it is a dream, or just a thought.
This is where their long poems start to unfold...
Their lives are rich with stories to be written, to be told.
.
For these two lovers
And other creatures,
Two feet or four, it doesn't really matter,
Those that fly, crawl or slither,
Through the night, there are those that wander,
Amongst the branches and crowding leaves they stick together
Before the spreading dark, they come, even those with tethers.
Sometimes they get wet when the rain seems forever,
And yet, they squeeze themselves in, they all gather,
Here, where they find peace...through all kinds of weather...

It is their refuge, their home,
It is like an over-sized dome,
A giant  U M B R E L L A
They fondly call,
THE  BANYAN  TREE...

I can never be swayed:

I Think That I Shall Never See
A Poem Lovely As The Banyan Tree.....



Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
*** heavy rains, strong winds and the soft thudding of the curtains hitting the glass windows
were background sounds that accompanied me while writing and finishing this poem.***
Aditya Bhaskara Oct 2012
if I ever were a banyan
I would have soared high
enough into the blue sky
higher than any proud eucalyptus
grounded stronger than any other root
heavier than one hundred elephants
I would have grown upward
not in meters, but a couple of miles
too outreaching and lofty for men
for that might have been one reason
for nobody to chop my trunk
for no bird to ever become homeless
for then, men would've sensed and feared
the grand weight of my life
Prabhu Iyer Apr 2015
Jostling with the plate leaves,
old plastic bags, empty
cigarette packs, chocolate wraps,
and late evening light
breaking apart on mellow waves,
this lone lily smiling
like a street kid, a slum urchin.

The wonder banyan that has
roots everywhere; the yonder
village, morning mists, distant
playgrounds, idling cattle,
all gone but in paintings now,
and the latest specimen perching
by the vestiges of a once-lake.

Out in the park, with old
plastic bottles, cold coca cans,
well-grown weeds, pigeon
crusted icons, rusticated chairs,
and torn billboards for
company: time out in nature,
manicured to industrial glory.
All hail the development tree!

Notes taken at different times, reflecting on the cost of ill planned 'development' that only benefits the 'developers'
amrutha Aug 2014
The raindrops softly invade the stillness of the blue sea
The thunder sinks into the silence beneath the horizon
Let the whales cry, let the wolves howl
Let the rain fall as underneath the Banyan
we dream .
Black Petal Mar 2021
Breathe in and breathe out
Rooted like the banyan tree
Watch thoughts come and go
Jayantee Khare Jun 2017
I wish that my life
could be a banyan tree, large,
massive, eternal, offering shelter to travelers, wanderers, exhausted ones, when lacking support and nourished inadequately
p             from the          p
o                trunk,            o
e            ­  poetry             e
t             would be          t
r          the prop            r
y         roots and           y
.          my support         .
.             system               .  
"""""".""""""""""""""""""""""""""."""""""
~~~~.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~.~~~~~
O Buddha, the gold vein of thy sermon of mercy ran through gloom-gorged, rocky hearts, and illumined their darkness.

Thou loftiest soarer of renunciation's skies, beneath thy God-lifted eyes, the kingdom of sense-comfort, the rivers of gross greed, the vast and lust-scorched deserts of desire, the tall trees of temporal ambition, the cactus plants of prickly world-worries—all melt into invisible smallness.

Buddha, the arc-light of thy sympathy sought to melt the hardness of cruel hearts. Once thou didst save a lamb by offering thyself in its stead.

Thy solemn thoughts still silently roam through the ether of minds, searching for ecstasy-tuned hearts. Seated beneath the banyan bodhi tree, thou didst make a solemn tryst with the Spirit:

    "Beneath the banyan bough,
    On the sacred seat I take this vow:
    Let derma, bones, and fleeting flesh dissolve;
    Until the mysteries of life I solve,
    And receive the all-coveted Priceless Lore,
    From this place I shall stir, never, nevermore."

Thou symbol of sympathy, incarnation of mercy, give us thy determination, that we may seek truth as doggedly as thou didst. Bless us, that we may be awakened, like thee, to seek remedy for the sorrow-throbs of others as we seek it for ourselves.

