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Srijani Sarkar Nov 2017
Let me
Sleep on petals
Flown at papers
When my nights are autumn
And my mind
sheds all
That it grew
Through the day - my springs
I bloom
with feelings
And afternoons
have rained
Rainbows into me and
hues cascading out of me
Now I know what poetry is.

My roots forget
The taste of soil
they keep on digging,
No, love seeped too deep this time.
And my words dew too much
Emotions that
My leaves
now loathe sunlight.
And the birds have left
A home in me,
all empty
I am all alone,
Save me.

And you, like a wind
I feared all these years
Only to lift me up,my wilted verses
Are half dead,muses still breathing
Craving a death so bad
You blow , you blow
Against all my skin and swishing my hopes up
Making me see
The sky again and again.
Let these desires rest
Enough of throwing them at the clouds.
You go, another desert thirsts for life.
My poetry always foliages from memories anyway.

- Srijani Sarkar
Do you know how you grow through poetry ?
K Balachandran Nov 2012
Winter nights are the cruelest,
sound of incessantly falling ice,
disturbs.It accumulates,
on the foliages above,
slide,
       and fall
             on the earth
                           with a
                                      thud.
   I am sweating tears,
my heart bleeds; a pain-
I can't share with anyone,
as you aren't near.
*My heart develops a hole,
                        I peer inside,
and see you
               sit there perplexed!
K Balachandran Sep 2019
The spider, in many hues rules.
But I never could understand
The complete operational rules.
                                    Still I have
Unflinching  faith,like no other
On the spider, that it knows
The rules of transactions inside out.
I am in the web of a clan of
Spiders, day in and day out.

I just lie supine in comfort  
And let my song bird fly high
In the sky blue oblivion
Of my mind, listening to
The singing of the bard of
The absolute, transcending limits.
        I am more and more lured
in to his cave where light is present
By its physical absence.More and more
An innerbeing after substence
In the company of this siver luminous.

She comes alive, fire risen from smoke,
Her red hot eyes capture my truth quick!

The spider sitting on top of me
And working on me with
Her oceanic mind that seethes
Agile vaginal muscles, I picture
Is still reading "Every Women"1
From memory; I just feel it
as each of the steps to the
thousand petelled lotus is
left behind one by one.

My silver spider
who flies with me from
the conjoined base of
"Mooladhara"2 at the ****.
If she is the fire, I am the sky.
Hear the silver bell she rings,
In mind's eye I see how her
Silver strips gleam, wet with sweat.

As we step out to the garden path
The green spiders of thick foliages
Waved at us.Golden spider of the sky
Hanging low beamed at us.
1."Evcery Woman"(A gynacological guide for life by Derek Liewellyn-Jones)
2.Mooladhara means "the root and basis of existence" according to Tantra Yoga, located at the ***** one of the seven primary energy centres of human body.
suppose words
are water and our bodies, wells—

flat on our bellies, our unsuspecting laughter supersedes their suddenness.

too late to unsay the space they occupy.
they arrive not with wind galloping
through trees.
they continually commit a nuisance
to us here in this decrepit home,
christening us with depthless sleep.

— what transpires beyond these shadowed moments unlearn the hairbreadth syntax of their perilous measures:

even the morning has no promise of May.
i say that in wide-flung hours of April when leaves begin to smoulder a cluster of red in the brindled breast of foliages, and rushed like lions to a slaughter, paring the flesh from the bone, these words unsheathe us more than the Earth shedding its skin — a dull synonym of how we are pressed against walls, our bones outstretched to breaking, ourselves displaced somewhere where the air of rescue does not wholly kiss us.

there is no image fainter than what was painted. no machinery can outlast the weight that is carried —

persisting lovelessly, a ragged meadow.
clambering ceaselessly, the warmest of bodies recoiled in melee.

suppose words
are such black-red thorns becoming petals and stems merely lovelorn, joyful to the eye
and hands are moons the bedfellows uninvited, you hiding behind shadows
    of changeless flowers:

so much the quiet way of this fate
reduced to hair-trigger.

thighed and pried lilies, dew slips frightened to a mist of trouble;
morning sleighs its brilliant face,
  such a luminous beginning to a dislimned end — far less touchingly than
a lullaby, this hot water music scaldingly
  presses on naked and whispers to them
  a new name without forgetfulness.

the weight is immense — anchored down, full of something in excess. there are doors that wish to commence oblivion, windows yearn to squint at the Earth so timidly muted in the body.

