"desi" poems
#*Here comes the day
With coloured hands and faces
To the music we sway
Touch not with intentions perverse
Its Holy
The festival of colours
Children
Gear up with your water guns and sprinklers
Filled with organic colours
No chemicals please
Look for revellers dressed in all white
Drench them all in the hues of the rainbow bright
Munch on the Gujia, a sweet treat
Time for a rain dance to the desi beats
It's time to cheer
Spring is right here
Happy Holi*#
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
Asia ke hum parinde, Aasma hai had hmari,
Jante hai chand suraj, Jid hmari zad hmari,
Hum whi jisne samander ki, lehar par baandh sadha,
Hum whi jinke ke liye din, rat ki upji na badha,
Hum ki jo dharti ko mata, maan kar samman dete,
Hum ki wo jo chalne se pehle, manjile pehchan lete,
Hum whi jo sunya main bhi, sunya rachte hain nirantar,
Hum whi jo roshni rakhte, hai sabki chaukhto par,
Un ujalo ka wahi, paigam le aye hai hum,
Hum hai desi hum hai desi hum hai desi,
Ha magar har desh chaye hai hum.
Zinda rehne ka asal andaz, Sikhlaye hai humne,
Zindgi hai zindgi ke, Baad samjhaya hai humne,
Humne batlaya ki, Kudrat ka asal andaz kya hai,
Rang kya hai roop kya hai, Mehak kya hai swad kya hai,
Humne duniya mohbat, Ka asar zinda kiya hai,
Hmne nafart ko gale mil, Mil ke sharminda kiya hai,
In tarrki ke khudao, Ne to ghar ko dar bnaya,
In pde khali makano, Ko hmi ne ghar bnaya,
Hum na aate to taraki, Is kadar na bol pati,
Hum na aate to ye duniya, Khidkiya na khol pati,
Hai yasoda ke yha par, devki jaye hai hum,
Hum hai desi hum hai desi hum hai desi,
Ha magar har desh chaye hai hum.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
imagine an underground network of rapists preying
on tourist & local girls; having an agreement w/
the pimps & cops [same]; the tourist guides
leading the ladies of all types, mostly young,
stupid & white - blonde is better; local girls
hitting puberty, getting dragged into the den
at twelve get a choice, if they live; the dens filled
w/ liquor & drugs; partying a little or just jumping
her, dragging her to the open floor;
she wakes up naked, thankfully not dead, her
purse nearby; she goes to meet her new Desi
bf at the bazaar where he introduces her
to his friends; that night the same thing
happens; it happens for a week then a month,
then she helps the gang get other girls into it;
it goes on all summer, & on into another summer,
the winter filled w/ hot springs & expensive dates
on the paved side of the street; Bollywood stars
in American cars paying her **** who pays her
coyote who pays the cop to get her to Europe on a
tourist visa to work an exclusive Parisian Brothel
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
Terrorism has mushroomed
all across the world.
Greenery here is not less,
some terror must be unfurled.
I 've heard that some desi
terror outfit has taken birth.
More shadowy than shadow,
their secrets difficult to unearth.
Help is required from security
agencies of developed land.
There they lock up terrorists for
years without trial on remand.
They've trained dogs to smell
terrorists before they become one.
Our country is developing fast,
soon it will be second to none.
Full use of the cyberspace
this local foxy terror group makes.
In this virtual world whose
identity is real? whose fake?
This tricksy group makes
bombs sophisticated, smart.
It targets selected only,
suddenly before they can depart.
But few unintended ones died in blast,
must be suicide bombers, Indeed!
Terrorists don't understand political
equations, what is the need?
Now our Police catches
terrorists just minutes after the blast.
Their must be some-kind of relief
for citizens shocked, aghast.
My little brother eats my head,
wants to catch a tiger alive.
Jocularly I advised it is animal dangerous,
flesh and bone it can rive.