From: Whispers from Eternity
A Book of Answered Prayers
1949 Edition
spysgrandson Nov 2015
a refugee from wealth,
he and his Dartmouth degree found the spot
farthest from his New England roots, and the first roots
he saw there were those of a banyan tree, giant gray tentacles
piercing the Asian earth, imploring the black soil
for atonement, he thought

the natives said the tree was older than God
immortal, but cursed with some blight that bedeviled them
and that prudent pruning of ailing arms would be wise

the man had only a Swiss Army knife  
with its minuscule saw, but soon he set about the task
of trimming the behemoth, one mad millimeter at a time,
and mad was all the natives saw

this white creature, high in the canopy,
often from dawn until the sun sank in the jungle behind him
sawing away, a half branch a day, treating the gargantuan arboreal
like a prize bonsai

villagers would come, hunker, watch in the shade of the tree
once in a great while, they would see a branch crash on the ground,
at which time they cheered the pitifully patient woodsman

many offered to help, some leaving bow saws,
axes at the banyans' base, but he would have none of that
over and over he received new red knives with their tiny saws
these parcels the only mail he got

even during monsoon rains,
the man's labors did not desist
though his audience waned

appearing to defy physics' uncertain laws
the tree was nearly felled, but the man disappeared
before his colossal task was done, the locals claiming he climbed
into the thinned canopy one day and never came down

not even a well worn blade was found
allowing the witnesses to aver he was yet high in the heavens
resting after love's labor had wearied his hands  
but perchance healed his heart
Shantala Kothare Nov 2018
Just like me,
If you happen to see,
This magnificent Banyan tree:
You would probably be,
Feeling free;
Or looking up towards the sky,
Likely heaving a sigh,
As you walk by.

Surely this banyan must provide
So many places to hide;
For birds to make their nests
Under its vast expansiveness.

If I were young
I would have clung,
To the roots and swung
Like a little child
From side to side.

But now
I'd rather look up and see
The wind blowing through the tree,
Watch the leaves shake and shimmer
Exposing their emerald green glimmer.

I'd love to sit in its shade,
Watch a wedding cavalcade,
Dig into the earth with a *****.
Feel the sun as he filters through,
Watch the hues in the morning dew.
K Balachandran Aug 2013
Making her senses keen to discern it better , she realizes:
"This giant of a tree, is no less than a wonder"
on it age plays a game different, no one is able to gauge,
ancient times nurtured, wind and rains embraced it tight,
scorching sun, in all his tropical fervor, couldn't daunt it,
eventually sun and the tree must have fallen in love with each other,

From morning till night, this banyan listens to many voices,
long days didn't make any difference, every day is new to it,
the roots searching under the earth, the hanging ones above,
create their own world, the ones below earth search for water.
when they come up in certain places, they look like creatures
prowling crocodiles, reptiles, or even  imaginary creatures, without names

Hang roots defy all rules, prefer the shapes of snakes it seems
anacondas, vipers, pythons or cobras in search of prey.
This banyan is a catalyst,  from bird to humans here,
find a shelter,take rest for varying times. It's Grandma attitude
makes each seeker of  solace and rest go back with happy smiles.

Some times here, a pauper speaks to a pundit, roles get reversed,
experience speaks louder than the knowledge in the book,
the many voices heard under the banyan makes,
one awake, from slumber,  the orchestra of many voices,
builds a music, euphonious in its composition, pregnant with meanings.
She
I have hardly seen her once or twice, yet I remember her capturing face, 
patiently she waits for her the local bus everyday, beside the old banyan tree, 
but that day I did not see her. 

I kept wondering all sorts of things but then I left it, 
as i sat for my evening tea it occurred that her face appeared again in my memory 
I looked for her beside the banyan tree yet there was no sign. 

Out of my curiosity and recurrent thoughts about her I stepped to ask 
who the girl was in the nearby roadside tea-stall 
to my surprise the vendor just passed the local newspaper 

I stood there blinking and shocked not able to grasp 
On the front page in bold was written AN ACCIDENT NEAR THE BANYAN TREE at 6.30 am 

I could no more fathom that she had visited me before she left this world 
She could not tell me yet she made me think of her through unknown emotions 
I wonder she too missed me that day standing beside the banyan tree.

© jasmine fernandez 2016
There, in God’s country, the benign ruler
Had promptly burst out of the earth’s bowels.
A sea of coconuts smothered, sultrily,
The most unwilling moss-painted houses
The banyan raised its feet high enough
For hundreds of creepy monsoon-creatures.
The journey  began in silver slanting rain
Waiting for streaks of pure white sunshine
To crawl through upright areca nut barks.
As the telephone wires went up and down
A floating bird quickly froze in the sky.
First the coconut fronds ran to the hills
Then the chilly plants , go red in the face
Inside, they of the uncertain *** beat the wind
Out of their joined palms in forced cadence.
The floor-mopping boy under our large feet
Looked with money-wetness in his brown eyes.
The train went spluttering for lack of puff
While gravel stones hit its forbidden parts.
Nishu Mathur Feb 2017
In the pursuit of happiness I walked the roads,
I stopped at milestones, leaned on posts.

I saw a flock of birds in flight,
Rings of gold.. an orb so bright.
I looked around at mountain walls,
The raging sea, white frothy falls.
I looked up at the sky serene,
The valley lush a summer green.
