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MOTV Nov 2015
The Ganga talk

eh eh eh

What does it say?

The Ganga talk

eh eh eh

She says light me up

Light me up

The Ganga Talk

Ay ay ay

She says daddy burn me up

Burn me up

The Ganga Sing

What does she sing?

She Singing
oh in harmony

As I put the flame to her, she seems





Eyeing me

I cannot think

my baby

I cannot stop

Puffing my baby
till she's gone

Has triggered this in me!

And All I can think about
Is the next time my
ganga talk,
my baby gonna sing.
me truck
me truck is where i get my luck
good luck, bad luck, nice luck
me truck stunk like a skunk
that seems like bad luck
but it was the good skunk
the wan that gets u bunked

me cat has a bad case of lice
no more chasing ***** mice
the stupid thing only eats rice
the ganga it smokes is so nice
it somkes great out of me pipe

my truck makes me lots of money
me honey likes me money
me brain aint very funny
i also aint a big smarty
so me truck is me only option
i like it, its so very nice
almost as good as mariwawa
otherwise known as de ganga
good bye
tank u truck
for me money and me food
to feed me fam
and me ganga addiction
Holy River,
to see you
is to see
with eyes
fully open.

into your
sacred self
is to be
Ma Ganga.

Torrents of
hard karma
came soon
like a curtain
of biting hail.

Searing pain
of surgery,
and doomed
love, nearly
choked me.

In all that
time, and
my body
was carried
in your
loving arms,
in you,
Ma Ganga.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
K Balachandran Oct 2014
In his dreams the Vally in the throes of efflorescence call out
in a language heart alone understands;
from the hanging bridge over Ganga, he views the ice-capped peaks,
Vally's ***** extravagance and the river's turbulence.

The river runs too deep, at times he finds,
the currents treacherously strong,
from the window of his *Ashram, the view is clear.
She bathes naked, alone on a step submerged in water,
eyes feast on her moonlit curves,
the pleasures skin deep, camouflage the existential dilemmas ! he smiles
In memory his Guru speaks:"Eat only those fruits that make one immortal"
Yet another Himalayan journey in search of the fruit tree unknown

It's too late to redefine, life and love when the avalanche thunders above
on his lonesome path, every step uphill is fraught with slippery stones,
one way leads to the top, to bathe in the light of  the star reaching down

Some days end in too long nights, too cold, the sun shows up hesitant,
her body has the warmth that reaches to his icy depths,
a ****** alone could penetrate, but it still wouldn't melt
Himalayan silence, chant of Ganga, the ghost of a ******
that follows him  like a faithful dog, are all these fragments of a dream
or realities stringed together from many different planes?
Ganga---river Ganges       Ashram---monastry
Jesse Osborne Nov 2015
We walked along the left bank of the holiest river in the world
as the sun kissed the hazy emerald sky into morning,
and I watched as an old man padded barefoot to the water's edge,
dawn in his collarbone,
bending with brittle bones to say prayers for the new day.

At first glance,
the river is thick and murky,
garbage entwined in its current like rings on crooked fingers
and I listened to the winces of the rest of my group members--
no Americans with Western Sensibilities would find divinity
in its sewage runoff and fish corpses.

But Holy is subjective.
Found not only in church pews and rosaries.

Hindu religion is composed of 3 cycles representing the stages of life:
Brahma is the creator,
Vishnu the protect,
and Shiva the destroyer,
without one stage there cannot be another
with creation comes the inevitability of destruction
and we walked through that early morning mist
past the cremation fires kept lit for centuries
because to have your body turned to dust on these banks
is to achieve eternal salvation,
to die and then be reborn into light
with the presence of death comes the beginnings of life
don't tell me there isn't divinity in this.

As the sun grew bigger, I waltzed.

Past the women doing washing in the river
saris glimmering on the surface of the water
like schools of colorful fish and
Indian children doing cannonballs into the embrace of the current,
grinning because they knew something we didn't,
but still, I waltzed.
Past the gossiping birds
and the giggling vendors
and the fishing boats and river men
and the homeless woman shouting at the top of her lungs
Namaste to the world!
And the countless believers greeting each other like
Namaste, my brother.
I love you.
The Light in Me honors the Light in You.

People make pilgrimages to this sacred place from hundreds of miles away,
buckets strapped to their shoulders just to bring back a bit of this holy water to bless their homes,
and dancing the whole way.

As the Indian sun rose midday into the sky,
and it was time for us to leave,
I watched as children and men and women and families
lit tiny candles balanced on flower petals
and sent them down the river as offerings of light
to Vishnu, the protector, preserver of life.
We know it as the Ganges River,
but its people affectionately call it the Ganga
and I didn't know Hindu
but I could've sworn Ganga meant Home.
Meant life.
Meant cycle, or current.

As I turned to leave,
back up the steps and onto the crowded Varanasi streets,
I took one last look back over my shoulder
as thousands of tiny candles flickered and floated
on the soft, unwavering current,
illuminating that holy river into eternity,
and I thought,
*what a fall.
but what light.
what impossible light.
Jayantee Khare Dec 2017
On 2nd Dec 1984
World’s worst industrial disaster,
“The Bhopal gas tragedy”
Leaving thousands dead,
Children orphaned and many people with disabilities for life.

Following day,
Cries of help were heard
Amongst the dead,
Lay few children alive
Shone bright, a ray of hope,
Miraculously the deadly effects
Of the gas they could cope.

Taken under the caring wings of an NGO,
With Medical aid administered
And the vital  support to grow.

Amongst the children
There was a girl named Ganga
And a boy named Ravi,
together with other such children,
they grew up,
Finding solace in each other’s

When reached teenage,
the girls had to be moved in a women’s hostel.
Distanced made them closer to each other,
And, the love grew stronger.

Ganga always dreamt of riding pillion on a bike with Ravi .
Ravi, the crazy boy,
sold his house (compensation by govt.)
And fulfilled her desire,
Often they went for long rides.

In the following years,
The love bloomed,
With blessings and love,
their marriage was solemnised
By the NGO.