Instead we can catch a cat and
with continuous torture and grill
we can make it confess to be a tiger,
with third degree surely it will.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
•i
was
once
whole
•full and
complete•
grand desi-
gns adorned
upon my very
soul•always...
would land on
my feet•my wo-
rds now partially
broken•resembli-
ng that of an ail-
ing crescent• i...
am still here, i...
watch and i lis-
ten• scouring
for mediocre
remnants
that still
remain
abs
en
t•
.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
Women of the ROK [South Korea]
unite to protest the rash of digital camera
up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing
room holes by an avant-garde subculture
whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from
the bottom up; tearing down the old order
of mere very pretty faces for the surprise
the unseen; online ******* poets who wax
romantically; over South Korean women
who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized
Asian country; therefore, where the average woman
is expected to be above average, what could be
better than a possible *** or period stain; [ ],
Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments
stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully
of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove,
streams of crystalline blood threading through
the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping
Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy]
doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde;
this new school of poets celebrating female underwear
& bottoms & beyond; what could future generations
make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements
all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven
by the embarrassment & shame of its female members
& their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on
her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings,
odes on her mother's droppings & leavings,
& her grandmothers' mothers leavings;
South Korean women are the original race,
their intestine driven by pure lust
[a South Korean woman's soul is in her belly]
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
6:45,
this sounds a bit Agatha Christie as if the 45 is out to get me and the 6 being an innocent bystander had a gander anyway.
Well whadaya know Cockney rhyming gets in on the show.
Goosey, Goosey
where's our Lucy did Desi get his bride?
Okey choke me Arbroath smokies,
I love a bit of fish
I wish
I wish
and then I pop
will wishing ever make me stop?
Going down to Chinatown
A west end luxury
Peeking at a Peking duck
Which will in turn, turn around to be
a chicken.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:07 AM UTC
i could spend my life in utter awkwardness
watching my brothers smoke and my sisters cry
aunties smiling and prolonging straightforwardness
my ***** cousins won’t ever say hi
i could spend my life sitting at the corner writing poems
about these drap people who refuse to stay in their homes
the kids would play hide and seek
the mannequins with heads up until it’s too awkward to not speak
skinny waists, blackened eyes, and porcelain faces
daru desi banging loud; turning us deaf
high heels; no flats no laces
horrible is the food beautifully prepared by the chef
(who, by the way, thinks we're unbelievably uncivilised)
i see them drenched in forgettum juice
they’re deep in drunken oblivion, you see
it’s incredible - when they say ‘let loose’
’cause their eyes pry when you let yourself free
the ladies enjoy their liberation;
those poor oppressed dearies
no more doting on their husbands in juxtaposed veneration
they give a grave attempt to personify their reveries
the men enjoy pelvic thrusting
they’re sly crooks who love lusting
i guess i’ll be alright;
for a mere few minutes, if i’m out of sight
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
I would like you all to buy my novel's eBook @
www.amazon.com/dp/aw/B00MYY0DMA/
or
www.amazon.in/dp/aw/B00MYY0DMA/
which is the link to my novel's eBook. Its title is 7 Seconds which has sold around 20 copies by now with positive reviews by its few readers.
A Facebook fan page at www.facebook.com/7SecondsAKS has already gathered a large following just from the introduction.
You'll need a credit card or an internationally enabled debit card for this purpose.
After the extremely serious accident on 7th of May in 2010 which had me on the brink of dying a comatose death, I'm in a transition from my bachelor's degree to a master degree.
I need to independently bear my medical expenses. The story is awesome and is definitely going to impress you. 7 Seconds is a novel that contains many story-related poems.
It is a fast paced story of more than 100,000 words which traces its origins from my real life and is then entirely a fiction. It has the flavours of teen fiction, romance novel, sci-fi, spirituality, anti-terrorism, tourism and the unmistakable tangy Desi flavour of India.
Trust my word. Buy the fabulous story. I couldn't get it published in hard copy because of the corrupt Indian system which also has entangled the youth of India.
If you like my poems, you are going to love my novel.