Banyan trees with leaves  bedecked,
Gulmohars lined with blossoms red.

Faces walked engrossed in streets,
A touch, a nod when eyes would meet..
Saw hunger, anguish, weary eyes,
Sorrow, terror, shock, surprise,
I saw the tears of loss and grief,
Faith, resilience, resolve, belief.

I heard the laughter of a child,
I saw the magic of a smile.
A hug, a kiss, a warm caress,
A helping hand that love expressed
I felt the cord of love that binds,
Hearts across the world and time.

I found happiness in little things,
In nature that surprises springs..
His art, the colors that I saw,
That left me breathless, full of awe,
Happiness in that special touch,
In smiles, laughter, that gentle brush.
In kind words that wonders do,
In love that breathes life anew.

In all things that I could see,
I knew happiness begins with me,
Within me what I see or do,
The trail of thoughts I send to you.

And happiness is what I found,
When happiness was spread around.
Snehith Kumbla Jul 2016
a rain is falling,
on the crack’d earth

a rain is teasing,
on the dancing us

how do we return this present,  
this overwhelming love,
endless kisses you shower,
in your every drop

a rain is calling,
on a thunder drum

a rain is singing,
come, ye all come

look the well is swell,
bare earth rustle green again,
how an elusive peacock cries
out the rain's endless names,

a rain is bending,
the mighty banyan tree

a rain is chasing,
cobra, ants and bees

how the sea rages in anarchy,
its heart is majestic today

cling of old things vanish,
in a flowing disarray

a rain is falling,
on the cracked earth

a rain is teasing,
on the dancing us
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
how many generations can
lay with you in your bed?

Matriarch Mama,
honorific due you,
title earned, not learned,
and now a teaching PhDs  of
Matriachal Science

let us have tea,
a tea party in you garden,
and the granddaughters
dressed in their church finest,
running noisy but that's ok,
mass is over, and the party
is now a backyard affair

me, a recorder,
standing in the corner,
invisible observing,
leaning on that old banyan tree,
smile playing on
my eyes,
counting
cousins daughters sisters,
and best of the best,
grand babies wilding in their Sunday finery,
even seeing
invisible fathers standing beside me,
but espy only one

Matriarch Mama,
sallying forth,
gunslinger of poetry,
nobody messes with Sally,
she is the brood defender,
poetess not
of the day

she is a
generational inscriber,
an author of a
gene pool of life's best,
her existence,
from heaven, sent a manna,
to feed-across-time
just one family,
an ordinary,
if such there was,

**Matriarch Mama
Look what I found in my files...
Sahil Sharma Aug 2018
Book of life brings various mysterious chapters,one such spells my visit to village..
It was so awe aspiring, but no man's clock can be rewinded to bring that timeless age...

I shouted in wilderness like the way toy means to infant's rejoice...
my words couldn't jump over the peaks, bouncing back my voice...

I was panting and cramps got better of me,pushing me to rest on flat limestone...
But enjoying every bit of that pilgrimage and witnessing melodious chirping tone...

I resumed my journey upwards but soon grey clouds triggered the quenching rain...
Closing my eyes,i opened my arm,kids with cherry cheeks called me tenuous insane...

It seemed as if almighty took me to the heaven, being surrounded by the flowery and green hills...
In the east breeze those school kids were skidding down the ***** with their paper windmills..

An aged shepherd was looking for some shelter,not for himself but for his lamb and sheep..
Such care, such love,that's why the wool machine searched the banyan where her master could sleep...

Some urbans haven't travelled to such pictures just because of it's tech- remoteness..
Wish i had my own hut in the vicinity of woods giving utmost peace,but I'm hapless...

Darkness is floating through narrow lane yet eye catches only citylight..
But wish i could dream again in countryside under shiny moonlight..
The Lion is Lion, fearsome of all,
And rat is a rat, So poor so small.
But when in net, Lion was trapped,
One who freed lion,was that puny rat.

In forest a tiger,can Pounce at prey,
But can it run like,on Sand camel may.
The Mango tree mighty, but ever it laugh?
That I am gigantic, and you mere a grass.

A serpent can bite, and Peacock a dance,
But Monkey can jump, on  tree by chance.
A rose is so minor and banyan so tall,
But in the fragrance, seen banyan to fall.

Frog of a pond when, hears a cuckoo song,
Does he regret his, sound hoarse, so wrong?
A candle throws light, but does it complain?
have pity, have mercy, please put me in rain.

Can a fish fly and,  Eagle a swim?
Singing for cow, is always a dream.
When on the branches, flutters a crow,
Does ask tortoise, Why lazy, so slow?

When does a panther, run fast for ****,
Never he worried,how does prey feel?