All the women from the hostel
Joined the wedding ceremony,
Bollywood songs were played loudly,
The Haldi, Sangeet and Mehendi
ceremony made it more lively

On the wedding day,
Ganga attired in traditional weaves
And bridal make up,
A beautiful bride she looked
The hostel warden and her spouse
did her “Kanyadan”.

Fortunate was I to bear
the testimony of the union,
As I stayed in the working women’s hostel then.
Ganga moved in to her house
with Ravi to welcome a life anew.
When i stayed in a working women's hostel, i witnessed this marriage. It's a true story. 2 nd dec it completed 33 yrs to the tragedy. I recollected Ganga and wrote this.
(Sangeet: a dance party,
Mehendi: application ceremony of henna on the palms of bride,
Haldi: a body scrub containing turmeric, applied to bride as ceremony.
Kanyadaan: a ceremony of handing over daughter to the groom)
Thnx Sarita for helping in edits...
Deep in da hart of da reggae junga
da reggae king want lots a *****
he smoke da herb till his eyes cherry
Not a care in da world he wont worry

He probly should hes to loose
wit tha women he always loose
he got da clap, ***** and da ***
it always hurt when he p

So take a lesson from da ***** king
his fans found out and they clipped his wing
he has power no more and he better flee
because he only da king of da *****
ja feel?
Shrivastva MK Jun 2015
Yeh bharat hai
     un veer jawano ka,
Jahan samman hota aurato ka
    Atithi aur kisaano ka,

Yeha bahati hai Ganga ki suddh dhara,
Rahenge sda hum ek hamara yahi nara,

Manaye jate hain id yaha harsho-ullas se,
Khele jate holiya bhi rango aur gulal se,

Kheto ki hariyali hi bharat ki pahchan,
Ugate hai sona bhi mitti se yahan ke kisaan,

Yeh bharat hai
     un naujawano ka,
Jo tay karte desh ka bhavishya, vishav me pahchan hain enke ek alag karnamo ka,

Yehan ke log jite hain sirf es watan ke liye,
Kadi dhup ** ya kadkdati thand karte hain mehnat dinbhar do roti aur us pet ke liye,

Yahan thirakati hain nariya kathak ke dhuno par,
Barsate hain phul yahan us thinranga jhande par,

Likh do sabd  MANISH  bhi bataya apni desh ki pahchan,
Jiski sabheyata aur sanskriti hain sarvopari
Jahan sabhi log ek saman...
me wish me wasnt a trucker
me wish me had 5 foot dreads
me ave to act like a trucker
and pucker me lips for me wife
me wish me was on de island
where all de noises is silent
we wish me could dig for diamonds
and smoke all de ganga me wish
and eat dead fish of de road
be broke like a true reggae mon
me wish me was never born
because me never gona be a reggae boy
me hart is as torn as me cloth.
me want to love a reggae woman
and implant me reggae seed.
and grow me some reggae children
and show dem da way of de ganga
me wish.
love reggae.
imagine five undred tousand tampons
imagine ow much moisture dey would absorb
imagine all de bajinas, imagine the smell they would make.
i love me ganga, it makes me imagine
Paul Hansford Nov 2016
Ganges, dawn, a luminous haze
over the water. The bathing ghats
are busy with the faithful. (But India
is inconceivable without faith.)  
The robed bathers, raising river water
to the sun, pouring it back
to mother Ganges, are they worshipping
the sun or the river?
For them God is everywhere
and everything.  Water, sun,
the river and the twinkling lamps floating on it
are part of one consciousness.

The burning ghats too (such quantities of wood
stacked ready) are beginning their day.
The funeral party approaching in respectful haste
have a job to do. They build their pile,
move the body to the wood,
start the fire. I watch, but not for long.
This moment, so intimate, so public, reminds me
I am an intruder here. The ashes
will return to Ganga unwitnessed by me.

Away from the river, the vendors of tea
do their trade among the stalls. Monkeys,
cheerfully pilfering, are chased away
half-heartedly, for they are Hanuman’s representatives,
and they, with the sacred, garbage-clearing cows,
are part of the one consciousness. In this land
all are “the faithful”, everything is God’s creation.
In this poverty is richness.
Varanasi is the Hindu holy city formerly called Benares. The "ghats" are a series of steps leading down to the river, and are divided into areas for various purposes. Hanuman is the Hindu monkey-god.
Shiv Pratap Pal Aug 2019
T­his poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "शिव स्वरूपं" published in pratilipi on (Dec. 2017) Can be read through the link ==>>

That face of Lord Shiva is most beautiful in which he holds Ganga in his hairs
The Moon feels blessed by beautifying the head of Shiva as a glittering crown

The Serpants also became jewellery by themselves and decorated his blue neck
Shiva holds the trident on one hand and plays the Damroo from the other one

He has seated himself on a mat of Tiger Skin and rubbed pyre ash on his body
He has left elephant and the horses and decided to travel on an old Bull Nandi

By such an amazing face form, he is always ready for the welfare of devotees
The cruel and wicked have always been afraid of his eldritch face and form.


Shiva (See Line 1): A God (The Destroyer) in Hindu Mythology
Ganga (See Line 1): The Holy river whose flow and speed is controlled by the coiled hairs (Jatas) of Lord Shiiva
Damroo(See Line 4): A sort of musical instrument ( Pellet Drum )
Nandi((See Line 6)): A bull in Indian mythology who is the vehicle of Lord Shiva
The Mesmerizing Face of God Shiva

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


A tree that stores water is one of the hundred phenomena in the Botanical Garden in the land of the Ganga itself
Shiv Pratap Pal Aug 2019
T­his poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "शिव लीला" published in pratilipi on (June. 2018) Can be read through the link ==>>

His neck has entirely turned blue due to Kalkoot, This is just a Leela of Shiva
He has taken everyone's pain and sorrow for the betterment of the world

He is the keeper of all the three loka's and also called as Trilokinath
He hold the holy Ganga in his locks, but do not drinks a drop from it

He sits on the yellow Tiger skin mat and keeps meditating for years to come
He satiates hunger by Datura and Madaar and drinks Bhang to quench thirst

He has a marvellous third eye through which all the three lokas are visible
Sitting in the Mahayoga posture, He keeps on concentrating and meditating

Brahma and Vishnu also bows before him with respect and feels blessed
Such a beautiful holy Leela of Shiva.  Nothing else but Shiva's holy Leela


Kalkoot(Line 1): A poison generated due to Samudra Manthan ( The Churning of the Ocean by Devtas[Gods] and Asuras[Demons] )
Leela(Line 1): "Divine Play" (Just a pastime)
Shiva(Line 1): A God (The Destroyer) in Hindu Mythology

Loka(Line 3): Three three different worlds/realms. Swargaloka, the land of gods; Mrityuloka, the middle kingdom of men; and Pataloka, home of the Asuras, the fallen gods, and demons.
Trilokinath(Line 3): The Lord of the Three world/realms.

