"beech" poems
Seetaro mai akela chaand si thi wo
Foolon ka mehekta guldan si thi wo
Thi nadi jaisi aviral,chanchal
mere dil ka haal si thi wo
Ghani dhoop mai chav si thi wo
Kisi geet ki addaon si thi wo
Thi hava si mehekti, komal
Mere dil ka bhav si thi wo
Beech majhdhaar mai nav si thi wo
Khusian ka pura gaon si thi wo
Thi koyal si meethi,nishchal
Mere man ka abhiman si thi wo
Paido par wo patto waali hari bhari koi daal si thi wo
Holi ke rango mai sabse saadi ek akeli gulaal si thi wo
Thi wadi kasmiri koi
Mere geeton ka sur aur taal si thi wo
Mandir mai wo shankhnaad si,pooja ka prasad si thi wo
Baarish mai mitti ki khushboo,badal ka dharti se sanvaad si thi wo
Thi meri wo beti pyari,usse hi ghar 'harshit' tha
Mere ghar mai sooraj si,Mere ghar ki shaan si thi wo
Thi ab wo jo nahi rahi,aakhir khata kya thi ki usne
mana hi to kia tha na beta shaadi se,
Par dosti ka haath bhi to badhaya tha
Teri Bezatti toh nahi thi ki usne
Fir kyun tune usko har ghar badnaam kia
Dushman na kare,dost hokar tune aisa kaam kia
Chali gayi ab chhod ke mujhko,wo akele jeevan ki saanjh mai
Meri khushiyan,meri duniya,meri pyari jaan si thi wo
Meri pyari jaan si thi wo
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 7:46 AM UTC
FIR AAYI HOLI
Fir aayi Holi ek baar, fir le gayi mere dil ka karaar;
Puchhna chahti hu, kyu rulateho tum mujhe yuhi, baar baar.
Itne rango ke beech bhi hei tan man feeka; aankhoki pichkaarise behte hei aansu zaar zaar
Saalo beet chuke firbhi nazar dekhti hei teri raah, lagaataar.
Radha ka pyaar hi hei kuch aisa, maanta nahi yeh kabhi haar
Jaise kanha ke beena Radha adhuri aise hi, piya- milan beena, Holi hei adhuri.
Kanha tere beena rang feeke, Chand feeka; soona lage mohe sansaar.
Aa bhi ja Mohan, itna ne tadpa, raah niharu tori; kab aayega tu jamuna paar.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 3:59 PM UTC
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum behad khoobsurat **
Ye jo tumne akhon ke kajal ko b palko ki had me dal rakha hai.
In aankhon ne jane kitna kehar sambhal rakha hai.
Kya chamak hai aankho me jaise ek choti si khush duniya ka sapna paal rakha hai.
Socha cheru thoda tumhe or thoda sata du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum nazneen **
Phir kuch tumhare galon k un khaddo ki gehrayi dekhi.
Na us se gehri koi khaayi dekhi.
Nazar htane wala tha k us muskan ne rok lia..
Muje aj sambhalne se pehle tere chehre nadan ne rok lia.
Jane tumhe ye sab kehna lagta hai khata kyu.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum dilnashi **
Vo choti si kali bindi jo thik maathe k me kahi hai.
Vo b har shayar ko kheench rahi hai.
Jaise muje kehti ** idhar aao tumhe kano k jhumko ka pta du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum dalkashi **
Ye phir thode uljhe thode suljhe baal hai.
Inki to ada hi bemisal Hai
Tumhe tang karte hai.
Manmarji chalate hai jaise tujse jung karte hai.
Chere pe aate hai tum unhe phir peeche karti.
Kabhi clip se kabhi rubber se kheenche rakhti **
Kabhi aaye chehre pe to shayad main b hta du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum koi kehkasha **
Or vo sone ki nath ko koi
kaise taal sakta hai.
Jise tumne apni teekhi si naak me daal rakha hai.
Or kuch batein in sab se pare hai.
Tera chutkan sa Gussa hai jane tu kaise handle kare hai.
Phir vo pyari si hasi vo sharm haya vo bachpana vo nadaniya.
Samjhdari vo nasamjhi
Vo adayein vo shaitaniya.
Or sambko tumne brabar rakha hai.
Jane ye hisab kaise lagakar rakha hai.
Kya kehna hai kya sunna hai kya bolna hai kya btana.
Kab ruthna hai kab manana hai kab satana hai kab jatana hai.
Teri har ek choti moti khoobiyon ne dil me aatank macha rakha hu.
Jane tune kitne salo se khud ko ishq se bacha rakha hai.
Jane mujme kab se or kyu ye thode guroor k lakshan aaye hai
K tuje suna sabne hai samjh sirf hum paaye hai.