While river gets solace, in making a flow,
But Moon in its cool, ‎and Sun in its glow.

A banyan is Banyan, And grass is a grass,
Never judgemental & No creed, no class.
The Being assigns this knowledge to man,
Tranquil , equable should always remain.

Seldom it care what, darkness what shine?
This is the sinful or that is divine,
With beauty is playful,with grave also fine.
Not worried for virtue, Nor guilt it define.

Always sustaining,No ego,no greed,
Feed vegitation & also Feed ****.
What tiny what big & minow what tall,
The existence provide, A shelter for all.

In cloud, in thunder, in rain that you found,
In roaring of lion & bird's chirping sound.
If fire then glow, in human is thought,
If air then flow, is water when drought.

In Color is rainbow,is morning of  day,
In fragrance is mellow,if Sun then it's ray.
In blossom of flower and growth of seed,
Pervading eternal & all that you need.

What right,what wrong, it never support,
Although indulgent, but never put force.
All that surround, but separate indeed,
Such is this isness, Not captive, nor freed.



    Ajay Amitabh Suman
    ‎
All Rights Reserved
Lynne Pingoy Sep 2015
ALDUB, isang loveteam na hinahangaan ng sambayanan
Lalaki, babae, o kung anumang kasarian man yan.
Siguradong kikiligin ka sa tambalan ng banyan.
Syempre ALDUB yan, sigaw ng taongbayan.

Dalawang taong may pinag-aralan
Naging isa sa EAT BULAGA; programa ng bayan.
Walang halong kaartehan o kaplastikan ang pagtitinginan
Inyo itong makikita sa kanilang mga tinginan.

Si ALDEN na handang tumupad sa pangako,
At si MAINE na handang maghintay sa mangingibig nito.
Ang pag-iibigan nila minsan magulo,
Pero madalas nagiging wasto.

Mga mata nila'y nagtugma na,
Ngunit kamay nila'y hindi pa naging isa.
PLYWOOD, ALARM CLOCK, LONG TALBE Nidora, humarang sa kanila,
Paglalapit nila'y naging HOPIA pa.

Kailan kaya magiging isa ang mga ito?
Kung ang layo nila'y magkabilang dulo ng mundo.
Ang mga tao'y nagtatanong,
Kailan nga ba ang tamang panahon?

Ito'y huling hirit na ng mga tao.
Lola Nidora tuluyang buksan ang iyong puso.
Paglapitin landas ng dalawang ito.
Upang ang mga tao'y kiligin mula BATANES hanggang JOLO.
Kuzhur Wilson Oct 2013
I do not belong to anyone, leave me alone
I do not belong to anyone, leave me alone
Please, leave me alone.

When I was born, Father and Mother said
My son, my son
Our son

when I cried that day
I was loudly repeating
“Leave me, let me be, I do not belong to anyone”
No, I do not belong to anyone.

It was for the same reason
That I cried while getting baptized
Leave me alone, leave me.

I do not belong to a Christian, nor Hindu, or Jew or Buddhist
It was saying “let me be, free me” that I cried that day
I do not belong to anyone.
I do not belong to myself.

I do not belong to anyone,
Not you, not anyone


A kiss, or marriage or death
Has no right over me.
Not belonging to anyone is, life, for me

The phone in the public booth,
The computer in the cafe, the Russian ******* the road,
The cup in the teashop, the pen in the complaints register


The bus which plies from village to another village
The doctor at the clinic, the flower by the wayside, the river that flows south,
The sea which counts waves
Rain, sky anywhere, sun, moon,

Or,
A Tree by the wayside.
Translation : Anitha Varma
K Balachandran May 2013
The ancient banyan tree is huge, its parallel trunks,
Go across , spiral out, spread  branches,
Sheltering birds; doves or eagles, it doesn't bother.
Above that a kite lost  mid way on  its pleasure flight aimlessly circles.
A grey half moon tries to remain inconspicuous in the day light.
A single engine Cessna sky hawk from Bangalore flying club,
Laboriously crawl across the sky like an overeaten caterpillar.

He remains,
Oblivious of the world around, and its many preoccupations.
Within a craggy nook created by the irregular stem of the banyan,
The old man sits like an idol, totally alien to the world, that is in its Nataraja's dance*
A long, grey, shaggy beard; serene radiant face,
Stunning  any one, looking at him with the contentment blooms there, a radiant flower.
His rags for long time has not seen water, its obvious,
A soiled turban around his head is tightly tied, yet  he looks regal.
He is silence personified, has no needs, it seems.
He breathes freedom day and night, no dependency on others,
Sounds, discordant and confusing, from the nearby road, fails even to touch him,
The dust wind that circles around, only creates a halo for him.
A plastic bag full of stuff, his worthless belongings, lie by his side, like a severed head.