Ganga (Line 4): The Holy river whose flow and speed is controlled by the locks (Jatas - The thick hair strands) of Lord Shiiva

Datura and Madaar (Line 6): Poisonous plants (Datura stramonium and Calotropis gigantean)
Bhang (Line 6): Poisonous plants (Cannabis Plant)
Mahayoga (Line 8): Also called as Mahamudra – The Great Gesture (a posture for meditating)
The World is not real its Maya. Its the Divine Play of God
Donall Dempsey Jan 2016
( for Shyam )

as a little child
I travelled

up & down the Ganges
its sister Yamuna..her brother Brahmaputra

their names
upon my tongue

my voice calling them
into being

awed by their sound
mantras for my mind

riding their waters
in the little ship

of a

traveling only as a child

here I am

still that child
become this man

still offering
my devotion

from the Dev Bhoomi I come

tracing Shiva's hair
from here to there

"Ganga Ma...Ganga Ma!" I cry
herding the river

from Gaumukh
watching her

spread her fan
into the Bay of Bengal and beyond

still sailing the same old
fingertip ship

a bit old and
battered now

soon I will stand
on Indian soil

call all my childhood rivers
to me

bow as they
flow into me

their names
upon my tongue

calling upon
all the Gods to come


bout tree years ago
me planted me seed in me wife
me wife looked like a a tird babylon
had grown on er tomach
bout a year ago
she **** out a rastafarian mon
and de babylon disapeared
me say me tink es ugly
how should me give em away
me tink me give em back to jah
me gona leave im in da cah
and bake em like da ganga
ee almost went back to jah
me wife say wat was u tinkin
me say me didnt no
she say how me be so dum
me say me smoke a ton
she say ow much is dat
me say it be alot
she say ow much is alot
"like, dis much"
(me old out me hands to show)
me lungs aint pure wit out ganga
me mind aint pure wit out rasta
who be in my basement?
da rasta mon who stole me bank statement.
why he steal me bank statement
only jah will know.
me tird leg ain pure wit out soap
me arm peets aint pure wit out soap
soap is da purest
jah supply us wit soap
tank u jah
we like da soap u supply
we do not deny
here id de reggae household
Äŧül Aug 2019
A swansong of the Indian Partition...
Kal humaare ghar ke diye bujhe rahenge,
Kal hum kuch rishton ke liye rote rahenge...

Tomorrow the lamps of our home will remain put out,
Tomorrow we shall keep crying for some relations...

Rishte un bantwaara hue kheton se,
Rishte un bhatakte hue jawaanon se...

Relations with those partitioned farmlands,
Relations with those misguided young men...

Rishte us chamakti Multani mitti se,
Rishte us damakti Pakhtunkhwi **** se...

Relations with the glistening soil of Multan,
Relations with the bright snow of Pakhtunkhwa...

Rishte Ganga ke us Bangali muhaane se,
Rishte Sindhu dariya aur samudr ke us mel se...

Relations with the Ganga's Bengali estuary,
Relations with the confluence of Indus and the Sea...

Rishte us Balouchi kapaas se,
Rishte udhde un kapdon se...

Relations with that Balouchi cotton,
Relations with those clothes torn away...

Rishte luti us izzat se,
Rishte mari us bahu se...

Relations with the disrobed honour,
Relations with the slain bride...

Rishte jo sajaaye the mandap mein,
Rishte jo likhaaye the jannat mein...

Relations decorated inside the temple,
Relations written in the paradise...

Tomorrow is the Independence Day of India.
An Independence attained at such high costs.
A nation divided by the illegal British occupiers on communal lines in a hotchpotch.

My HP Poem #1759
©Atul Kaushal
oo put dis paintin on me walls
me gona find out eider way
me gona drive to niagra falls
to find out who ruined me walls

rip bing bing pop, ****** come in on line 1
no not extension 1, line 1, no wonder they call u

ey ***** me say to me wife
dis be yor stupid paintin,
no steve it aint (read double life)
******* dis be ugly anyways
sorry steve, shush *****,
u no i turned reggae
me name aint steve anymor
call me steve one more time
and il shove a lawnmor up ur ***,
its reggae mon not steve  

rip bing bing pop, ****** come in on line 1
no not extension 1, line 1, no wonder they call u

johny johny, "yes papa"?
did u put dis tin on me walls?
"no papa", telling alie?
"no papa", close your eyes
smack! dont put any tin
on me walls *******!
sorry papa it wasn't me
shut up, smoke a splif *******

rip bing bing pop, ****** come in on line 1
no not extension 1, line 1, no wonder they call u

hoo could ave put dis ting on me walls?
maby is me smoke me a splif
me will remember if me did it or not
but me out of rolling papers
and me left me ganga in me rig

rip bing bing pop, ****** come in on line 1
no not extension 1, line 1, no wonder they call u

me left me rig at me work
me boss dont no ow to twerk
me boss tink she no ow to twerk
no wan wants to break da news
me just a shy island boy
still confused bout de paintin

rip bing bing pop, ****** come in on line 1
no not extension 1, line 1, no wonder they call u

love reggae
love ganga
love art
love poetry
reggae love ganga trucker family
over a snow-covered mountain top in heaven
some secret river lies
stirring not earthwards
this river of the Gods

and then a prince disturbs
her peaceful ferocity
with determined prayer to cleanse
the sins of his forefathers