suppose your body is a home and the night subtly the wind that blows,
topples the roof-beam —

may your sleep be still and unshaken,
  your unperturbed garden slouches with a bounty of emerging flowers;
may your windows to the soul
  be always ready for birds that secretly
move in virulent strings of melody,

  something the world sings screaming
of life, something the stone of a fool
  so supple in hearing, something
the heavens hold together with the
  purest hand, something we precisely
    dream, such that we

        suppose you angels
  and us, the witnesses.
This poem was written for the victims of all kinds of abuse. Also, this piece was supposed to be read tonight at a poetry reading after being invited to read there, but then due to unfavourable circumstances, I was forced to opt out of the reading. Anyway, this was written in complete faith that words can also heal.
K Balachandran Sep 2016
You know how-don't ever tell me you don't
How I love the sun rays play with the cloud
As I curiously look up, I clearly see me falling
Through the swaying foliages of a cloud tree
Frolicking with the philanderer wind tickling her.
Sowing goosebumps you think, as falling raindrops
While she wishes she wouldn't respond to such
                                           frivolous machinations.
Is it love?
She gets no answer.The day marches on
an illusory ground, not worried about  THE END

Falling through the space, I see a sky full of holes.
Absence in presence and presence clouding absence
This, nobody ever takes notice.
                                                    An invisible particle
Of matter yet to be discovered,
I was stardust for a while,
I was falling,
Then I was quantas of energy
Without a given name, that wanted
To be on the move, singing,
While there is still  a song within.
Yes I was falling.
I confess: every night , I was curious about the moon's routine
Even on those nights she kept me waiting in the darkness guessing
"Woman, by spurning my love , you destroy light legitimately  ours".
The love I only kept,  for your silver lashes that pleases me!
I was falling:
On the face
Of the moon
I saw it's
        Reflection.

I was falling
All alone,from
Your memory
Like the
                Crinkled
                     Petal
                          Of a dead
                                   Flower.
Every leaf would invariably fall, however green it looks!
Salmabanu Hatim Jul 2018
Dressed in quarterly different attires,
The earth revolves,
Tilts on its axis,
Heralding beautifil seasons,
With weather phenomena.
Here comes spring,
Showers of rain,
Wet with umbrellas up,
Flowers begin to bloom,
Bees and butterflies pollinate,
Goodbye chilly days,
New life, rebirth,
Birds return,
New songs in the air.
Summer is a canvas of blue skies,
Nature adorned  with emerald foliages,
Ablaze with sunshine,full of fun,
Carefree days, swimming,picnics in the parks,
Icy,cool juices, lollies and ice creams,
Hours spent fishing.
Autumn walks slowly by,
Leaves begin to fall,
Orange, red and yellow,
Season of harvesting,
Thanksgiving.
The final scene,
Winter is white and aged
Naked trees draped in snowflakes,
Ice and snow brings magic,
Quiet time to contemplate,
When nature is in slumber.
Aparna Oct 2020
rain mist wreathed
virid groves
of evergreen
sun languished
behind clouds grey
overcast sky
lachrymose;
distant rumble
thunder;brontide
pellet-laden gusts
of wind;cold
leaf-stirring
nubivagant drops
falling
glistening foliages
rustling;
celadon leaves
rain-washed
brushwood damp
galore humus
dewy silence;
gerful downpour
incipient
another rain poem:)
The battle field is here at rest,
End of years of droughty pest
After the seekers slaint
With less seekers triumphant.
What the hell do they seeked?
After all, they waited never to see it
Just a tears at their grave post, no feast.
Worth their bravery remarked.
A minute past, all forgotten
But the scars stay behind the chin
To tell foestuses the tale
With their bloods, the land was astonished.
No more bleeding of the wood,
Weeping of the swords are exhausted
Booming! Crushings, the machine dies in decorum
Surrendering guns to their triggers

Won't the foliages rejoice? Yes!
Dancing in akimbo to breeze of peace.
In all ruins of yester reds
Has today emerge luminous greens.
See! Phew! The tomorrow seeds
Beckoning more barns for harvests.
Battle field heaps for farming.
Swords that slain verge to harvest.
Hunting games not human; guns.
War hurt spoken peace at last.
The revolution thus triumph:
Our valours are farmers,
Soldiers for the green fresh leaves.


St. Ylexinho
It will end in total praise.
Salmabanu Hatim May 2018
Raindrops, liquid drops
Rain, rain, as the sky opens,
Raindrops fall down to earth,
The parched soil suckles every drop hungrily.
Satiated and nourished, it brings forth new life.
Lush,green grass begin to grow,
Soft and silky smooth.
New foliages on trees sprout over old ones,
Drinking rain in gulps,
And when the wind soughs through the branches,
They rustle melodiously.
The rivers, lakes and dams,
Have their fill,
Waterways gush down to the plains,
Bring forth new life in all forms,
Lambs,calves,cubs,what not.
Young lovers,dance in the rain,
Entwined,lost in each others arms,
As silver drops kiss their skin.
Boys and girls,
Stamp their feet in puddles,
Shrieking with laughter.
Flowers in the rain,
Have their shower and drink,
Their colours become more beautiful,
They are happy, growing and fresh.
Pitter patter,splish splash,
Comes down the rain,
Cleanses,renews and hails in,
New life,new harvest and nature in abundance.
Sebastian Hertl May 2017
Summer slips by as calm currents set sail.
Branched briggs filled with daydreams and fleeting desires.