An old news paper he holds, to shield him from the setting sun's attention.

On the third day I found out, he has friends.
Though there seems no need to speak, words are too precious to waste, isn't it what he implies?
A dark, frail woman driving back her buffalo and its calf after grazing in the fields,
Stops in front of him smiling, he smiles back; for the first time I saw a smile speaking to another.
A silent exchange of feelings, I could experience, even  in nature, since then. An awakening he brought.
Every time I watch him, with an open mind, the contentment I see, recites wordless poems
Nataraja- The dancing Shiva symbolizes the act of continuous destruction and creation, endless change.
Salmabanu Hatim Mar 2019
The old Banyan trees
with their ariel prop roots
hold sages secrets.
8/3/2019.
Butch Decatoria May 2016
Within this jungle, which is ours
I ride the back of Thunder-cloud, my friend

Around and through the thickets
thick banyan trees & palm fruit fallen leaves

Down muddy earthen paths
until everything is green and shadows

until inside its heart, the rain forest
trees of this jungle are city buildings - tall

and choir of fauna high and low
do not fear to sing beneath our cathedral's shade

In this kingdom of flora and ruby rich dirt
belongs to thunder-cloud and dirt-poor me

A Mowgli on his elephant,
hollars ahead to any that hear "We are free!"

Here, far from the whips' lashing, guns,
away from the loud business of murderous money

They who say that I am nothing
in their eyes who abacus my worth with looks

with upraising lust of wolves
but I a free man, a simpleton for beloved (Earth)

I am dark skinned
Krishna on my steed of thunder-clouds

A native son of brown & green wilderness
caterwauling to the beyonds unknown

Within our jungle, brother thunder,
my elephant of deep clouds gray

we are Mammoth and as wild as wide
as open as free... with every step forward

on this living journey
we will take

a peaceful kind of smile
will only be what is written
                                                       upon each lovely lovely face




*(Within our jungles...we live simply
without the Man's hate
not today will I hunger, nor will I thirst
fed on real wonder, drank clouds of Himalayan rain
without a rupee to my name... on the back of thunder
my gentle Ganesh - I have no one to blame.)
K Mae Feb 2013
I'm flying away from winter
to feast with palms and bougainvillea
egrets, pelicans, banyan trees
assuring my enraptured ease
I may be silent for awhile...
may return with sunmelt style
The Key To Success
A leaf has many veins connected by the midrib, similar to the Corolla in flowers connected by the sepal,

A stem has many leaves, connected through it, even the roots in this design- fibrous or tap are in their own way special,

Many stalks form a branch, many branches form a tree but all connect at the base, the trunk,

This happens in every tree, but to rebirth has to separate some chunk,

The message being conveyed by nature is unity is the key to success in this world where every person is a different type of petal,

Land Of The Ganga
In this Garth,  trees are never watered by a soul, but the river Ganges herself,

The trees even after sinking inwards into the ground, continue to bloom in themselves,

Filled with myriad species of undreamt trees and the rarest of all florets in the daintiest of bowers

The most prodigious banyan tree with about three hundred aerial roots is the main

attracter

A tree that stores water is one of the hundred phenomena in the Botanical Garden in the land of the Ganga itself
Prathipa Nair May 2016
Some sweet memories of my Village and childhood days :-)

My village, is an Evergreen Heaven, full of singing birds, the crystal clear river with a non-stop flow of water.
A graceful temple of the powerful Goddess, with it attached the sacred Banyan tree. And a beautiful swing by rope for the kids to enjoy their evening.

Men sit chatting under the Banyan tree. Women washing clothes and gossiping near the river side. My village, being a part of God's own country is calm and peaceful for both the old ones and the young ones.

Enchanting festivals happen, specially during summer. The best part of my life is my childhood days in my village. It is blessed by nature with full of greenery on all its sides with paddy fields, coconut,tamarind,mango, neem and the list goes on.

I enjoyed my childhood with my cousins playing Hide and Seek, Lock and Key, Making mud pots which are never allowed to play by the kids nowadays.Those days are filled with pleasure and entertainment.

Competing with the Cuckoo's Coooo making it angry ! Walking on the walls, eating ripe mangoes, climbing on trees..waow ! It was fun :-)

A mischievous chat with Grandma, Grandpa and great Grandma who loved me more than they do themselves.

Making compulsory our afternoon nap, punishing us with his love and care, my Big uncle. He punishes us with his Hand fan or 50 - 100 sit ups holding our ears! But at this moment I realise he did that because he loves us a lot!