Look she trembles with wounded pride!
Not a mere mortal river is she
a Goddess, her anger awakened
but she must proceed

the Gods have asked her so she shall go
but she makes her displeasure known
threatening to swallow all of existence
she follows

the earth shakes
it cannot hold her weight
her power her strength her majestic gait
life-giver, she is now a messenger of death

in her anger she is beautiful,
this world cannot sustain her
only he who wields the trident
can reign in her fall

and then the Mahadev traps her
even as she falls in a mighty torrent
thinking she will sweep him
to the nether regions

in his locks she is lost
struggling, she resembles
the naga around his neck
she spits like a cobra

this immortal river
stays tangled in his locks for many a year
till, defeated and frustrated
she begs forgiveness

and then with his blessings
she trickles down
still furious in pace
but in heart at peace

the mother of all rivers-
this river of rebirth
her sound like thunder
her hair like streaks of lightning

celestial beings witness
the skies are lit
the parched earth satiated
Ganga has descended

as Bhagirathi

- Vijayalakshmi Harish

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
The Ganges in Hindu mythology is considered the holiest of holy rivers. She has the status of a Goddess, as she belongs to swarga (roughly translated as heaven). She is considered to be so pure, that bathing in her waters can not only rid one of physical ailments but also cleanse one's sins.
King Bhagiratha (an ancestor of Sri Rama) is credited with bringing her down to earth, as a means of releasing his forefathers from a curse. Ganga, would not descend willingly, but had to do so at the order of the Gods. In her vanity, she fell so furiously that the earth was in danger of being destroyed. Lord Shiva controlled her fall by trapping her in his jata (hair). This poem describes this incident.
Daulat na adaa karna maula
soharat na adaa karna maula
bus itna adaa karna maulaaa.....

Shammay watan ki lauu par jab
kurbaan patanga  hoyeee
hotho par ganaga **
haatho me tiranga **

Bus ek sada hi sune sada
barfili mast hawao me
bus ek dua hi uthe sada
jalte tapte sehrao me

Jeete jee iska maan rakhe
markar maryada dhayan rahe
hum rahe kabhi naa rahe magar
iski saj-dhaj aabad rahe

Goodhara naa ** Gujrat na **
inshaan na nanga hoye....
hotho par ganga **..
haatho me tiranga **...

.....Dedicated to Indian Army.....
Copyright© Shashank K Dwivedi
Follow me on Facebook-
Ashmita May 2013
The last few passengers hopped on catching their breaths with a huff and a puff and taking the remaining seats where they could, while handling their bags in one hand and their mufflers and hats with the other. It was just an ordinary day for them. A day when work and reaching their office on time was the only thing they could think about. A day when half their time on the launch was spent worrying if the Tiffin box packed so lovingly by their wives toppled over to create a mess. A day when they couldn't stop and stare. A day when materialism came before appreciating nature’s beauty.
Kolkata woke up one fine chilly morning to a sky set ablaze. There was always something about Kolkata and its lights that intrigued me. The perfection with which every corner was lit just as much as it should be, the hidden eye candy which could only be seen if you look into your soul to appreciate. Worshipers from all over flocked to the ghats to offer their prayers. And with the mindless honking of the city behind them and the open river in front, they dipped themselves in continuously to be forgiven of their sins. As they lifted their folded hands above their heads to pray and dipped themselves, they made the water all around them make huge ripples which were lost in the vastness of the mighty river. And with that, they were forgiven of their wrong doings, or at least that’s what they believed.
The engines roared to life as one of the crew, miserably opened the ropes and threw them on board after ringing a bell. I stood in one corner of the launch eyeing Kolkata, taking every bit of it in - its morning awakening, its old red bricked buildings, or at least the ones which still stood straight, its ghats green with moss and over crowded with devotees, its icy cold winter morning, and the current of the river beneath the launch floor. Kolkata had woken up to one of the coldest days in recent history. 9 degrees and the wind was up. On the Ganga it felt as if I had come away to some faraway land, away from the hustle and bustle of the city, to find peace.  Silence surrounded me and the only sound faintly audible was the low whistle of the breeze brushing past my cheeks kissing them which felt like tiny needles poking me all at once.
The water looked like liquid glass, floating away to infinity and beyond, as far as my eyes took my vision. As the launch turned to face its destination the Howrah Bridge came into view. Standing tall with its two gigantic pillars the sun peeped from between the cables to shine on the water creating a river of gold while the sun’s reflection seemed a ball of fire just within our reach.  The bridge cast huge shadows causing a sudden darkness to arise in the water which otherwise seemed ablaze.  

Across the river the world waiting for me felt distant. Was civilization actually that beautiful? Or did nature just wrap its covers around to hide the flaws of mankind, his ruthlessness, his ignorance towards other beings and its lack of humanity? The dashes of green popped out of the corners of towering buildings, as sun cast its golden rays on them creating shadows on the opposite side.
The small boats sailed on as the launch took me from bank to bank. The rowers sat at the back on the edge with their rows half immersed in the water. And as the currents made them flow by, the ripples came and hit our launch and travelled back into the vastness and disappeared. They sailed through the disturbed water, and its shadows sailed alongside. The rivers serenity was contrasted with the blobs of **** floating by, entangled with driftwood and mixed with shiny cloths, probably the leftovers of the previous durga puja celebrations.
The sky was a game of colors by now. The sun, still a ball of fire, was slowly creeping upwards, the light grey clouds just behind it shot rays of gold down through the gaps they found on the world below, the sky otherwise was a play of grey, blue, red and orange set in order from the ground upwards without a definite point of distinction. A group of three birds, crows most probably, flew overhead enjoying the sun’s late arrival to the cold morning.
My hands reached for the railing. I gripped the rods tightly looking for security. I looked around me to spot the different lives sailing with me. Some on their phones, some sat with their eyes glued to the cold blank floor, as if they didn’t deserve to be uplifted by nature’s display of her beauty, some staring down at their watches to scrutinize each second to realize how late there were while others stood with a blank expression staring out onto the river, probably going over what they did wrong, playing the images on repeat, making themselves miserable. Me? I stood leaning on the railing looking out also. But I wasn’t in my misery. My misery was behind me. I looked forward to life. And for now I looked forward to my destination. And amongst the crowd I was alone. This was my moment and mine alone. No one could have robbed me of this moment, and no one can make me forget.  
The river gave me peace of mind. Its tranquility and its continuity made an energy of constancy flow within me. A belief that this too shall pass, that every moment shall pass. Never ending was its path. A path which life had chosen. Who are we to disrupt it? Who are we to stop? Life flowed on. And times were not always smooth sailing. There will be waves rocking you, making you lose your balance, there will be rocks at the bottom, sometimes holding you together while other times damaging your base. With time and distance the river will get polluted, but it all depends on what you want to show and what you choose to see. It will be used, to its maximum capacity, with only a handful of souls to stop and think about it and do something about it to the best of their abilities. Things varying in all sizes will cross it, sail by without paying any heed to the water beneath it making them sail smoothly, never appreciating it, and soon it becomes a part of them which they pay no attention to it. It will always be there though. Its existence will always prevail over it being ignored. And when you stop to think, it’ll be there pushing you along the way, to your destination, where you will have to say goodbye to the picture perfect moments, the soul touching feelings and the voice within you which screams in its silence to set yourself free.
A prose once in a while is acceptable i guess. Comments? :)
murari sinha Sep 2010
any colour may be applied to the