Tum jaisa or koi mere aas paas ni hai.
Phir kaise manliya jaye tum aam ladki ** tum me kuch khas nahi hai.
Ha aj maine ek kadam apne beech ki sarhad se thoda bahar aaya.
Tumne apna hunar azmaya tha vo pic dalke use shayri bnake maine apna hunar aazmaya hai.
ye padhke tum socho k inam du is shayar ko ya koi saza du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum afreen **
Tum khoobsurat **
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 1:20 AM UTC
We'll travel down the old stone path,
Wondering why these things started to change.
We'll walk along the old train tracks,
Thinking of all the words that we once sang.
And it's so hard to stay so young forever,
School and work and life get in the way.
You're just like the last day of summer,
Days feel like weeks, weeks feel like a day.
We'll run amongst the old beech trees,
And count our blessings, dreading August's end.
We'll sing about another time,
When we can be together once again.
And it's so hard to stay so young forever,
School and work and life get in the way.
You're just like the last day of summer,
Days feel like weeks, weeks feel like a day.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 11:57 AM UTC
Three kids sit in a beech tree, high above a stream.
The eldest at the top
The youngest two branches below
And the middle child one below him.
Stupid,
brave
and sensible.
Each one of them grasping out... farther than they had first anticipated
To reach the next limb of the tree.
They watch the sun set over long grass
and are content not to talk.
Just to be there.
They have argued all day but they know with absolute certainty
they will forgive each other by tomorrow.
Because that is what it means to have siblings.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
ᗩIᑎᕼᗩᖇᗩ
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Out of the Palace, into the Queen's
Garden. *'One that could rival King
Paul's Luciuscemian Gardens,'* she
thinks as she walks under the high
cream arches and Grecian columns
with ivy vines coiling around them.
She stands on the white marble
steps. *'Truly, this is the Queen
Mother's finest work yet...'*
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The young Queen Lyn spares no
expense in expanding her library,
filling it with leather-bound books
and scrolls, new and old. She spares
no expense when it comes to her
love for herbal teas, near and far...
But her mother?
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The Queen Mother is known for
her keen eye, fast wits, bladed
tongue and for her love for fashion,
gardening and a frugal nature.
*'Like frugal mother, like bookish
daughter!'* Ainhara can not help
but to chuckle.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
She watches as the gardeners trim
the mint-green grass, beech hedges
and shrubby. But what Ainhara
marvels most are the flowers.
Pots of lavender and roses,
rosemary and mint are placed
around carefully, by the white
lilies, orange lilies, yellow lilies,
flushing lilies.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
She notices that green lilies and
blue lilies; the gifts from Queen Yidna;
plants native to her Puhan Kingdom,
are in full bloom. They remind her of the
colours of the Seas that she, Esshi and Lyn
had sailed when they visited Queen Yidna.
*'Puhan has the calmest seas of the brightest
colours,'* She recalls how her Queen was
happy and relaxed then...
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
He halted in the wind, and—what was that
Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
He stood there bringing March against his thought,
And yet too ready to believe the most.
“Oh, that’s the Paradise-in-bloom,” I said;
And truly it was fair enough for flowers
had we but in us to assume in march
Such white luxuriance of May for ours.
We stood a moment so in a strange world,
Myself as one his own pretense deceives;
And then I said the truth (and we moved on).
A young beech clinging to its last year’s leaves.
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Na amiro ki basti mein rhta hu
Na hi gareebo ke aashiyane mein
Middle class ka hua
Middle mein rhta hu
Na pahali pankti ki pehali seat pr baithta hu
Na hi aakhar mein khada rhta hu
Middle class ka hu
Middle mein rhta hu
Na croro ka kabaar hai
Na hi gulabi note hazar hai
Middle class ka hu
Meri jarurate saman hai
Na luxury car hai
Na nhi cycle apni bekar hai
Middle class ka hu
Auto,riksha, paddle chalna
Apne liye aam hai
Na meri girlfriends char hai
Na hi single rhna izzat ka swaal hai
Middle class ka hu
Apne yaar,dost shandaar hai
Na aasman chhuti imarto par likha apna naam hai
Na hi sadak kinare bitati apni shaam hai
Middle class ka hu
In dono ke beech
Kaat leta apni raat hu
Na videsh ghoomnta hu
Nahi sehar se bahar jaana muskil samjhta hu
Middle class ka hu
Apna desh pura ghoom lena bhi bahut samajhata hu
Na sir jhukane wale log hai
Na hi sir jhukane wale hum hai
Middle class ka hu
Sabko gale lagana hi
Apna dharam hai
Na hi ac mein kaam karta hu
Na hi dhoop mein pasina sukhata hu
Middle class ka hu
Pankhe ke niche apna kaam karta hu
Na suraksha karmi apne pass hai
Na hi sarir apna lachar hai
Middle class ka hu
Apni jaan ki raksha apne hath hai
Na chhapan pakwan banate apne maharaj hai
Na hi khaali pet sota apna pariwaar hai
Middle class ka hu
Meri maa ke haath mein hi sara sawaad hai
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 2:59 AM UTC
The shadows have their seasons, too.