Craving to hear songs from the radio and singing along with it, writing it down and learning it by heart :-P

Going for movies with Grandma, it was really a great fun ! Ours was a Joint family system with uncles, aunts,cousins and there was love, understanding, sharing, caring for one another. Having breakfast, lunch and dinner together with the family where there were always laughter and only laughter :-)

Wish all those sweet and golden moments to come back !!!
This is a Memoir :-)
Kuzhur Wilson Oct 2013
In the villa in Sharja,
A banyan tree stood, stuck to the wall of the building.
Mind throbbed as soon as it caught sight of it,
Touched it to my forehead in reverence,
Remembered my father who understood trees.
In the book she has kept closed,
It should be possible to still see
The memory veins of a leaf-
Plucked after touching its soul and seeking permission.
‘It is a sign of prosperity,
It cleanses the atmosphere’, Mary too said.
New tenants came in the room vacated by Priyan and Anjana
Jaya aunty and her husband said that they wore skull caps
Narayanan, wearing sacred thread and sandalwood paste on his forehead,
Anthony with rosary and sacred amulet
After them,
Youngsters of this type were not seen so nearby
One night, when I went out of my way to touch that tree,
I heard speech of a rhythmic nature
From the room of those who wore caps
It passed through my mind, ‘these are times when words become music.’

It was a Friday.
While watering Basil plants,
Saw the branches of the banyan on the ground.
Its leaves, like heart shattered..
Whitish veins drained of blood
my eyes hurt
As I ran to it,
Saw the tree,
Looking like a worshipper whose hands were cut
While crying, beseeching the heavens , arms outstretched.

Father,
You used to say that there were many types of trees
Which tree is used to make crosses to crucify humans, Father?
(trans from Malayalam by Anitha Varma)
Prathipa Nair Oct 2016
Walking through the sides of a busy pond
Where fishes,frogs,snakes playing hide and seek
Collecting sweet tamarind and small mangoes
In the duppatta of yellow salwar Kameez
Sitting under the shade of a giant banyan tree
Sinking in the flavour of tamarind with mangoes
With an innocent exuberant smile
Vision of people and vehicles passing by
Ringing of the Pooja bell heard from the temple
Jumping out running towards the temple with a banyan leaf bowl
Filling it with mouth-watering rice pudding
Walking home vigilantly in a thought of sharing with siblings
Followed by a black kitten to get a share crying meow-meow!
LOVE, HATE, WISDOM, FEAR, WEALTH… KEYS MANY ARE TO LIFE IT’S SAID
NONE IN BIRTH IS AFRAID,WISE,HATEFUL,GREEDY,NONE SHALL BE SO IN DEATH.
LIFE! ITS A NOW,A PRESENT CONTINUOUS,DIES HERE THE PAST,A FUTURE BORN
NOW,A SUM TOTAL OF PAST,FUTURE AN EQUATION INEXORABLE FROM HEREON.
FUTILE IS FUTURE MIRRORING PAST, AWARENESS MY PRIMER FOR A CHANGE FAST.  
WHEN ALIVE ARE HEARTS PUMPING,WHY ARE MINDS AND SOULS DEAD BARREN?
ISN'T HEART THE GOOD EARTH ALWAYS AND MIND THE TREE WISE OF BANYAN?
I RID THE DISCONNECT, BY GRACE, HAVE A MINDFUL HEART, A HEARTFELT MIND!
LIVING THE STAID REALITY OF LIFE, LOVING, HATING, THINKING, BEING WISE,FOOLISH
KILLING, FORGIVING, PHILOSOPHICAL IN A CRUELLY KIND WORLD OF PARADOX.
IS THERE A REALITY DEVOID, OF LIFE AND DEATH, LOVE AND HATE, GOD AND RELIGION,
OR TRUTHS,LIES, TIME-SPACE,SOUNDS AND SILENCE,EQUANIMOUS PEACE AT WAR?
IS IT JUST A PLAY, OF THE MIND AND HEART, DESIRE AND POWER,******* UNREAL?
GOOD VERSUS EVIL?
I LIVE BY THE HEART,IT DOES STOP AND THE MIND,OH DOES IT ROT!
UNFEELING HEARTS AND UNTHINKING MINDS, THESE BARRIERS SLOWLY I CROSS,
BEYOND IS THE BEING, THE EXISTING, INCAPABLE OF THE UNREAL, DIVINELY AFAR,
A VOID SURREAL,UNFEELING YET KIND SOMEHOW, UNLOVING YET CARING SOMEHOW
UNSAD, UNJOYOUS, UNAFRAID, UNWORLDLY...ATTRIBUTES NONE AT ALL! UNBEING??
I KNOW NOT IF IT’S GOOD OR EVIL, IS JUST UNBEING,UNAFFECTED BETTER SOMEHOW?
IS THE FREE UNBEING THERE,JUST TOTALLY BEING HERE?! BACK TO A REALITY RELATIVE!