this city actually has no cart
driven by horses

before a pretty long time the shepherds
had also told adieu

by secret signalling the red-hat addiction
called the pigeons  sitting on the broken sticks
of the antenna to come nearer

on those dead-news the travel-story
keeps awake by whole night

and pours down on eye-lids
wrapped with cellophane

one day that wave sent
rolling-down-on-the-back hair
to the yellow balcony

those are all ancient drama

in the glow of the back-light you can see
civic humps have grown up on the back
of the birds every day and night

under the dead-stop ceiling fan the dance
of the ****** reel wet with sweat does not fall short

the paper-buckles with the flowers painted on it
gets more and more tight on the air of the throat

velpuris of the evening
offer full enjoyment

the night that comes all walking on the sands of the desert
how much concern does she has about the navigability of the river

when the husk of the water-chestnut is got open
flowing down the waves bursting into a blaze

to that flow is open the motor-car
the wan procession
and all the fishes that want to go upward the wave

so many varieties of floating

if the matter of clouds be let off
the multi-coloured fingers
also have so many infotainments  

if the question of  moveable property is  raised
it is only a suicide-note from my father

and a knot
in the robe of the blue trouser

the trees and creepers of the night
and the plants and herbs of the day
do all of them have the same blood-group

there is much flora
inside the jail-custody also
and in this ruins of the old palace

how much is it justified
to express eagerness about the geography
of one’s character

specially of the trees
of the fishes
or of the humans

it is said
all rivers
flowing through the bodies of the great men
are totally ******

there is also the blank desert
on the silent snow-valley
in the corner of your

on this spine
having a mouth of crocodile
always jump down
the climate    

the sunglass changes

look at the soil and the sky
no one of them has any body-guard

the open mouth of the light
swallows the grey coin

here the wall becomes more tamed
the wild jasmine comes nearer to the heart
and hums

then ripping open my veins
should i also ***** the blue elocution
accumulated on the ****-pit

after recovery of the flower-mill from fever
the harmonium is being played on  

even introduction with the gas-balloon
has not been done yet

arrangements are being made

the green shirt will gradually
turn reddish

the culverts that have become exhausted
within the travel-format
will get recharged again to sit up straight

and the hawker will get passed the silent-home
shouting with undressed coconuts in hands

from the lap of the stand-still rocking-cradles
of the children-park
the amaltas will say
i’m ready

then to escape the sun-shine
the boy who comes to attend the private tuition
will embrace… oh margosa … its your pierced-heart

you may tell him that the name of the girl
who is eating guava and swinging her legs
sitting on its branch is munni

the horse is running
just above 3 feet of the yellow cornice

his back is full of dreams
or a girl named miss dorothy  

around it is the mid-night
around it is the wind that wants to be printed

and in every corner of its flying
are hundreds of skirts
all are of free-size

what may be their market-price
there is no shop-keeper there

in that valley
a shadow is proceeding on

do you know whose shadow it is
he is philip the teacher who gets irritated easily

this time there is no thin cane
in his hand

in the pieces of papers dumped in the waste-box
under his window there is a manuscript eaten up by the worms

there is ‘darling’ there
and ‘yours beloved greta’

in which skirt
a touch of that greta does remain  

is it being searched even today

is it greta or margaret or eliza  
there is no bar if it is dorothy

in whose smell there is no greta
who has no such horse flying just above three feet
of the yellow cornice  

each mid-night fills the fountain pen
with the flow of blue ink

the leaf of jack-fruit is luxuriant
i can’t remember whether i ever notice
the portrait of your face on it  

there are so many words
that are slippery

how much rustic is the dust of the legs
of the young person is known to the road of the city

daubing green on both palms
i call for rain …oh rain ..oh rain

and into that rain i let my wrist-watch float

thus the great rainbow unfolds its wise mirror
on the scaffold of bottle-gourd  

from the bright cloth-end falling down
the odour of detergent

thus the applied mathematics of the diesel
is learnt to a greater extent

behind the change of colour of the swelled wind
the samovar plays no role

though you know it you tear off tears
from your eyes

and the merry biscuits that are kept in the jar
raise a joint demand to serve them
after wrapping with new banana-leaves  

and the funny thing is that no accounts is found out
of the expenditure on the lip-stick that was used
by the fishes in the aquarium  at the time of illness
of the antenna

by the hands of the clock stretching their shanks apart
is it possible to know the actual age of a comb
either it’s costly or cheap  

like the light
like the dark

yet it is full of the sound of steps
again it wakes up on the forest-road  

taking leave from the yellow construction
all the sound of the bamboo-flute
sinks today into the green minerals

it is not moonlight
on the road it is some north-east sadness

he who comes admits his body
with the divine sin

if you are sorry be water for three days now

through out the day and night
there is the paraffin of fire-flies

the blue cough is not from the sky

it may be some tusu-gaan fly off
from the chest of the straight-line
that has been wiped out