The feathery web the budding maples
cast down upon the sullen lawn
bears but a faint relation to
high summer's umbrageous weight
and tunnellike continuum-
black leached from green, deep pools
wherein a globe of gnats revolves
as airy as an astrolabe.
The thinning shade of autumn is
an inherited Oriental,
red worn to pink, nap worn to thread.
Shadows on snow look blue. The skier,
exultant at the summit, sees his poles
elongate toward the valley: thus
each blade of grass projects another
opposite the sun, and in marshes
the mesh is infinite,
as the winged eclipse an eagle in flight
drags across the desert floor
is infinitesimal.
And shadows on water!-
the beech bough bent to the speckled lake
where silt motes flicker gold,
or the steel dock underslung
with a submarine that trembles,
its ladder stiffened by air.
And loveliest, because least looked-for,
gray on gray, the stripes
the pearl-white winter sun
hung low beneath the leafless wood
draws out from trunk to trunk across the road
like a stairway that does not rise.
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Double red daisies, they’re my flowers,
Which nobody else may grow.
In a big quarrelsome house like ours
They try it sometimes—but no,
I root them up because they’re my flowers,
Which nobody else may grow.
Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn’t plant it;
Ben has an iris, but I don’t want it.
Daisies, double red daisies for me,
The beautifulest flowers in the garden.
Double red daisy, that’s my mark:
I paint it in all my books!
It’s carved high up on the beech-tree bark,
How neat and lovely it looks!
So don’t forget that it’s my trade mark;
Don’t copy it in your books.
Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn’t plant it;
Ben has an iris, but I don’t want it.
Daisies, double red daisies for me,
The beautifulest flowers in the garden.
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When the gardener has gone this garden
Looks wistful and seems waiting an event.
It is so spruce, a metaphor of Eden
And even more so since the gardener went,
Quietly godlike, but of course, he had
Not made me promise anything and I
Had no one tempting me to make the bad
Choice. Yet I still felt lost and wonder why.
Even the beech tree from next door which shares
Its shadow with me, seemed a kind of threat.
Everything was too neat, and someone cares
In the wrong way. I need not have stood long
Mocked by the smell of a mown lawn, and yet
I did. Sickness for Eden was so strong.
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Khwaab dekho.
Khuli aankhon se ya band, fark nahin.
Khwaab humein kahan se kahan leja chhodti hai.
Jo kabhi dekha nahin woh dikha deti hai.
Jis cheez ko kabhi chhua na ** use bhi mehsoos karwa deti hai.
Kabhi paseene mein bheega jagaati hai,
toh kabhi apni ulfat se gaalon ko laal kar deti hai.
Cheekh kar uthaa hai koi toh koi muskuraate.
Koi toh khatam hone ka naam nahin leta.
Kisi ke beech mein kat jaane ka gila hai rehta.
Mujhe toh hamesha khatam hone ka intezaar hi raha ------ uske aane tak.
Bura dekha, bura jaana, bure ne ghere rakha ab tak.
Mein ne seene par sar rakha,
phir usne mere haath par apna bada magar narm haath rakha.
Usko meri nazuk lambi ungliyon se khelna achha laga.
Mujhe mohabbat jatane ka yeh tareeqa uska achha laga.
Aankh khuli.
Pehli dafa kaanp kar nahin sharmakar jagi.
Sukoon toh tha.
Par gila bhi raha.
Phir socha,
khwaab itne bhi bure nahin.
Toh khwaab dekho.
Kuch rehne do.
Kuch poore karo.
Sep 11, 2021
Sep 11, 2021 at 12:36 PM UTC
Leafy-with-love banks and the green waters of the canal
Pouring redemption for me, that I do
The will of God, wallow in the habitual, the banal,
Grow with nature again as before I grew.
The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third
Party to the couple kissing on an old seat,
And a bird gathering materials for the nest for the Word
Eloquently new and abandoned to its delirious beat.
O unworn world enrapture me, encapture me in a web
Of fabulous grass and eternal voices by a beech,
Feed the gaping need of my senses, give me ad lib
To pray unselfconsciously with overflowing speech
For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven
From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.