GREYS ARE MANY, IF DARK BE HATE AND BE LIGHT LOVE, MID-GREY IS THE WORLD, HOPE CAN MOVE!
FROM THE MOUNTAINS DOWN I CLIMB, JUST, WITH PRECIOUS BAGGAGE, UNPACKED TO MAKE SENSE,
OF THE REAL IN THE UNREAL,THIS ONE WORLD IN INFINITY, WITH  ITS ANGELS AND DEMONS,
I CHOOSE TO LIVE WITH REALITY; AND UNRAVEL JUSTLY; ELSE IT COMES LIVES WITH ME ANYWAYS!
OR IS IT ALL JUST INEVITABLY INEXORABLE, JUST A HERMITS DESTINY?!
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2022
Laced with ribbons of moonlight
Bangladesh a touched dream at first light.
Land of my father, my mother
sweeter than nectar.
Purer than the driven snow
brighter than raw gold.
Gazing stars’ bumped up bottom
down the untouched moon.

Men and the six seasons
living in one loving fold
our one fertile sweet home!
O Allah rank our martyrs our heroes
up high in paradise in bloom
brought Bangladesh freedom abloom!

Punters cumulus clouds fly
eyes on the sky blue  
on a spur hanging low tune into wild coo.
Picture independent Bangladesh
step in on the morning rug
rolls out outside the sun
walk through, the moon is inside!
Bask in, take your time
when the twilight adds a shadow
the beauty spot on your broad daylight
escape to more serendipitous discovery.
Eye on the stars or tuberoses on the ground
our free land is inspiring, beautiful even in the dark.

Laughs free from a tulip glass  
across the land, air and the water
upon the reed flute stirred river
flowing downstream to the hilt
from a deep-delved foundation out of reach
her raised high flag flies
over the pivotal banyan trees.

Every flap of our ‘the sun in the green’ shaped flag,
the light of heaven on the evergreen earth!
Ah, sways in the chalice of every flower
on the land cheers beyond the warm South
whispers to our hearts and makes us feel proud.
RL Smith Aug 2014
Rats scurry through my dreams
And my luggage
I sleep
In their house
In the banyan tree
The volcano sunrise
Wakes me with its rumbling
Sprinkling me with black dust
Volcanic plains
Stretch into an ebony desert
Vanuatu series
Sally A Bayan Jul 2019
Under a shady Banyan tree,
i am a unicorn, my lone horn is shining,
front hooves raised, set to gallop, to help
dreams and desires to materialize...
:::::
on another day, i'm a silver-haired erudite,
amidst scrolls and volumes of  tomes,
pondering on THAT, which ruffles my waters,
and defies what i've known, what i believe in;
i'm challenged, i pursue the topic.....i write,
and when pleasance rules.....verses swell...
:::::
however, when my mind is drought-driven,
and my days fail me, i become a banshee,
wailing my ineptitude...my inadequacy,
warning myself...of worst days coming...
there's nary a line, or a verse to celebrate
when exists, this poverty, in poetry......
:::::
i see a poet sailing on either one of two rivers
one always moves on...wind tiptoes on its
surface, its ripples are soldiers marching on...
the other river is snagged...flows off and on;
but, water always finds, creates new paths,
eventually, it flows....at times, it overflows...
::::::
the urge to write is water to the poet,
touching his/her toes...always reminding,
there's plenty to write, out there...in here...
you suddenly hear rain hitting roof like nails
or, the neighbor's car revving up, the smoke
and noise ruin your morning air...it irks you,
giving way to an angry 10-word....or haiku...

in poetry...bad and good days occur, whether
near, far, or under a shady Banyan tree....


Sally

Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 4, 2019
( "Under a shady Banyan tree" is a cozy, comfortable place,
   where i write, or just reflect..where inspirations are birthed.)
Under the banyan few bamboo stalls
Baskets of garden’s produce
Whiff of fresh fish from fishing trawls
Buyers the sellers amuse.

Brinjals and pumpkins papayas and gourds
Small catch from neighborly streams
With buy and sell exchange few words
Alike a sketch seen in dreams.

Small things small price wish don’t soar high
A few coins to relieve bowel’s pain
Will do enough to let the hopes fly
No need for too hard bargain.

Will be left behind not all will be sold
The fragrance of freshness will stale
They won’t rue hearts of true gold
Having learned this hard fact too well.

Some hours spent when shadows grow dark
Sun decides to recline in west
Wind up they all under moon’s arc
Happy souls homebound for rest.

Sighs the banyan long standing witness
Pains it the quietude of stars
Holds it through dark watches endless
Coming and going of pedlars.
Rishi Bharat Sep 2010
The country road like  poet’s fancies unravels
Through the   giant hanky- sized paddy fields
And  the dream  sized ponds
Dotting  the landscape
in perfect  squires and riots of skewed and regular shapes
The green spread and the muddy beds, spell the village beauty.