i’ve deposited my metallic heart
to the archaeological-store of the wind

and i send rolling this bare eyes towards the fog

i make the crystal of her hair soft

i can see those crows
whose jaws are not closed

the colour is also
as if it were burst into cotton

can the anchal of danekhali sari swallow the kernel
and water of the blue tooth-brash after opening its husk

i say to the head with earnest request
oh my father keep cool
and look at the rain-pipe inside which
there is all the dances of the peacocks

in the dim light
the predecessors of the dead stars
tell stories

this dhaba
is beside the long bus-root

yet it is still not satisfied
with the shrimps

the tail of the black drongo
hanging from the farakka bridge
is divided

towards the ganga
towards the padma

the gramophone of the mid-noon
continues to sound at the midnight

those who are doing pilgrimage
on the back of tigers

within the lighting zone of their torch
all the nearest of men who get lost
cover their faces

you know very well that the memory-gland of the wind
becomes how much river-minded when it walks through the fire
K Balachandran Jul 2014
A bedspread on which bold, red and blue
esoteric, Tantric, motifs embrace
copulating triangles, the ideogram of cosmos
batik printed in vermilion on it's center
is spread, right there on the play-field of cupid
where the confluence is to happen,
a transmitting point of fecund energies to infinity,
a point on the spring board to transcendence

Beloved, here in the holy fire, receive in ecstasy,
the sacrificial offering I bring from the
incessant Ganga of my lineage,

Shakti and Shiva come in for divine union,
together here on the mark beyond time and space.
right in the center is "THE BINDU" the mystical point
both culmination and beginning of the 'beyond'
passage from here  to timelessness of cosmos, we invoke.

Here Shakti is holy fire leaping up for Shiva's offering,
sublimated they fuse, may that be the seed for karmas lumenant.
O Ganga!
You flow
Across the mighty
O your youthful
Playful force
Making its way
Through the
Ancient boulders
Stream after stream
Joins you
To find its destiny
In your depths
To make you
O the vast Ganga we know
The Aryans found their
Abode on your banks
You saw the rise of Jainism
And Buddhism
O civilization
Not only flourished
But flowered
On your banks!
You've seen it all!
You travel down the Tehri dam
Across Rishikesh
And Haridwar
From the cow's mouth
O the Gomukh
Where your mother
Glacier Gangotri rests!
You enter the plains
Having crisscrossed
Roads many
And lives
Of many a being
Who consider you
As mother
Worship you
You bear their brunt also
Carrying heaps of
You flow Kanpur
You see tanneries
And many more
You nourish them
Keep them running
But they end up
Slowing your run
You reach Allahabad
What's in a name
A tryst of cultures
O you have the
Gangs Jamuni doab
And Gangs jamuni tehzeeb!
Your sisters join you
And here at Prayag
You have Yamuna with you
O a mythical sister
Saraswati does find here way to you
They say
Life goes on on your ghats
As usual
People washing clothes
And people offering
Flowers and performing
Rituals on your banks
O all but consider you
As an earthly mother
A heavenly gift
Just like Saraswati
You have your place in the scriptures as well!
You also
Flow out of mythology
Into our minds
O the mighty Shiva
Took you
In his mighty curls
Of hair
To allay your spirit
As you descended
Onto the Earth
To purge peoples
The Bhagiratha's
Penance you saw then
He got back his wish
Thousand brothers
They say
O you but still see
The Kumbh Mela(fair)

So many souls
You see the serenity
Of Varanasi
The beautiful spirituality
Of its
O young wrestlers
Massaging before
The day's fight
Seers in
Deep meditation
On your banks
O you have settled
This city
You flow across
The ancient
Seen many imperial
Rise and falls
History echoes in you
You enter Bengal
The fertile
Gangetic plains
Bear testimony
To your gifts
With their lush green
And swaying fields
The Farakka barrage
Sees you in one of your
Giant avatars
You irrigate
And touch people!
You flow as the Padma in
O you know
Two lands separated
By political shadows
You flow
As Bhagirathi
In Bengal
The rice bowl!
O your Ilish(Hilda)
People do relish
You flow graciously
Flat extensive plains
Past Kolkata
The city of joy
And into the sea
At Gangasagar
Taking with you
So many memories
And promising
The continuity
Of your divine
O dear river,
You are Ganga!
murari sinha Sep 2010
hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love,
dear reader, stir them as you like,
if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth,
you may smear them on your body
or you may sprinkle them on the ground
and then chant the name of god
with love and enjoyment

the simplicity that rolls down
from the body of the sweet-meat
made by my mother

let it brings light
to our radish-red love-story

to hear or to notice
does not need
putting an ear on the wall
of the wall-street journal

the bottle could be filled
from the voice

when you go to fill the bottle
you would see that everywhere
the arrangement of picnic is ready

when i want to take part in that feast
my neighbours would drive me towards
the home  

although i’ve spent all my life
running behind the love

who’s won the muddy-battle
was yesterday’s politics

my addiction is actually to cater
the pouch of love
to develop all vitamins
and all bathrooms

people say you don’t love
the claps of the rats

yet i’ll come down
from the branch of a guava-tree
as a wave-of-shopping-mall
to the lake of your love

now i’ll jump out
from this computer screen
to register a kiss
on your lips

don't miss to applaud
by clapping the hands

the heart is half-sunk
in the window

to some extent
in the lipstick too

on the dinner-plate
there is the feelings of the lord

that means
i’ve to be burnt more
i do agree

i would become
the sculpture of khajuraho

this happenings may have been
the right search for love

on either-side of which  
a green is being worked out
by the nostalgic-cycle

whose colour-texture is very much harappa
which has too many geometric-memories

an undertone is speaking
from within the solitude

now i’m in very much

or i’m in love

i don’t know my love is what-for
may be that’s an arrangement only

so easily are those interactions
stitched with words

strenuous or effortless
in flight
with seclusion

but when in the sinking of the playfulness
i  write the games of the street-charmers