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the copper beech tree,
rooted over the road,
seems ageless though it has been,
there since Grandfather Time,
came from some unknown place,
and implemented his power,
into the land.
the copper beech tree,
hangs over the road,
the branches move,
like a body of
fine hair in the wind,
to and fro to and fro to and fro.
the copper beech tree,
still over the road,
sees all walks of life,
the scolding ***** the
busy mothers, the
mindless teens.
the copper beech tree,
watches us from over the road,
gazing into this silent home.
It knows, it realises,
It sees, it feels,
all the way down,
to its wise roots.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway,
The tender blossom flutter down,
Unloved, that beech will gather brown,
This maple burn itself away;
Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,
Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
And many a rose-carnation feed
With summer spice the humming air;
Unloved, by many a sandy bar,
The brook shall babble down the plain,
At noon or when the lesser wain
Is twisting round the polar star;
Uncared for, gird the windy grove,
And flood the haunts of hern and crake;
Or into silver arrows break
The sailing moon in creek and cove;
Till from the garden and the wild
A fresh association blow,
And year by year the landscape grow
Familiar to the stranger's child;
As year by year the labourer tills
His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;
And year by year our memory fades
From all the circle of the hills.
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Chalk and flint
Beech Woods
Furniture makers
Hills rolling
Rivers and stream
All being swallowed.
London expanding
the city rules
more and more.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus’ train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.
Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water’s rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the Crowd,
How low, how little are the Proud,
How indigent the Great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some show their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation’s sober eye
Such is the race of Man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the Busy and the Gay
But flutter thro’ life’s little day,
In Fortune’s varying colours drest:
Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chilled by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic while ’tis May.
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The cruel Moon hangs out of reach
Up above the shadowy beech.
Her face is stupid, but her eye
Is small and sharp and very sly.
Nurse says the Moon can drive you mad?
No, that’s a silly story, lad!
Though she be angry, though she would
Destroy all England if she could,
Yet think, what damage can she do
Hanging there so far from you?
Don’t heed what frightened nurses say:
Moons hang much too far away.
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The golden sand swept around in synthe of beech,
where he hath made promises which he’ll keep.
He held her hands and walked past the bow,
the fazed waves whispered with a thwart,
Being thalosophile she stood with no go.
When the sea embraced the shore,
She could not keep him forsaken anymore.
Both settled to relish the saline tang,
As they oft had love pang.
One moonlit night she saw banshee,
Who warned her foredooming death,
She feared his life & ran gasping for breath.
She saw the wind unusually howled
When her beloved sailed and left her in cold.
She woke up and hushed and scream,
“this was a dream!”
Alas! Unconsolable she seam,
When She saw his scar left on her heart,
Memories flashing by and her world falling apart.
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
The lily’s withered chalice falls
Around its rod of dusty gold,
And from the beech-trees on the wold
The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.
The gaudy leonine sunflower
Hangs black and barren on its stalk,
And down the windy garden walk
The dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.
Pale privet-petals white as milk
Are blown into a snowy mass:
The roses lie upon the grass
Like little shreds of crimson silk.
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Orphan roots are banished into Bermudan-like triangular realms of presumed stability off the coast of Neptune,
Whilst abandonment firmly establishes her ancient dendrology.
Are your connections deeply entwined in the postmodern era of presumed certainty and deluded rationalism?
The method of self-transfiguration is evidenced on the mountain-tops of vanity, where the purging of the soul with self-flagellations is an archaic and scornful memory to those who claim to be enlightened.
How rooted are your roots? Does your reason stand trial in the docks of uncertainty?
The autumn leaves are changing color, and the birth of death reveals a beauty which, when embraced, flutters her powerful wings in the dawn of a frosty voyage.
I believe in ripples of probability.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
To take a walk in the country and to see the deer at play,
These are some of the finer things that make up a perfect day.
To hear the birds singing high in the sky
And the soft gentle drone of a dragonfly.
To see the sun shining on all it can reach,
On the Oak and the Ash and the Birch and the Beech.
To smell the sweet scents that are all around,
Of the beautiful flowers that reach from the ground.
And to feel the warm breeze as it carresses your skin.
Is what makes me feel good in the world I live in.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 7:51 AM UTC
I turned as new resigned:
A summer gleaned, my business was within,
My charge the sober mind,
My care the wintry bin.
And found the boughs in stain,
Past-promise-hued. O not
Before, earnest as rich was yet so plain;
A harvest was ungot.
Beech drenching down my pathway goldenheart,
Ash, pensive light-cheek rose,
Both pluck the thought apart,
And meant you, heart, to close?
So fell the doomed farewells;
So, so looked forth a thing:
Regret, reproach, what else
Must baffle, vex, beguile this severing
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