Autumn unfolds with a deeper mellow.
Leaves ripen and fall
                                     into amber foliages.
Their unspoken stories camouflaged by the fiery dance of iron husks rustling in the autumn wind.
Unheard memories nestle up to familiar feelings,
As an intimate forgetfulness begins to fall.
KC Jan 2021
At a glance, not oneself was visible,
unaware of branches' stretch
but a hint, a shadow: moving foliages
,and leaves of september.
Till the chasm fronting it, submit
itself to summer rain and midnight cry.

At a glance, not oneself was visible:
Only a fissure beneath the cumulonimbus
covering it with lapiz tears, three meters
deep, and not oneself invisible.
Yenson Sep 2020
hoot hoot hoot
under the covers of dusk
owls and the creepy crawlies
emerge from petrified barns and crevices
things of the dark unworthy of the glares of light
so unseen and hidden in nocturnal pampers they gambol
but not in grace or romance more in sleight and hunt to harm or ****

hoot hoot hoot
bug-eyed owls in singsong
what wisdom is seeing yet trilling vainly
as cowards in hidden boughs obtuse to plain sight
the archetypal backstabber who kills in menacing darkness
peacocks owns their magnificent brilliance in dazzling raylights
ugly owls recede in recesses of gloomy dank obscurity hoot hooting
peering into their twilight  waning  totems of  downturns and decline

hoot hoot hoot
the onerous laboured owls
disturbed by insipid life and murky foliages
in sapping hunger plagued by ghosts surreal yet real
eager for preys but lacking the gile courage nuance or bravery
neither as lions tigers or the droves others ready to fend in daylight
bug eyes owls strikes undercover in iniquity hooting the hoots of caitiffs
The Beit Hamikdash temple raised crowds after receiving crucibles that descended from the confines of the Duoverse, bringing praises that sustained high temperatures that the major star returned with immeasurable distances in its annals of light, gutting itself in the ravages that converged thousands of illicit that were not able to bear light in wicked after completing them. The sedition was vitiated towards those with the sight that was thrown from the temple, shining in the Vexillum motto that brought all the legions from the garden with all the Falangists, invoking comfort to the last soldier who had no balms to warn them in billions of years light, for all who exhorted the name of the Mashiach. The trans-angelic conception was making vows on Patmos by admitting that the fight had not offended the twelfth men of the Meshuva, appropriating altars that were suitable to support on their feet that have been ..., and that have been aligned umpteenth times from Egypt to Patmos, when canopies heal them from fruitless heartburn, in which oblations resurrect from what serves those who are served, in this way all bronze and iron armor were requisitioned and sheathed in the quagmire of Hades, from which the animals went out to graze on dog days that turned into herbs of Gehenna, witnessing expiations that were curled through meadows, when sheep and rams have been seen that undulate on plantations as if they were devotions that dry the beam in everything, with what is obtained in his true faith of the ministry of error and error conceived as a universe that is subtracted from the clister of the Iblis converted from the lung of the Colosso de Apsila a thousand times, until all s the disobediences of those who slumber with useless geniuses, being neat beings that strip them of the fig tree like winged specimens, rescinating one that will be delimited by the end of it itself when approaching the sink.

They looked with suspicious fear at the sliced thumb of a ministry that sent everyone to lament over uncaused injuries, but the entelechy made a relief of resilience, sending those who have to fight for lost lines in annals of past life, hardened by the Kashmar that bears the exulcers of its dying star. The Aeonium as foliages carry the Biblidacea species of the lullaby of the Vernarth Garden on the Eudicotyledonous axon, where the aquatic ones will bring sub-shrubs with regal pride that resists the albardín of Judas, appetizing in its ****** as an affliction of YH VH of the Mashiach (Yod Hei Vav Hei), constituting Northwest Africa, with succulent etymology when trying to transfigure into diasporas of harassment of the body that make a simple arrangement in basal rosettes that drain nirvana, and that fragrant toast the flowers that are faithful servitudes with androgynous light that all the sacred names of the Moshiach matriarchy profess in what Is and Is not! With a little chalice desoldered from the base, the collector was grasped and adhered, which reaps its sunken follicles, in particular of its luminous atrophy repaired in the scarce flashes where only a Mashiach will put nimble bifurcation photons for others who assiduously do the brush on his macula altar of the cult cluster hybridization process.