In today's date, hard copy of a novel is both taxing on the Environment and the buyer. An eBook is not only far more economical and greener than a conventional novel but also it is more easily accessible on a handheld device.
All I can say is that I request you to do your bit both for the environment, and also for your beloved poet who wants to bear his medical expenses on his own till his studies get completed.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
Death Be Knocking
28 December 2009 at 00:21
Death be knocking in your sleep
While you lay there peacefully in a dream
The Angels came and took out your soul
Now your rest in peace in your eternal abode
The struggles you went through
Those painful headaches of yours grew
Your complaints and worries you told me so often
Which made my heart soften
You made me laugh so much
For your character id always vouch
You were my big brother to me
Despite all your anarchy
The way you made my blood boil
When you'd say I smelt of desi oil
I'd get into a hefty frenzy about it
Then you'd always make me sit
Tell me to calm down
And don't frown
You made me happy and sad
Sometimes you'd make me a little mad
But most of all, I just want to say;
'I miss you so much , I just wish you'd stay
Just one more day
Even just for word play
I'd tell you how great you are
To me you are a star
Death came knocking in your sleep
Inshallah your in a better place
away from the stressful day to day race
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 1:38 PM UTC
Deep ruffled hair
She smells of sweet jasmine and Desi cooking
She emanates her culture
And shared it with me
She swirls around the room in a deep red saree
Her little sister watches inspired
A teacher with a good heart
Never failing to understand
A friend with a sweet smile
Never wanting to pretend
She is perfect in every way
And yet not
That’s why I like her
Oh and she’s hot
Nov 25, 2021
Nov 25, 2021 at 2:22 AM UTC
My mum said,"Son time you had a wife."
I said,"What's the hurry,let me first enjoy life."
But, she started looking for one,
My panic button was switched on,
I didn't want a desi wife like my mother,
Or simple middle class wives like the ones of my brothers,
Who treated their husbands as
Demi-God's,
Their masters, their Lords.
I wanted an ultra modern wife,
Trendy, **** lovely and an equal partner in my life.
So I went against my family and married one,
I thought I had won.
I was head over heels in love,
She was my beautiful dove,
For several months life was paradise,
I felt nice,
*** theatres and parties.
Then the honeymoon was over,
Of that I had surmised never,
I was tired eating out,
In cooking she was nought,
The house was a mess,
She cared less,
She was never at home,
And when she came she was drunk some.
Everything was not well,
My life had become hell,
I ended up at mum's for dinner,
I realised dad and my brothers were in fact winners,
Loved and cared by their wives,
So much happiness in their lives.
With me my wife didn't want to stay,
So she ran away,
After my divorce I married again,
My heavenly life began,
My desi wife, mum's choice,
Lovely, homely and poised,
I, her Lord and she my Lady
Our married life very steady.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 3:24 PM UTC
I miss the age of innocence
No, I'm not an angel
As none of us are
The terrible twos and those tantrums...
But that tiny child
Who didn't have a cynical
Or snarky bone
In her whole body
.............................That was once me
For quite some time, we Americans
Loved to pretend we were so naive
When Lucy and Desi slept in twin beds
When Leave It To ****** produced perfect parents
When the world seemed less disturbing
As we wore those rose colored glasses
In my parents' generation
Nothing seemed meaningless
We were victorious and invincible
In the midst of World War II
There was great glamour and pride
The news wasn't 24/7- craziness
This was all before my time
I am a product of the sixties
When the Vietnam War surely made war seem like Hell
When fighters for civil rights showed us the ugliness of racism
When what it meant to be female was quickly shedding its old skin
Far from the role my mother represented to me
I wish I could be that believing again
That trusting and forgiving
I miss being so unaware
So fresh in imagination
Where I could shield myself from it all
And I'm now sad that I never will be that way again
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 12:26 AM UTC
Oh what I wouldn’t try to do
For but a drop
Of Bangalore rain
The steamy wet mud incense
Soaks through the all-too-blinded
New money two-storey houses
But, oh, what’s that
A 2% glimmer of something
A je ne sais quoi?