the birds again and again
pierce the archery

thus becoming ashes
through travelling

in time-gaps still
the audacity to compose poems
on you

is it true love
or i do take it granted
that i’m in love

or i do love to think
that i’m loving

and there is
neither any welcome address
nor any opening song
in my love

my experience with heat of fire
and with burning pain
in the flames of water
is nothing less

in course of burning
i look around

the chilly-plant  in the tob
planted in my won-hand
producing green-chillies

oh-** how sweet they are

it is no chilled-body
that has earned
my life or death

no remarkable mark
is endorsed
on the lotus-leaf

now easily some words
can be written
on you

i don’t know whether
those would be at all
some lines of a poem

someone falls in loves
someone makes love
love comes to some another

there is the far-off

at first she constructs me
then destroys rightly

i notice her
for the first time in six weeks  

the love
that writes
in the footnote of the tennis-ball
a desperate struggle for existence

within our skull
there is the love

or the midnight of the orion

the little squirrel asked now
are you in your seventies
or eighties

those houses with the coating of
the sky the air the light-and-shade
provide me with the presentation of
a wig and
a set of artificial teeth
the love
that touches the hand
in drizzling

the love
that gets lost in the brandishing

would they want to inform
that the flowers don’t have any skyscraper

in the layers of the flesh and blood
of the detergents
as if  a whole human civilisation has been suffering
from suppressed pain

within it with the dry spell of
anger and cough
the time

had there been no feeding from the love
does the human civilisation stagger

do you think those words
or it’s myself

whatever may you say now
i’ll travel within a great death
to die

rather after my demise i may tell
i’ve informed everyone …look

beneath the large evergreen flower tree
the game of light and shadow continues

beside those simple households
besides a high-head mobile-tower
what else would you like to be

is it a bath in the ganga-river is it a leaf
of the water-lily or it’s a king-cobra  
tell me

i would now make love
with that idea from you

the  apparent golden *** that i thought
to be the underneath of a kadam-tree

in the dim light i can notice that
the stars in the sky are disappearing  

this session of poetry
is coming to an end

now where would i

to that little home

the home
a tiny word of 4 letters

within that home
the children are giggling
playing … and making funs

when i entered
with a tri-cycle in hand
for them

i have been perplexed
many old persons are waiting there
to shake hands with me

almost most of my desires  
are very much hurt

to show it publicly
i wrap bandages
around all over my body

i keep on the stage-drama  

in our programme of reading poetry
tea is served twice
current has gone off for three times
for four times the mobiles ring

to pick up love  
some people think about returning back
from today’s dais to the ancient stage
of performing folk-drama

then they are also sympathetic
to my sufferings

on my way to return home from the school
when my mom took hold of my hands

i could see in my body
the dancing of an unforgettable

even now that mystical halo is walking
on the leaves of the trees
to fulfil my mornings

that wayfaring along the road
is ringing far and far-off

thus taking bath in every day’s  
dust smoke hue and cry

many such love
gradually gets aged

is it true
in the long run
i too
would be the ingredient
of a fairy-tale

just because i love
that paddy field

some time later
she will also become

then she will make all of us  
join her walking

those inmost feeling
those memories meditations

the loneliness  and solitude…

sans the touch of the imagination of
a crater…
a creator…

this blunder…
this socially outcast white …

this type of uneven…
and irrelevance…

sume words
when peep in the mind
i surprise to see that
it’s ten to 2 at night

then in the balcony
my father is crying

he always notices some grave-yard men
in front of him

and sheds tears  

after the dry leaves of the winter
fall in innumerable drops
the spring comes

the cover-face of spring means
a note-book of the rain-tree
letting float in the sun-water

and mr harry says that
this question of change
is a major pull

because all the unreal talks
you are delivering one by one

to keep pace with it
the ambulance comes at 10am
with a stale dead-body

in it’s shirt
is written the spelling of myself

i then sat on the grey volume
of the college-campus

in the front
a beggar from the war of waterloo
is passing by

over the dust of myself
with a faster pace
blowing is the thoughts of

in the air… and air… and air…


if your wishes colour silver
then do return back to the x-mass dancing
of the autumn

sound of whose far-off hoof-steps
digging so much soil of

i went into the nail-polish
with the proof of tea-cup
in my hand

there in the midst of lot of snow-flakes
and in the bed soft with the light of the candle
is now that honey-name more tarnished

now the atomic-howling
does not follow the rules of nature

so the rain-tree that seeks a-field-more-sky
with the hope to become king after the sun-rise

so that king is now waiting
in the grocer’s shop
at a stretch  for an hour

does her well-wisher esse then thinks
to escape from the love-making whirl-wind

on the dry branches of the axis power
the new generation of the birds

rather stop a while there silently and listen
which song is hidden in the bronze-buddha

or in the school of the terracotta-horse

i’m now opening the coating
of the night-enamel to read this home

and behind the coo of dove
is smiling

the god of the penalty-kick

sitting on an orange-coloured balcony
in an outsider lane
the green is writing poems
better than the face-powder

from this side all long the famine
i’m the priest of the
agro-based civilisation

still-then i think
why so much light of partiality
is on the body of the chrysanthemum

within the monsoon
in collusion with the  hair-band
now thousands of birds are born  

they can hear my
dry straws and twigs

whose hearing is the police
in so depth of the forest

don’t move the
dreadful resorts

one such photograph of the girls
who wakes up in the midnight

unmindful …

that is you now

i’m then in the spore
of the perfume-bounded body
of match-making


who has lied in the box
made up of the temperature
of god

all on a sudden
there is a hue and cry
in the abdomen of the time
wearing a ***** pajama

actually that has been filtered up
from the voices of rock-songs

the roaming
of a fatigued traveller …

the lies
within their wishes
write my existence

and then run
to buy vegetables
from the station-market

so many lay-offs
come to the body of paper-weight

to listen to all those
is not improper

walking through the traffic-jam
this home becomes solely my home

one day the golden of

then it is i
who is you

and walking through the

on either side of the field
it is all autumn

when borrowing the religion of
the night-queen  
i fall in love

then is it real
that our mangos and jack-fruits  
can make the perfumed-soap
vigorously from the light of the

i count the bells of the churches
ringing repeatedly

and piercing the image
of your prominent face

rounding through lots of old
the love becomes exhausted

and the love comes back
in the form of college-classes

there are you myself
and so many notes
of the body
K Balachandran Dec 2014
The gushing river through his interior landscape, runs very deep,
this surging Ganga, glaciers feed, is one of Himalayan profligacy.
Wouldn't stop, or deter a bit,on any eventuality; a mighty force it is.
his beloved sea, was moved by this, swelled up to meet midway, merge.
RiBa Nov 2017
The virginal moon shines
Amidst the diaphanous clouds
Like an ageless nymph
She hides from her lover