Taxonomy innovated with crass predestinations after the eruption of the Colosso of Apsila, wanting to uncover living cells from the succumbed ones, when Kairós ruled the Sven Tzora flint in those that were to be toned, which was softened by Aeonium flowers as it grew on stones that were a hundredfold in size. Judas's footsteps after putting the leash on his neck generating stained, and away from the Garden of Vernarth, resigning protruding fingers in his right hand with the connecting ruse that made him stick to the knot, closing his deadly phalanxes and flooding the scaphoid with coagulated blood black, who had never been lowered from the inviolable lineage in songs of her death ...! He confessed to the Lord in putting care about it when his mother spoke to him of the vision in El Manyi, by twelfth spirits that led him along his disciplic shoulder of stoning, towards the thick palace where no one lives, only noises would silence the one who speaks worth seeing his apostasy.

Patmia moaned of its lines not sheltered in wayward stars with pale shades, and gentle automatons that freed themselves from their convenient matrix, where no affection has been contemplated in eternal individuals who were torn from the eternal celestial sky of Patmia, now it will be necessary to fill new reformatories of the same eon, behind fetish parapets and intervals of organic matter, giving drink to their cattle and fodder for the lost, among so many who are only servants of those who survive against the followers, until the finite point in which all will have to surrender. To the Ophiucus of the thirteenth ladder of Judas, being ruled by his lateral right discernment with the costly salvation, then the dimensional right hemisphere will be the house that will have to replace him in Aquarius, with evanescent compassionate tragediography, after being cursed in his skillful ascent slipping away by a self-generated destiny. Extensive and limited fiefdoms debased themselves of their greatness after the beauties of the aurum were exhibited, restraining themselves from the invisible third of the transient of breath never guessed. Syntagmas crews facilitated their angelologies by allowing Cereola or Plum to the great darkness that will empty everything from its entrails, with pictures on the first cusp that took the golden diametral segment of the "V", resounding in Nativity prior to incorruptible perspective approaches from a streak that was stowed at forty-five degrees with the affinity of the tangent.

Vernarth's vision approach was subdivided into three hundred and sixty firmaments, giving undaunted competition to his cyclic stealth, also worshiping stealth quantum itself, asserting trans-dimensional quantum millionths for its stirrups, and worshiping immaterial dimensions, of which the Peri Kosmous paternalized. With three hundred and sixty lanterns that will refer to the awareness of the stolon of the Aeonium Virgineum in the garden of Vernarth. The channeling will resemble the generalities of the Apostle Santiago lighting lotions of the Virgineum in his discreet habit, full of Capernaum pollen, uprooting large notches and thick actions with oversized stolons in the expanding universe, along with the annals that were deconfigured into uncontrolled units. Blackish, spatulating and welding the limits of the universe of Patmia, united by expectors that sprouted from the Colosso de Apsila when its pectoral was abrogated. Simultaneously through its mouth, the secretion would make the entire island a sub-species that would ignore the cognition of hatred of internations and dogmas, given the discharges that denoted climatic changes that were creating the intensity that was noted in lack of wisdom, polarizing pubescent stages of geological and theological maturity, in the intricate dichotomy of the Colosso that brought a direct relationship, concealing the upper and lower northeast and the sub-lower world of Vóreios, which was adding minutes to devour, and that will express the purest change of the axial. The expletive of climate change was establishing itself in the Kassotides Omphalo, which is nothing more than another symmetrical purge pectoral of the Colosso de Apsila, enthronement of the previous superior superficial major, leaving the other anterior part of the sternum with the physical enclave, irrigated by arteries of the Bumodos and the Eygues, zoning subcutaneous macro conformations, and analogously making the Valdaine that comes closer from the narrow streams with the Ibex in Chauvet, of Wonthelimar.
Battle of Patmia Part V
Salmabanu Hatim Feb 2019
Between thick foliages
sunlight strives to reach
down to tiny shoots
Tyler Apr 2023
depth of horizons
hands climb higher
hands wary lower

There are hilly horizons.
Hazy, smooth.
Pine- hard prickly foliages.
Barrens and fields. Endless lungs
                             spread for multitudes.

   Rich pink wind castle staircases
   Lush blue water ballet pool
Our heavens are leaking. Our chase is like a spiral. like a dance. like a dive. like an ascent.
we sink deeper.
we float lighter.
which of any of this is just
our own wonderland ?
who's to take credit for
all this love ?

— The End —