A 2% vegetable-market-mixed-with-chai
A 2% late night kabab stall
A 2% unsightly shopping mall basement
A 2.5% biryani from my mother’s hands
A 2.5% cat resting on a soft four poster bed
(Dark wood, of course)
A 2.5% afternoon nap lull
An 86.5% sound of a heart weeping,
Far far away,
For home.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 7:41 PM UTC
The Shok-tod waddled down, the avenues of despair
Holding out his corro-pod, for everyone was there
As chem-adids rolled out, and gasped, full of dismay
Wailing at the alcha-mids, in rank and full display
****** if done or not, no recourse for the dead
It's not like he didn't try, no lack of words he'd said
The desi-mods and few-perod, had nothing to compare
So they gis-relfed their bolog-wed, and quipped, of C'est La Guerre
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
The way our story ended
paved way for imagining 99 other ways
our story could have ended
We could have aged together until 80
and then one day our angels would have guided us on to our next journey
hinting at the seven lives that we wrote.
We could have ended it with a cup of chai
in a desi tea kadai,
with the traffic jam playing out a perfect background score
Or at a 'women only' metro platform, with a hug lasting for many decades
We could have written a book together and parted following the launch
and then could have met again for the sequel and then gone different ways for differences in the plot
Or read a book together and taken sides and be stubborn with a specific perspective
and be okay with our respective choices
and then bid goodbye
with a laugh over all the sweating over small stuff and the distances that brought us together
We could have dressed well for one last picture in a hall that's decorated with orchids,
just to make sure that some dreams are real and that we must dream despite everything
Or at a panda lecture, after moments of clapping over a memorable speech, spelling end in different ways
Leaving space for a potential sequel, like the mindful directors in the Hollywood, bollywood and the other woods.
We could have also stayed and waited for his end to embrace us
Or we could have just slammed doors on each other so that it would hurt less,
But, we choose sweet messages
for God knows why!
After all this time, we know that life doesn't run on coulds, but floats on is.
Like the clouds that pass,
Ever changing into different forms
From being one in the now, to being two in the next.
Reminding me of the cloud story we left behind unfinished
Reminding me of the panda tale that's still sitting idle, waiting for its writers to serve some food
We could have served the hungry panda, and then ended the story
The panda story,
The cloud story
And our story
But, we ended because we had to!
For this world needs us
to do what we need to
before everything else.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 8:31 AM UTC
He'll scratch at starts of fretting words—
tease fracture, prime the battle grounds
for pride obtained. His fans file in
to bleachers, cheering on his crumbling
look, delayed desi·re. Miniscule
diversions check the "up"
he squared, and see no timeless evil:
passion plagued by livings. Lev'rages
her fighting stance to balance
danger there, and carve out if we care.
She breaches past and pores
over the staid solution, masons
filling out their bricks with what
was worn away. Her dreams combative
to his growing-light—once tossed
his turn, he slashed through living
wood—severed the Marchness from it.
Zeroes stall, embedded in
a leaf, awaiting green. Conquers
repetitive, from coast to kingdom
come. What emptiness is won?
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 11:56 PM UTC
I still think of the burning black eyes of thee, Shreeta;
the most beautiful desi girl thin as a sun ray;
smart as my vintage Encyclopedia Britannica;
sweet as heavenly honey, never stinging me;
bee rubbing thin hairy arms together into my memory;
Shreeta the only devi descended in sandals
holding a single candle lighting every star in the wide,
wide sky; whose sharp-cheeks & caramel features
art an epiphany & the definition of every order of love
from blissful Nirvana to the realm of demons
where thou's bare feet truck through snowy mountains
where the albino Yeti falls in love w/ thee;
so perfect as the earth itself personified;
sit to **** in ur condo's luxury super-toilet;
there is always & only thee, Streeta &
my love will always be overflowing upon thee & I will
drink ur crystal clear ***** like sweet, sacred strawberry
scented ambrosia
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=YV7NA50Tlak
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 8:13 AM UTC