The gentle waves ripple endlessly
A hypnotic song they sing
Myriad shadows in her *****
And the Ganga flows on her way

On his tiny boat
A little lantern burns the night
The lonely boatman
Sings in the lonely night

A song of pain and longing
Of a child pining for his lost mother
And the Gentle Ganga
She cries!
I believe nothing happens by mistake. You know, the universe has a divine plan. dats why i take dumps in da reggae forest and use it fo da compost for me ganga plantation. top quality.
Raj Arumugam Aug 2011
You want me to talk, Sir?
I’d relax and you can paint better, Sir?
Maybe, Sir…maybe, but what shall I say, Sir?
For I am not used to talking
to important people like you, Sir…
Why do you laugh, Sir?
It is true, I’m just a girl from the village, Sir
attending to Laxmi and Ganga –
those are our family cows, Sir;
and I milk them; and my father
and I bring the milk to the market
and to neighbors who can afford to pay for them…
We don’t carry them in these fancy pots Sir,
you make me pose with
but just earthen jars, Sir…
But this morning, Sir, my father said to me:
Come, Mina – you shall pose for a famous artist;
India has never seen such an artist
and he shall pay well
and perhaps with that I shall buy a third cow;
three neighbors owe us money
and will never return them in this life;
and the old woman in the sixth house has died
owing us money for these last four years…
You just have to stand there
before the artist in your cleanest sari
and use borrowed milk pots…

And that is what my father said, Sir…
I normally don’t dress in such clean clothes, Sir;
the saris I have are saris my mum used
but she died when I was little, Sir…
Sir? You want me to keep talking…but I am boring, Sir
and I talk simple words and I am sure you’ve heard…
Oh Sir, I’m more used to talking to cows
than important men, Sir…
All right Sir, I will tell you…I will tell you…
I do have dreams, Sir
and it is just the dream of all the
girls in my village:
I’d like new saris and jewels
and I’d like to be married
before the year ends;
Arun from the next village
always looks at me
in our town fairs
and Oh, would that he’d marry me
and we’d have a home and a farm and cows
and we’d have children
and we’d live our quiet lives
in our secluded village…
Sir, that is my dream…I have nothing more to say, Sir…
I hope you are done…
Or maybe you should talk, Sir…
Poem based on painting: The Milkmaid (1904) by Ravi Varma
ere body ere where
christmas lights erewhere
but for a reggae mon like me,
not a care in de world

erey body watchin Christmas movies
me in de basement smokin doobies
erey yungin mailin santas ouse
de only ting we want from santa
is a sled full of jamacan ganga
trees in ere bodys windows
me smoke me tree for christmas
no fancy decoration required
me gettin tired of christmas already
me just guna smoke till me lungs feel heavy

ereybody wants it to snow
me hopin for some good smoke
de christmas spirit is in de air
me listenin to reggae comin me hair
dis is christmas for a reggae mon
just a quick little rant not much though put in, tank u to all me followers
me guna be putin out some fine quality work soon me ave notin else to do dis time of year. haha, a reggae mon at christmas
Alexander Coy May 2016
I did not die in the country I was born in.

I died much, much later;

had my American ashes
scattered all over Bangladesh;
traversed it's many vessels of water.

I swam the Brahmaputra River,
floated upon the skin
of The Ganga; the half-naked
children waved and I couldn't tell
if they were saying hello
or goodbye; but those
waves spread until
I was far out into the sea.

I was forgotten
as swiftly as I was welcomed;
and was loved as easily
as was I avoided.

I looked back on my American
life with discontent. I saw nothing
but tangled knots of thought
laced with consumption,
and accumulation; self-interest
and seclusion; even
sadness was commodified.

The discontent was the push
and pull of a rope
tied to my soul.

I died before I ever left;
but discovered another self
on foreign soil

It wasn't till I had aged
beyond the average life
span for someone like
me in America; did I realize,

I wasted all this time,

dependent on what others

thought of me; what they

expected of me; and what

they considered was best for me.

I was forever exiled from darkness;

but at least I got a little sun
in Bangladesh.
prasad bolimeru Nov 2014
"O GOD ! only hand--- only leg
bleeding, hanging to the chopped body --o god !?!"

enough ! to discharge the debt of the soil.

"o god!
these little babies who are supposed to be the metaphor of passion,
are forced to be the product of flesh trade !
these tender hands , supposed to paint the alphabets
are made to clean the riffles !
o god !
they are eating mud--
they are drinking the ***** of animals...."

yes! the survival is important
to break the shackles of this soil.
"O GOD ! O GOD ! O GOD ! O G>>"
no !. no!. sympathy? charity ? i am not the beggar !
do not come on the wings of eagle holding the dove.
if you have a human soul..
demand those who are shedding crocodile tears.
i demand the answer , not the bread of consolation.
do the sons of my soil robbed these big-brothers at any time?
tell them not to declare the renegades as the protectors of my land.
* * * * * *
tigris and euphrates, ganga and godavari
amazan, dandakaranya
somalia, rhodesia---- red with blood
santiyago, madrid, -- echoing
tahir square, beijing, brasilia... burning--
* * * * * * * **
i may be falling down-- but i will rise ...
o big brother... you are not god
you can declare yourself as jesus
i am the child of spartucus

"o god ! are you a terrorist? are you a revolutionary?"

ha ha ha--- let it be.
now , the deserts having oil in lap
the forests having minerals in heart
the voices demanding the natural justice
are these the shelters of terrorists.. revolutionaries ?
let it be!
i am a revolutionary........
to discharge the debt of my soil !!

— The End —