Parrot green fields
And  stark blue skies  look at each other
In perfect silence, like mother and babe
And a   great , grey house  exposing its ragged bricks,
Bared like  the buck tooth of the old
Provokes a  village memory

Past picking itself slowy and ambling into the future
Its wooden columns
stand like mute  exclamation marks!
or so it may  look to me.
Flies  the  skidding scaly tarred  snake  
Fast and spreading like the traveler travelling on it.

Patchy it looks, now;  
And  full like the  misery  of the scorned lover
Eager like  the  maiden speech of a parlimentarian  
The country road, runs  fluid like a stream after the rains.
As the rustle of the engine   trips and   falls
into the  divine  air.

A  roaming peacock calling adds  charm to the great whole  fare
A winged beauty, struts across
Nudged by the sputtering , speeding me.
The exotic avian   attains the hedges galore
With its   metal blue  feathery strangeness blurred in my glancing eye
A species rare, found only in ornithologists diary.

A  clamour in the  air
And the   school boys emerge in buddy pairs
Beneath the  village banyan
That  let loose its tresses to dry like a country maid.
I see, a promising glint in their eyes
The  will make themselves of  king and ministers of the modern days


The  sonority of ringing bell  
clubs the cacophony of school boys  in into two dead parts.
They return to their classes, sanctified by the silence,
And open their minds to the feminine vocie.
A Glorious moment ,
As the  morn of wisdom is born

Rich are the sightings of poor country side
And many are the mappings on the way,
My sensibilities recouped,
I drove back
not spent
But profound.


sound.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is your thoughts, my upset energies, and nightly turbulence.
Sleep provokes night and life and darkness prevailing in us.
When we wake up we are gone as our night precedes dawn
It is always the other way, bottom up and spaces spread.
At times we hear the police van’s shrieks, in night’s iron grill.

I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is not always the stick beating the road in rhythmic silence
And olive-green overcoat with flapped pockets and heavy boots
And six months old large-sized memories of a Himalayan home
With black-lined large dove’s eyes flitting among coal fires
Their smoke towering over the pines in snow-bound peaks.


I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the turbulence we are speaking of, in the foggy sea we are
Or on the peaks where everything is bound in fuzzy snow
At the mountain passes where vehicles duly pass oiled by hot tea
Or in the mist-filled airports where aircrafts do not take off
Of politicians who decide mankind’s future in the apocalypse.


I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is my dreams as they were and the neighbor’s dreams
In the straw-roof, in the banyan trees with glints in their eyes
And much fine-powdered dust on their thick –coated leaves,
In lonely watchmen’s houses on the bleak stony spaces
And lonely watchmen keeping vigilant eyes on boulders
Strewn in brown spaces and scraggy bushes with strange lizards.


I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the towering tombs and the trees that enveloped them
The children playing cricket in flying bats and stone stumps
Outside the vaults where kings and queens lay dead for ages
Their cold breath felt on the broken glass of Time’s windows.
I ask that you, I and women play a game of kabaddi in the trees
When it is still not dark enough in the minarets in the west
And children are still hitting ***** visible in the green of the trees.
murari sinha Sep 2010
the season-change of the vagrant pole-star easily picks up a sip  
from the list of ducks of the night-watchers

standing on the bye-lane of the horse-race … by the weight of the confession made
by the spelling-mistakes of a moonlit night to the lotus-leaves … the amputated
tongues of the night-bulbs gradually rolls down to the banyan-pods of the side-characters

the sharp archer of the star-apple moves away some furlongs from the usual
word-stairs and swallowed a whole grammar with fumes  by spoon

thus with the number of velocity-poems that the punjabi with boutique prints
can produce… or will produce … gluttonous flower-vase of the magic-painter
can make cool the slaughter-ground … spread to the horizons of the krishnachura  
that is deviated from its own track
.
..
...
When the inflated crunching sky turns into the black hole, one by one the expected stars slowly falling on the horizon, sudden deep dark clouds cover the silky face of moon, or the earth takes the full moon.

Long, long shadows darken the meadows, southern wind can’t open your closed window at all, standing along on the curve of a road, a sigh to fly in the wind, roaming heart finding a home.

See the mystic form of the known objects, distant standing old banyan tree suppose to feel a lonely friend of mine, a friend of rootless time, when silly, bogus thoughts engulfed me, want to break up but change does not cry out.

Melancholy beauty in the dark, floating with the imagine gulls in the sky, draw the red sun on the canvas of dark sky within the wings of dream, again see you are playing with the seven colors across my unfinished sky.
.
..
...
@Musfiq us shaleheen

— The End —